“Could be,” Dante says, his forehead wrinkled in thought. “The Butcher is touchy. Insanely prideful, easily offended. He’s probably angry that we didn’t offer Aida to him first.”
“Fucking gross,” Aida interjects. “For one thing, he’s old. For another, I’m not a fucking pog.”
“Either way, it’s too late,” I growl. “You’re mine. And whatever he wants as a consolation prize, he’s not getting it.”