Sweetest Sorrow

  Forbidden Series Book #2

  J.M. Darhower

  Contents

  Copyright

  Sweetest Sorrow

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by J.M. Darhower

  J.M. DARHOWER

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination.

  Copyright 2016 by Jessica Mae Darhower

  All rights reserved.

  "Parting is such sweet sorrow

  That I shall say good night till it be morrow."

  Romeo and Juliet, Act 2 Scene 2

  Prologue

  The air was damp, thick with filth, overpowering with the stench of dirt and mildew. Despite it being summer, coldness had settled between the solid concrete walls, the windowless chamber offering no ventilation.

  A basement.

  The moment Dante Galante regained consciousness, he sensed he was underground. The dense air invaded his lungs and coated the inside of his tattered chest, making every breath strained, like he was slowly suffocating.

  Buried alive.

  That was how it felt.

  Darkness surrounded him, the kind of darkness that felt like a void, like one wrong move and he might get lost in it, never to be found again.

  He blinked and saw nothing.

  Blinked again. Nothing still.

  How long had he been there? An hour? A day? A week? Maybe more. He'd been tormented mercilessly, beaten until he could no longer stand, strangled before being brought back to life again.

  Again and again, they pushed him to the edge, but he'd yet to tip over. They could break his body, but they weren't going to break him.

  He wouldn't let them.

  So they tortured him until he lost consciousness, taunting him all along, waiting for him to crack. 'We'll put you out of your misery,' they promised. 'All you have to do is ask.'

  Dante said nothing.

  He barely made a noise.

  He endured it in silence, passing out before waking up to suffer even more.

  Pain was nothing to a man who had been burned alive at five years old. Nothing they could do to him would ever surpass the feeling of his body on fire, the sensation of his shirt melting right into his skin, fabric dripping like candle wax, charring him.

  Compared to that?

  This was a piece of fucking cake.

  Hours. Days. Weeks. Who knew?

  Time passed, and his body grew weaker, but his resolve remained strong. He was going to die. He'd come to accept that. There would be no crying, no begging, and not a stitch of fear. That was what they wanted from him.

  He wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

  So he lay there, listening to the world above him, a world that wouldn't try to rescue him if he screamed, waiting for them to finish him off. He was deep in the heart of Barsanti territory. He had no friends there.

  It happened unexpectedly, the basement door thrusting open, bright light filtering through. Dante winced from the harshness, too drained to move, unable to shield his eyes as someone descended the stairs. He blinked as they approached, trying to make out his surroundings, his gaze meeting his captor's.

  Roberto Barsanti.

  The man stopped in front of Dante, his shadowy figure blocking out the blinding glare. Fury swirled through Dante, strengthening him. He considered lunging, attacking, making a break for it even though he wouldn't make it far.

  He thought about it.

  He almost did it.

  Until the man spoke.

  "Your sister's dead."

  Those words, in that impassive voice, stalled Dante's heart for a long beat. No. No. No. It couldn't be. He didn't want to believe it. Couldn't believe it. Dead? No fucking way. Not his sister. Not Genevieve. It was just another form of torture. They’d broken his body but he hadn’t caved. They were going to try to break his spirit, and he couldn't let them.

  So he just glared at the man, trying to control his strained breathing, hoping like hell the sudden spike of fear he felt didn’t show.

  He didn't want them to see.

  God, no, don't let it be...

  "She's dead," Barsanti said again, his vacant stare fixed on the grimy wall before he turned back to Dante. Tears swam in his usually callous eyes. Intense fear swarmed the room, mixed with a sense of devastation, but it wasn't radiating from Dante. No. The man in front of him was cracking, even more than Dante ever had. "Your sister is dead, and my son…” A long pause, so long Dante’s mind raced for a way to finish that thought, realizing the truth a fraction of a second before the words left Barsanti's lips. “He's dead, too."

  Dante let out a shaky breath, words on the tip of his tongue, the first ones he would utter since they'd snatched him. Just kill me now. He swallowed the thought back, resolved to stay strong, but something forced itself from his busted lips, a whisper in a gritty voice. "Fuck you."

  In a blink, Barsanti drew back his arm, his fist connecting with Dante's face, pain exploding through his skull.

  This is it, he thought, as the blackness took him.

  I'm dying alone in the dark.

  Chapter One

  Primo Galante hadn't driven a car in over sixteen years.

  He missed it sometimes... the feel of the wheel beneath his hands, the revving of the engine, his foot pressing on the gas pedal as the car weaved through the city streets, offering the kind of freedom he'd always yearned for.

  The freedom to just go.

  Wherever. Whenever.

  Ah, how he loved having that kind of control.

  It wasn't the same, watching the world fly by from the backseat of a chauffeured black sedan. You see, the city looks different through thick, tinted windows. Less freeing. No longer the brave eagle soaring through the sky, he'd become a caged animal, shielded behind shatterproof glass, separating him from the rest of the wildlife that swarmed the concrete jungle. Harsh reality had put a leash around his neck, strangling him to the point where mere precaution twisted into irrational panic.

  He'd gripped so tightly to his family after the explosion that had killed his Joey that what had been left of them slipped between the fingers of his clenched fists. His wife, dead, her car slamming into an overpass years ago. Dante, presumed dead, his car abandoned in an alley, blood splattered all over the driver's seat. And his daughter, his little girl, his beautiful Genevieve…

  Primo couldn't yet bring himself to admit what might've come of her.

  But as he stood out on Pier 76 at one o'clock in the morning, his gaze glued to the charred, twisted remains of a blood red Lotus Evora on the back of an NYPD flatbed tow truck tucked inside an open garage, police tape surrounding it as a forensics team scoured it for clues, he couldn't discount the truth.

  Genevieve was gone now, too.

  Maybe dead, maybe not, but regardless, he'd lost her.

  There was no coming back from what happened.

  The electronic gate to the right of Primo buzzed before shifting open. He tore his eyes from the crushed metal mess that had belonged to the Barsanti boy, instead turning toward the impound lot. He was there for one reason and one reason alone, and dwelling wouldn't do anybody any good.

  Night clung to everything around him, casting shadows along the rows of seized vehicles. Primo shoved his hands in the pockets of his black slacks as he took a deep breath to conceal his nerves. He kept his chin up, his shoulders squared as a uniformed officer approached.

  "Mr. Galante, thanks for coming out." The officer offered his hand. Primo's gaze darted to it before he looked the man in the eyes again, making no move to shake it. Not out of some sort of code of conduct, keeping him from being respectful to law enforcement.

  His palms were sweaty.

  He didn't want anyone to know.

  "I appreciate the call," Primo said. "And the discretion."

  "Of course," the officer said, dropping his hand. "Follow me."

  They strode through the gated lot, to where the black BMW was parked in the back, a sunshine-yellow tassel hanging from the rearview mirror. Genevieve had graduated high school mere months ago.

  Still so damn young.

  A life wasted, and why?

  Primo approached his daughter's car and glanced through the windows, his eyes skimming along the leather seats. Although it was dark, his vision obscured, the inside appeared pristine with not a hint of blood to be found. He stepped back, surveying the outside of the car. Besides a dent on the front end, some of the paint swiped off, it seemed unharmed.

  "Minor fender bender," the officer said.