Chapter 16: The Devil You Know
1201 Words
~Dante’s POV~
The room was silent, except for the faint hum of jazz filtering from the vintage record player in the corner. The kind of music that oozed nostalgia, the kind of melody that made you feel something even when you didn’t want to.
I leaned back into the leather armchair, fingers curled around a heavy crystal tumbler filled with bourbon. The amber liquid swirled slowly with each subtle movement of my hand, smooth, expensive, potent. Just like the lives we led. Just like the lies we told.
The office was dimly lit, shelves of old books and curated memorabilia lining the walls, the scent of aged wood and whiskey weaving into the air like a familiar ghost.
My jaw clenched as I tipped the glass back and let the burn settle in my chest. It wasn’t the liquor that stung.....it was the memories.
The old ones. The bitter ones. The ones that always began with Robert.
Robert Mondragon.
Even the name sounded like a disease now.
But it wasn’t always like this. No. Once upon a time, I worshipped the ground he walked on.
He was my cousin, yes. But more than that, he was my goddamn hero.
When we were kids, he was everything I wanted to be......charming, brilliant, magnetic.
He’d walk into a room and all eyes would shift, like gravity knew his name. And me? I was the afterthought. The tag along. The Mondragon cousin with the punchline last name.....Romero. A second rate heir to a legacy that wasn’t mine.
I remember one summer in Madrid, when we were both seventeen. My father had flown us out for a corporate retreat, where old men smoked cigars and drank brandy while their sons were paraded like future kings.
Robert gave a speech that night. Effortless. Witty. Wise beyond his years. The room practically gave him a standing ovation.
Then it was my turn.
I choked.
Literally. Stumbled over my words like a drunk on marble. My father didn’t say a word that night. Didn’t need to. The look on his face? Disgust. He poured himself a drink, turned to Robert, and said, “You see, son.....that’s what excellence looks like.”
Not “my son.” Just “son.”
“It’s not enough to be good,” he used to sneer, “You have to be better than Robert. Stronger. Smarter. He may be the heir, but you, Dante, will be the legacy.”
What the hell did that even mean?
That was the day something snapped inside me.
I started pushing harder. Studying more. Dressing better. Hustling in silence. All because I wanted to hear my father say I was worth something.
And then came “Vanguard”, the investment that changed everything.
We were twenty six, fresh out of grad school, full of piss and fire. I pitched the idea first. An innovative tech firm, AI driven logistics, predictive supply chains. Robert had laughed at it. Called it “too risky.”
A week later, the same proposal showed up at the Mondragon boardroom. His signature was on it.
And just like that, Vanguard became his baby. His triumph. The press ran it as “a bold move by young Robert Mondragon,” and I was nothing more than a footnote in the margins.
He never even apologized. Not once.
I buried the betrayal under women, parties, ambition. But that was the moment the brotherhood died. That was when the fire began.
And that fire only grew the day I saw her.
Isabella.
No.
Melissa.
Goddamn Melissa Cortez.
A name erased from the world. Erased... but not forgotten. I didn’t know her personally back then. Just a name on a headline. The beautiful nobody who snagged the Mondragon prince. A rags to riches fairytale in stilettos.
I watched from a distance. Couldn’t help myself.
Not because I was obsessed.
But because I knew Robert. And I knew he’d never let a woman like that hold the crown for long. Not when he still needed the world’s approval more than he needed love.
I followed the wedding, the photos, the charity events. And then, I watched it unravel. Quietly. Brutally.
The night of the fire was when things truly shifted.
No funeral. No body. Just speculation. Whispers. "Melissa Mondragon presumed dead."
I didn’t buy it.
So I hired Jonas...my best private investigator.
Discreet. Expensive. Unrelenting.
He dug deep, traced every hospital record, every anonymous recovery case, every Jane Doe that matched Melissa's build, her blood type, her trauma.
It took months.
Then one day, a file landed on my desk.
A woman recovering from third degree burns under heavy security. New face. New identity. Same eyes.
The eyes don’t lie.
They were Melissa’s.
Haunted. Furious. Alive.
When I saw her at the engagement party, the truth was undeniable.
The way her breath caught when Robert walked in.
The way her entire posture shifted like her spine had turned to ice.
You can’t fake that kind of visceral history.
You live it.
So I played my cards right. Dropped subtle hints. Then, in the car.... I pulled off the mask.
Her reaction said it all.
The denial. The anger. The storm behind those newly sculpted cheekbones.
She was back.
And more importantly, she was broken in all the right places.
Which made her perfect.
I rose from the armchair, moving toward the large window that overlooked the city skyline. Lights glittered like fallen stars, wealth, power, delusion.
Somewhere out there, Robert Mondragon was celebrating his engagement. Toasting with champagne. Oblivious.
Good.
Let him smile a little longer.
Let him feel untouchable.
Because I now had something he could never buy or predict:
Melissa!
A woman reborn from the flames he started.
He destroyed her.
And now?
Now, she belonged to me.
Not in body. Not in heart.
But in purpose.
She would be my Trojan horse.
I was going to use her to destroy him.
I turned back to my desk and opened the drawer.
Inside was a folder. Confidential. Stamped with Jonas’s insignia.
Phase Two.
All the leverage. All the secrets. All the dirty little lies Robert thought were buried.
I flipped it open, scanned the content, then reached for my phone and dialed.
Jonas picked up on the first ring.
“Begin extraction,” I said calmly. “I want everything. Financials. Offshore accounts. Any tie to Jodie Sanchez that can be exploited.”
A pause.
“And what about Isabella?” he asked
I smiled darkly.
“Leave her to me. She’s not just my partner anymore. She’s the fuse.”
As I hung up, thunder rumbled in the distance. The sky outside cracked open with lightning.
I poured myself another glass of bourbon, watching the storm roll in.
“You’re going to burn for what you did, cousin,” I murmured.
Then I raised the glass to my lips.
“To ghosts. And revenge.”
The lightning flashed again.....brighter this time, illuminating the framed photo on the desk.
Robert and I, aged ten, arms thrown around each other. Smiling like fools.
I took it, turned it over, and smashed it against the desk.
Glass scattered like fallen stars.
The war had begun.
- Writer
