Sweetest Sorrow (Forbidden #2) - J.M. Darhower Page 0,53

a minute for the whispers to reach everyone. Men gawked, and sneered, a few even prematurely reaching for weapons. The only person who didn't seem to react was the man standing at the far end of the bar. His back was to Dante, his shoulders relaxed, like he had not a care in the world.

Roberto Barsanti.

Dante took a deep breath before approaching the bar near where Barsanti stood. No sudden movements. Gotta stay calm. Even a hint of agitation could get him shot.

"A Coke," he ordered, stopping in front of the bartender.

The guy glared at Dante, blinking a few times. He made no move to get the drink or even acknowledge Dante had spoken at all.

A throat cleared. "Get the boy his drink."

The bartender's posture slumped as he muttered, "Yes, sir."

"I'm not looking for trouble," Dante said right away as he glanced beside him at Barsanti.

"Oh, I don't buy that for a second," Barsanti said. "You wouldn't have come here unless trouble was what you were looking for."

The bartender set a small glass filled with ice against the bar, pouring some soda into it before shoving it toward him. Dante nodded his gratitude as he picked up the drink. "How do you know I wasn't just so appreciative of your hospitality that I decided to come by for another visit?"

A slight smirk touched the corners of Barsanti's lips. "In that case, how about a tour?"

"I think I've seen most of it," Dante said. "Saw the basement, now I'm seeing the bar… all that's left is whatever's up above."

"Nothing's upstairs," Barsanti said. "My boys used to live up there, but not anymore."

Dante's eyes flickered to the ceiling. Huh.

Barsanti rubbed his mouth, tapping his fingertips against his chapped lips. He was thinking, probably about what to do with Dante. Kill him or humor him? Dante figured he had fifty-fifty odds. After a moment, the man turned, motioning to the bartender. "Give me a bottle of our best Scotch."

The bartender snatched an unopened bottle off the wall behind the bar. Barsanti took it, swiping two clean glasses.

"Come." Barsanti motioned for Dante to follow him. "Join me."

A part of Dante wanted to plant firmly in spot, refusing to follow that order, because it went against everything he'd always stood for. Just being there made him sick to his stomach. It felt inherently wrong. But another part of him, the part that had led him to Soho in the first place, reminded him he had nothing to lose.

Kill him, Barsanti might, but he could've done it weeks ago if he'd wanted. Besides, killing him at that point would've been merciful.

So Dante trailed the man to the back of the bar, into an offshoot room filled with pool tables. Barsanti set the bottle of Scotch and the glasses down on a small table inside the door before sticking two fingers to his lips and letting out a loud whistle that stalled everyone.

"Out," he barked, not needing to say another word. The handful of men shuffled toward the door, shooting Dante some unpleasant looks.

"Do you play?" Barsanti asked once they were alone, picking up a pool stick that was leaning against a nearby wall.

"I'm sure you already know the answer to that," Dante said.

Barsanti returned the stick to the holder before grabbing another, cleaning up. Dante watched the man make a quick sweep of the room, straightening everything up, before returning to his bottle of Scotch.

"I've heard about your occasional hustle," Barsanti said. "I've heard a lot about you, in fact. I like to stay on top of things, and people, they always seem to have a lot to say about you."

"I can't imagine why."

Barsanti opened the bottle, pouring a bit in each of the glasses. He nudged one toward Dante before picking up the other and swallowing the liquor. "Word on the street is that you don't remember anything, that you have no idea what happened to you, but the fact that you're here tells me differently. You wouldn't have come without a reason."

Dante hesitated, eyeing the liquor. He set his glass of soda down beside it, having no interest in drinking either one. "I want to know why you didn't kill me."

Barsanti considered that as he poured himself more Scotch. "Would you rather I did?"

Dante didn't answer.

"You know, I was about your age when I came into power," Barsanti continued. "It wasn't easy, but it worked, because your father and I had come to an understanding. We respected each other. We worked together. He even

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