Chapter 32 Luca
After dropping Gabriella off, I tell Paolo to drive to a warehouse in the industrial district, one of several properties my family owns that don't appear on any official records.
"Boss?" he asks, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.
"Dante Mancini needs to disappear tonight."
"I can have the boys handle it. Clean, professional. Make it look like a business dispute gone wrong."
"No. This one's personal. Have your guys pick him up discreetly after he leaves the dinner party and bring him to the warehouse. Then make sure we're not disturbed."
Paolo's eyebrows raise slightly, but he doesn't question the decision. "What do you need from me?" he asks.
"The usual setup. And bring the bag of tools."
The warehouse is empty when we arrive, just concrete floors and shadows cast by a few overhead lights. Perfect for what I need to do. Paolo's men are efficient. Before midnight, they've delivered Dante to me, unconscious and still breathing.
He doesn’t stir until I zip-tie him to a metal chair in the center of the space before dismissing Paolo and his team.
I must handle this all alone.
When Dante comes to, his eyes dart around the warehouse before settling on me. He doesn't look surprised.
"Luca." His voice is hoarse. "I was wondering when you'd show up."
"Were you?"
"A man like you doesn't let threats go unanswered. Especially threats against his wife." He tests the restraints binding his wrists, but they don't give. "Though I have to say, I didn't expect you to handle this personally. It’s not your style. You usually keep your hands clean."
"You made it personal when you threatened my wife in public."
"Threaten her? I thought we were having a civilized conversation about interesting discoveries. Simply one of our many business negotiations. It’s not personal."
I move closer, and he finally shows the first sign of real nervousness. His breathing quickens as I pull on leather gloves, taking my time with each finger.
"What exactly do you think you discovered, Dante?"
"Enough to know that your wife isn't who she claims to be.
Enough to know that the Romano family has been deceived in a very fundamental way.
" His confidence wavers as I open the duffel bag Paolo left for me.
"The question remains. What's that information worth to you? I would imagine a great deal since it seems you’ve grown fond of the girl. "
"Nothing."
He tries to laugh. "I find that hard to believe."
"Because you don't understand what you're dealing with." I pull out a knife, not a quick, clean blade, but something designed for maximum damage. "You believe you have leverage. You think you can threaten my wife and walk away with money in your pocket for your silence."
"Can't I?"
"No. Because you made one crucial mistake."
"What's that?"
"You assumed I'd be ashamed of what you found. You assumed I'd want to hide it from my family, pay you to keep quiet about whatever secrets you think you've uncovered."
Dante's face goes pale as I test the blade's edge against my thumb, drawing a thin line of blood.
"But here's what you don't understand about me.
I don't give a fuck what my wife did before she married me.
I don't care what name she was born with or what life she lived before she became mine.
The only thing I care about is that she's under my protection now. She is my wife and there is nothing I won’t do to protect her. "
"Luca, we can work something out—"
"And you threatened her. In front of witnesses. You made her afraid." The blade catches the overhead light as I move closer. "That's unforgivable."
He tries to struggle against the restraints, the metal chair scraping against concrete, but there's nowhere to go in the empty warehouse.
"I’m sorry, I didn’t know you felt this strongly about her. It’s an arranged marriage for fuck’s sake! I won't say anything. I'll disappear, leave the country—"
"Too late for apologies."
The first cut is across his throat, but not deep enough to kill. Just enough to ensure he can't scream for help that won't come anyway. His eyes go wide with terror and pain as blood streams down his shirt.
"This is for threatening my wife," I tell him calmly.
The second cut is deeper, slower. I take my time, letting him feel every inch of the blade as it parts skin and muscle. He tries to fight, his body convulsing against the chair, but the blood loss makes him weak.
"This is for thinking you could blackmail my family."
By the third cut, he's barely conscious. Blood pools on the concrete floor around the chair legs.
"And this," I say, positioning the blade over his heart, "is for making the mistake of thinking I wouldn't kill you myself to protect my wife."
The final thrust is quick and efficient. His body goes still, eyes staring at nothing in the warehouse's dim light.
I stand over him for a moment, watching blood spread across the concrete floor. Then I methodically clean the blade and return it to the bag.
But I don't clean myself.
The blood on my hands, splattered across my shirt and jacket—I leave it. Because Gabriella needs to see what I've done for her. She needs to understand exactly what kind of man she's married to and how far I'm willing to go to protect what's mine.
Paolo's cleanup crew will handle the body and the scene. By morning, Dante Mancini will have simply vanished, another casualty of the dangerous world he chose to operate in. No witnesses, no evidence, no connection to me or my family.
I drive myself home slowly, windows down, letting the night air cool the rage that's been burning in my chest since Dante opened his mouth at dinner. By the time I pull through the villa's gates, I'm calm again.
The house is dark except for a single light in our bedroom window. Gabriella is waiting for me, probably wondering what I meant when I said I would handle the Dante problem.
Now she's going to find out.
I climb the stairs quietly, my footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. The bedroom door is slightly ajar, and I can see her silhouette against the window, still wearing the dress from dinner.
When I push the door open, she turns toward me.
And sees the blood covering me.
Her sharp intake of breath is the only sound in the room as she takes in my appearance. The dark stains across my white shirt, the red under my fingernails, the spray pattern on my jacket that tells its own story.
“Are you hurt?” she asks quietly.
“No.”
"Is he dead?"
"Yes."
"Did you—" She stops, swallows, tries again. "Did you do it yourself?"
"Yes."
She doesn't ask why. Doesn't express shock or horror or any of the reactions I might have expected. Instead, she looks at me with something that might be appreciation.
"Good," she says simply.
And that's when I know, with absolute certainty, that I didn't just kill Dante to protect a secret.
I killed him to protect the woman I love.
The woman who looks at me covered in another man's blood and says "good" like she means it.
The woman who understands that in my world, some problems require permanent solutions.
She isn't Sofia Romano and never was, but she’s mine.