The unstoppable Dante

"Please, you have to believe me!" Dante's voice cracked as he dropped to his knees on the marble floor, his hands trembling. "I didn't do this. I swear!"

The room was deathly silent, save for the faint ticking of the grandfather clock. His father, Thomas Sinclair, sat stone-faced at the head of the long dining table, his once-proud eyes now filled with cold disappointment.

Across from him, Dante's brother, Victor, leaned back in his chair, smug and calm, while Lucas, their cousin, feigned shock, shaking his head.

"You expect us to believe that?" Victor's voice dripped with mockery. He pushed a thick file toward their father. "The proof is all here. Bank records. Offshore accounts. Money missing—millions, Father. Millions Dante stole."

"I didn't—"

"And," Lucas cut in, voice soft, dangerous, "what about the photos, Dante? You… and Richard Moretti's wife. Care to explain those?" He slid a glossy photo across the table.

Dante's stomach dropped as he caught sight of the image: him shaking hands with Moretti's wife in what looked like a hotel lobby. The angle, the lighting—it was all perfect. Too perfect.

"That's not what it looks like," Dante stammered. "I didn't touch her! I met her once—it was business!"

"Business?" Victor laughed. "Is that what you call it? Our biggest investor's wife? You humiliated us!"

Thomas slammed his hand on the table, silencing the room. His face was carved from stone, his voice sharp enough to slice through Dante's heart. "Enough." He turned his cold stare on his youngest son. "Do you have any idea what you've done? This family's name is ruined. Our partners are pulling out. Moretti is threatening to sue us!"

"I didn't—"

"Get out."

Dante froze, looking up at his father. "What?"

"I said get out!" Thomas roared, standing now, fists clenched at his sides. "You're no longer my son. You're a disgrace to this family. I won't let you drag us into the gutter with you."

"Dad… please," Dante whispered, tears burning his eyes. He turned to his brother. "Victor, you know I didn't do this. Tell him. Tell him the truth!"

Victor smiled—a slow, satisfied smirk that sent a chill down Dante's spine. "You did this to yourself, brother."

Lucas stepped closer, crouching beside Dante as if to comfort him. "It's sad, really. You had everything… and now? You're nothing."

"Security!" Thomas barked. Two guards appeared at the door. "Remove him. Now."

Dante's world spun as strong hands gripped his arms, dragging him toward the door. "No! Wait! Dad—please! You're making a mistake! Victor—Lucas—they're lying! They're lying!"

His pleas fell on deaf ears.

The last thing Dante saw before the doors slammed shut was Victor, raising a glass of wine in mock celebration, and Lucas, whispering something in their father's ear.

The marble floor, the crystal chandelier, the family he had loved—it was all gone.

As the guards threw him out onto the cold pavement, Dante lay there for a moment, his breath ragged, his heart broken.

They had taken everything.

5 years later

"Dante!" his manager, Mr. Hargrove, barked from the doorway. "Hurry up with those dishes! We've got tables piling up!"

"Yes, sir," Dante muttered, swallowing his frustration. He grabbed a new tray and stepped out onto the restaurant floor.

The midday rush was winding down, but a group of loud college students lingered in the corner booth—the same group that came every day. Dante's stomach twisted as he recognized him: Bryce Henderson, his girlfriend's younger brother. If there was ever a bully who enjoyed tormenting him, it was Bryce. Tall, broad-shouldered, and wealthy, Bryce's arrogance oozed with every word he spoke.

"Hey, look who it is," Bryce sneered, his voice carrying across the room. His friends snickered as they turned to watch Dante. "It's Dishwasher Dante! Still scraping food off plates to survive?"

Dante gripped the tray tighter, forcing himself not to look at them. Just get the dishes and leave, he told himself.

"Yo, Bryce," one of the guys smirked, loud enough for Dante to hear. "Isn't this the loser dating your sister? What's she even doing with him?"

The words hit Dante like a punch to the gut, but he kept moving toward their table.

"Who knows, man," Bryce said, his lips curling into a cruel grin. "Maybe she likes fixing broken things. Or maybe she feels sorry for him—like a stray dog she picked up off the street."

The group erupted in laughter. Bryce leaned back, arms crossed, his eyes locked on Dante. "Hey, dishwasher, come grab these plates. You're slacking."

Dante approached the table, trying to steady his breathing. He reached for the stack of dishes, ignoring their smirks.

But as he turned to leave, Bryce stuck out his foot.

CRASH.

The plates shattered across the floor, fragments scattering like broken dreams. The sound silenced the room. Dante froze, his heart pounding, as all eyes turned to him.

"Oh, man!" Bryce exclaimed, feigning shock. "What's wrong, Dante? Butterfingers?"

His friends erupted into laughter again, louder this time. Dante clenched his fists at his sides, his jaw tight. Every instinct screamed at him to lash out, to shove Bryce into the wall, to do something. But he couldn't. He knew what was at stake.

"Dante!" Mr. Hargrove stormed out from the kitchen, his face red with fury. "What the hell is going on here?"

"I… I didn't mean to," Dante stammered.

"Didn't mean to?" Mr. Hargrove's voice boomed. "Look at this mess! Do you know how much those plates cost?"

Dante kept his eyes on the floor, swallowing the bitter taste of shame. "I'll pay for them."

"Damn right, you will!" Mr. Hargrove snapped. "$500, Dante. That's coming out of your paycheck this month. If you think you're getting paid after this disaster, you're dead wrong."

Dante's head shot up. "$500?" His voice cracked. "But sir—"

"No buts!" Hargrove cut him off, his finger jabbing the air. "I'm running a business here, not a charity. And you—" he pointed at Dante, his voice laced with disgust, "are a liability."

The room felt like it was closing in on him. Dante thought of the envelope he'd been saving for weeks—money he planned to use to buy his girlfriend a birthday gift. She'd done so much for him, when no one else did, and now…

It's gone.

Bryce snickered behind him, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Tough luck, buddy. Maybe you can make up for it by washing plates for free."

"That's enough!" Mr. Hargrove barked. "You're fired, Dante. Pack your things and get out. I don't want you back in this restaurant again."

Dante's breath hitched, his vision blurring as the weight of the words sank in. Fired. His only source of income—gone.