“Who The F*ck Did This To You?” Asked the Mafia Boss — By Morning, 8 Men Went Missing and Boston Learned What Real Vengeance Looks Like
Just need a minute, she whispers to herself, trying to stop her hands from shaking. Emma Clare Winters is in a champagne-colored gown, the one she saved three months to buy. Now its strap is torn, stained with something she doesn’t want to identify. She can’t go back to the gala like this. The Hawthorne family doesn’t hire victims—they hire perfection. Four years as an event coordinator for Boston’s most powerful family, and she’s finally close to being promoted, close to affording her sister’s medical bills, close to proving she’s more than the poor girl from Southie who got lucky.
She dabs at her lip with a paper towel, but the bleeding won’t stop. The supply closet door swings open. Emma’s breath catches. She turns, apology already forming, but the words die in her throat. Dante Hawthorne stands in the doorway. Not just any Hawthorne—the Hawthorne. Eldest son, the one people whisper about in careful tones, the name that appears in newspaper articles with “alleged,” “investigation,” and “no comment.” Six-foot-three of tailored perfection and controlled violence. His tuxedo probably costs more than her car, bow tie loosened just enough to hint at the end of a long night. Thirty-eight years old, sharp angles, dark hair, gray eyes the color of a winter storm.
He’s never looked at her the way he’s looking at her now. His face is calm, but his eyes travel from her torn dress to her bruised face to her bleeding lip. “Mr. Hawthorne, I—” she starts. “Who?” His voice is quiet, conversational. But something in that single word makes Emma’s spine straighten despite the pain radiating through her ribs. “It’s nothing,” she says quickly. “I slipped in the parking garage. I’m fine. Really, I just needed—” “Emma.” Her name sounds different in his mouth. Lower. Dangerous. He steps into the closet, closes the door behind him with a soft click that seems to echo. “I’m going to ask you one more time. Who the f*ck did this to you?”
She’s never heard him curse before. Never seen his mask slip, even a fraction. But something is slipping now—the way his jaw tightens, the way his hands curl into fists at his sides. “I can’t,” Emma whispers. “Mr. Hawthorne, please. I can’t afford to lose this job. My sister—she’s sick and the bills—” “Answer the question.” “It was an accident, Emma.” He moves closer. She should be afraid, should be terrified. This man has a reputation. But when he gently tilts her chin up with two fingers to examine her face in the light, his touch is impossibly gentle.
“That bruise on your cheekbone is from someone’s fist. The split lip is from a ring. Someone grabbed your arm hard enough to leave fingerprints. I can see them from here. And judging by the way you’re breathing, you have at least one cracked rib, possibly two.” Emma’s eyes widen. “How do you—” “I know what violence looks like.” His thumb brushes her jawline so carefully she barely feels it. “I know what it looks like when someone tries to take what isn’t theirs. So, I’m going to ask you one final time, and I need you to understand I’m not asking as your employer.” His eyes blaze. “I’m asking as someone who is going to make this right. Who did this to you?”
All evening she’s been holding it together, holding it in. But something about the way he’s looking at her—like she matters, like someone hurting her is unforgivable—makes the words tumble out. “Tyler Delano,” she breathes, “and three of his friends. He asked me to leave with him. I said no. He didn’t like that answer.” Dante’s thumb stops moving. For exactly three seconds, he goes completely still. Emma watches something dark and terrible slide behind his eyes—something that makes her think of undertows, of things that pull you down where no one can hear you scream.
Then he pulls out his phone. “Marco,” he says quietly when someone answers. “I need you in the Westwing supply closet. Bring the first aid kit from my office—the good one. No, now.” He hangs up, looks at Emma again. For the first time in four years, she sees rage. Pure, cold, calculated rage. “Tyler Delano is Marcus Delano’s nephew,” Emma says quickly. “Marcus handles half the real estate development in Boston. He has political connections. If this becomes a thing—” “It’s already a thing.” Dante’s voice is soft, almost gentle. “The moment that little f*cker put his hands on you, it became a thing.”
“I can’t ask you to—” “You’re not asking.” He slides his tuxedo jacket off his shoulders, drapes it carefully around her, covering her torn dress. The silk lining is still warm from his body heat. “You’re going to sit down. Marco will check those ribs. Then I’ll take you home. Tomorrow, you’ll take as much time as you need—with pay. The gala is over for you.” “Mr. Hawthorne—” “Dante.” He says it quietly, but there’s steel underneath. “When I’m about to commit a felony on someone’s behalf, they get to use my first name.” Emma’s breath catches. “You’re not… you can’t…”
The door opens. A man with silver hair and sharp eyes walks in carrying a leather bag—Marco. He takes one look at Emma’s face and his expression goes blank. “Marco,” Dante says, “check her ribs. Carefully.” “Of course.” Marco’s voice is professional, but Emma catches the look he exchanges with Dante—a look that says he understands exactly what’s about to happen next. Dante steps back, arms crossed, watching as Marco examines Emma with gentle, efficient movements. “Two cracked ribs,” Marco confirms. “Bruising on the arms consistent with restraint. Facial injuries are superficial but painful. She needs ice and rest.” “She needs justice,” Dante says quietly.
Emma’s hands start shaking again. “Please, I’m begging you. Don’t make this worse. Tyler said if I told anyone, he’d make sure I never worked in this city again. He said he’d tell everyone I was lying, that I was trying to trap him.” Her voice breaks. “I can’t lose everything because I said no to the wrong man.” Dante crouches down, bringing himself to her eye level. And Emma realizes this man, powerful and dangerous, is making himself smaller for her. “Emma,” he says, and there’s something almost tender in his voice. “Do you know how many events you’ve coordinated for my family?” “I—43.” “43,” he confirms. “Do you know how many times I’ve seen you smile at guests who were rude to you? Who snapped their fingers at you like you were a servant, who treated you like you were invisible?” She doesn’t answer. “Every single time, you smiled. You were professional. You were perfect because that’s who you are. Someone who works three times as hard as everyone else because you think you have to earn respect instead of demanding it. But do you know what I noticed most?” Emma shakes her head. “You never looked at me with fear. Not once. Every other person in my orbit is afraid of me on some level. They should be. But you… you looked at me like I was just another client, just another man in a suit. Like I was normal.” “You are normal,” Emma whispers. “No,” Dante says softly. “I’m really not. But you made me want to be. And now someone has tried to take that fearlessness away from you. Someone tried to make you small. Someone tried to make you afraid.”
He takes her hand, his grip warm and solid. “I can’t fix what they did, but I can make sure they never do it again—to you or anyone else.” “How?” The word comes out broken. Dante stands, still holding her hand. “Do you trust me?” “I don’t know,” Emma admits. “Should I?” “Probably not. But I’m asking anyway. Do you trust me to handle this?” Emma looks at him—at the controlled fury in his eyes, at the careful gentleness in every movement despite the violence coiling underneath. Four years, 43 events, a dozen conversations. In all that time, she’s never seen Dante Hawthorne be anything less than completely in control. But he’s not in control now—not quite. And that should terrify her. Instead, it makes her feel safe. “Yes,” she whispers. “I trust you.”
Something shifts in his expression—almost relief. “Then go home,” he says quietly. “Marco will drive you. Take tomorrow off. Take the whole week if you need it. Your sister’s medical bills—consider them handled.” Emma’s eyes widen. “You can’t—” “I can. I will.” His thumb brushes over her knuckles. “And Emma, when you come back to work, Tyler Delano will not be a problem. None of them will be.” “What are you going to do?” Dante releases her hand, steps back. The gentleness slides off his face like a mask being removed, and what’s underneath makes Emma’s breath catch. This is the man people whisper about. This is the man whose name appears in investigations. “What I should have done the first time someone in this city thought they could take what wasn’t theirs. I’m going to remind people why they’re afraid of me.”
Emma doesn’t sleep that night. Marco drives her home, walks her to the door, checks every room, leaves his phone number on her counter. “If you need anything, anything at all, call.” Then he’s gone, and Emma is alone with her thoughts and the pain radiating through her ribs and the ghost of Dante Hawthorne’s touch on her hand. She sits on her couch, wearing his tuxedo jacket, and tries to process what happened. Tyler Delano and his friends, the parking garage, Dante’s face when he saw her bleeding, the way he said, “Who the f*ck did this to you?” like it was the most important question in the world.
Her phone rings at 2:00 a.m.—her sister’s hospital. For a moment, Emma’s heart stops, but the nurse is calling to tell her the outstanding balance on Sarah’s account has been paid in full. All of it. Six figures just gone. And there’s a note in the file that all future treatment will be covered by an anonymous donor. Emma closes her eyes and lets out a shaking breath. Dante Hawthorne keeps his promises. She wonders what other promises he’s keeping tonight.
The answer comes at dawn. Emma is on her third cup of coffee when her phone buzzes with a news alert. Eight men missing in an overnight sweep. Authorities investigating. Tyler Delano, son of prominent businessman Marcus Delano, was reported missing early this morning along with seven other men. Security footage shows the men leaving various establishments throughout the city between midnight and 3:00 a.m. None have been seen since. Police admit they have few leads. Families are pleading for information. Marcus Delano could not be reached for comment.
Emma sets down her phone with trembling fingers. Eight men. She knows with bone-deep certainty that Tyler and his three friends are among them. The other four—witnesses, accomplices, people who knew and said nothing. She should be horrified, should be calling the police, should be doing something other than sitting here with Dante Hawthorne’s jacket around her shoulders, feeling safe for the first time since the parking garage. But she doesn’t feel horrified. She feels protected.
Her phone rings. Unknown number. “Emma.” Dante’s voice is calm, conversational, like he’s calling about a catering order. “I hope I didn’t wake you.” “I wasn’t sleeping.” “Good. I wanted you to know you don’t need to worry anymore. The people who hurt you won’t be a problem. They won’t be anyone’s problem.” Emma should ask what he did, should demand answers, should care about what happened to eight men between midnight and dawn. Instead, she asks, “Did they suffer?” The pause is longer. When Dante speaks again, his voice is softer, almost surprised. “Would it matter to you if they did?” “Yes.” Emma surprises herself with the honesty. “I want to know if they were afraid. If they felt a fraction of what they made me feel.” “They were afraid,” Dante’s voice drops lower. “They spent their last few hours understanding exactly what they’d done and exactly what happens to men who think they can take what isn’t theirs. They understood, Emma. I made sure of it.”
Something hot and sharp twists in Emma’s chest. It’s not horror. It’s satisfaction. “Thank you,” she whispers. “Don’t thank me. I didn’t do it for gratitude. I did it because…” He stops, takes a breath. “I did it because the thought of someone hurting you made me want to burn this entire city down.” Emma’s breath catches. “Dante…” “Come back to work when you’re ready,” he says quietly. “But when you do, I need to know—are you afraid of me now?” She should be. She should be terrified. But all she can think about is the gentleness of his hands on her face, the careful control despite the rage burning underneath. “No,” she says. “I’m not afraid of you.” “You should be.” But he sounds almost pleased. “Go rest. We’ll talk when you’re ready.” He hangs up before she can respond.
Emma sits in the growing light, wearing a killer’s jacket, and realizes she’s never felt safer in her life.
She goes back to work three days later. The Hawthorne estate is buzzing. Another gala, another performance of elegance and power. Emma walks through the staff entrance, hair styled to hide the cut on her temple. She makes it exactly forty feet before Marco intercepts her. “Mr. Hawthorne wants to see you. His office. Now.” Emma’s heart kicks against her ribs. “Is something wrong?” Marco’s expression doesn’t change. “He’s been waiting for you.”
Dante’s office is on the third floor, oak paneling, leather furniture, windows overlooking the gardens. He’s standing at the window when she enters. “Close the door,” he says without turning. Emma does. Her hands are shaking again, but not from fear. Dante turns, and the look on his face makes her breath catch—hungry, possessive, raw. “How are your ribs?” “Healing. The bruises fading.” “Good.” He crosses to his desk, picks up a folder. “Tyler Delano and his friends have been officially declared missing persons. The police have no leads. Marcus Delano has pulled all his political connections trying to find his nephew, but…” Dante’s lips curve into something cold. “Some people just disappear. Tragic, really.”
Emma should feel guilty. Should feel something other than this dark satisfaction. “Where are they?” she asks. Dante sets down the folder. “Does it matter?” “I want to know.” “Why?” “Because I need to know if I should feel guilty for being glad they’re gone. I need to know if that makes me a bad person.” Dante crosses the distance in three strides. “They’re alive,” he says quietly. “Barely. They’re in places where people pay very well to ensure certain individuals never resurface. Places where they’ll spend every day understanding what they did and why they can never do it again.” His hand cups her jaw with impossible gentleness. “Does that make you feel guilty, Emma?”
She should say yes. Should push him away, call the police, do the right thing. Instead, she leans into his touch. “No,” she whispers. “It makes me feel safe.” Something blazes in Dante’s eyes. “Dangerous answer. Why?” “Because now I know what you taste like when you’re not afraid.” His thumb brushes her lower lip. “And that’s going to be a problem.” “What kind of problem?” “The kind where I can’t let you go. The kind where I want to keep you close and make sure no one ever touches you again. The kind where I’m willing to make eight men disappear and not lose a single night’s sleep if it means you look at me the way you’re looking at me right now.” “How am I looking at you?” “Like I’m not a monster.” His forehead drops to rest against hers. “Like I’m something worth trusting.” “You are,” Emma breathes. “To me, you are.”
Dante makes a sound low in his throat, something between a laugh and a growl. “Emma, I need you to understand something. What I did, what I’m capable of—most people would run screaming.” “I’m not running.” “You should be.” “But I’m not.” She covers his hand with hers, pressing his palm more firmly against her face. “You asked if I was afraid of you. I’m not. I’m afraid of what happens when you let me go.” “I’m not letting you go. Not now, not ever. But you need to understand what that means. You need to understand who I am.” “I know who you are.” “No.” Dante pulls back just enough to look at her properly. “You know the surface. You know the carefully constructed facade. But Emma, I run half the illegal operations in this city. I make people disappear. I hurt people who cross me. I’m not a good man.” “You were good to me.” “Because you matter.” His jaw tightens. “Because the thought of you being hurt made me want to commit murder. Because I’ve spent four years watching you from across crowded rooms and wondering what you’d feel like in my arms. And now that I know you’re not afraid of me, I’m never going to be able to let that go.”
Emma’s breath catches. Four years. His hand slides from her jaw to cup the back of her neck. “Do you have any idea how hard it’s been watching you smile at everyone else? Watching you be professional and perfect and completely unaware that I was losing my mind every time you said my name.” “Dante…” “I made eight men disappear for you, Emma. And I’d do it again. I’d do worse. I’d burn this entire city down if it meant keeping you safe. So, before this goes any further, I need you to tell me—can you live with that? Can you live with what I am?”
Emma looks at him, at the desperation in his eyes, at the careful way he’s holding her, like she’s precious and breakable despite the violence she knows he’s capable of. She thinks about Tyler Delano and his friends, about the parking garage, about bleeding in a supply closet and feeling powerless. She thinks about Dante’s gentle hands, Marco’s phone number, her sister’s medical bills being paid in full. She thinks about feeling safe. “Yes,” she whispers. “I can live with that.”
Dante’s eyes close. His grip tightens just slightly. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.” “I mean it.” Emma slides her hands up his chest, feeling his heart pounding under her palms. “I mean it because you’re the first person who made them pay. The first person who looked at me and decided I was worth protecting. Worth avenging. Worth—” She doesn’t get to finish because Dante kisses her. It’s not gentle. It’s not careful. It’s four years of restraint shattering all at once. His mouth claims hers with hunger. One hand stays tangled in her hair, the other wraps around her waist, pulling her close.
This is what safety feels like. This is what being claimed feels like. This is what it feels like to belong to someone who will burn the world down to protect you.
When they finally break apart, Dante breathes, “Mine. Say it.” “Yours,” Emma doesn’t hesitate. “I’m yours.” “And I’m yours. Every dark, violent, dangerous part of me. Yours. No one touches you again. No one hurts you. No one even looks at you wrong without answering to me. Understood?” “Understood.”
Three months later, Emma walks into her sister’s hospital room to find Sarah sitting up in bed, looking better than she has in years. “The doctors say I’m in remission,” Sarah says, eyes bright with tears. “Full remission, Emma. Because of those new treatments, because of that anonymous donor who paid for everything.” Emma sits down, takes her sister’s hand. She’s wearing a ring now—Dante proposed six weeks ago in his office with the same intensity he brings to everything else. “Who is he?” Sarah asks. “The donor. Do you know?” Emma thinks about Dante, about the way he holds her at night, about the gentleness he shows only her. “Yes,” she says simply. “I know him.” “Is he a good man?” Emma smiles. “He’s my man. That’s all that matters.”
The wedding is small, private, just family and close friends at the Hawthorne estate. Dante waits for her at the end of a flower-lined aisle, wearing a black suit and looking at her like she’s the only person in the world. “Last chance to run,” he whispers. Emma squeezes his hands. “I’m exactly where I want to be. With a killer. With the man who made me feel safe again.” She lifts her chin. “With the man who made eight people disappear because they hurt me. With the man who paid my sister’s medical bills and asks my opinion before making major decisions and holds me like I’m precious. Yes, Dante. With you.” His eyes blaze. “Then let’s make this official.”
At the reception, Marcus Delano arrives uninvited. Emma sees him first, flanked by two bodyguards. He walks straight up to their table. “Hawthorne, we need to talk.” Dante sets down his champagne glass. “We don’t.” “My nephew is gone.” Dante’s voice is flat, cold. “And before you make whatever threat you came here to make, you should understand something. This is my wedding day. This is my wife.” He takes Emma’s hand, grip possessive. “And if you ruin even one moment of it, Marcus, you’ll join Tyler wherever he is.” Marcus’s face goes red. “You can’t—” “I can. I did. And I’ll do it again to anyone who threatens what’s mine, so I suggest you leave now before I forget I’m trying to be civilized for Emma’s sake.”
Marcus leaves, and Emma realizes she’s not afraid. Not of him, not of any of it. Because she’s sitting next to a man who will make people disappear to protect her. A man who just publicly claimed her in front of one of his enemies. A man who kisses her like she’s oxygen. “Sorry,” Dante says after Marcus is gone. “I know that wasn’t the wedding you imagined.” “No,” Emma leans into him. “It was better. Because now everyone knows I’m yours and you’re mine, and nothing is going to change that.” Dante’s laugh is low and dark. “Dangerous woman.” “I learned from the best.”
They dance as the sun sets over Boston, and Emma thinks about how far she’s come—from a girl in a supply closet, bleeding and afraid, to a woman in a wedding dress, protected and cherished. Dante pulls her closer, possessive hand on her lower back. “What are you thinking?” he murmurs. Emma smiles. “That I would do it again.” “Do what?” “Say no to Tyler Delano.” She looks up at Dante, this beautiful, dangerous man who made eight people disappear for her. “Because it led me here to you.” Dante’s eyes darken. “Don’t say things like that.” “Why not?” “Because it makes me want to find Marcus Delano and make him disappear, too.” But he’s smiling when he says it. “You’re going to be the death of me, Emma Hawthorne.” “Probably,” she kisses him, “but what a way to go.”
Dante laughs, and Emma realizes this is what safety feels like. Not the absence of danger, but the presence of someone who will face the danger for you. Someone who will burn the world down to keep you safe. Someone who will ask, “Who the f*ck did this to you?” and mean it. Someone who will make eight men disappear by morning and lose no sleep over it. Someone who is hers. And as they dance under the fading light, Emma Clare Hawthorne knows she’s exactly where she belongs—in the arms of a monster who chose to be gentle, with the man who made her feel safe again. Even if his methods would make most people run screaming, she’s not running.
And neither should you, if you ever find someone who will burn the world down for you.
