3. Gianna
GIANNA
T here are mornings that feel forgettable, and then there are mornings that begin with your brother reminding you to seduce a Salvatore.
I’ve had both, but this one falls into the latter category.
The mirror shows me a woman in crimson, the slit in her dress riding up her thigh.
The neckline is precise, not plunging, but enough to catch the eye of any man with a pulse.
My hair is parted down the middle, blown straight and sleek.
I have gold cuffs clasped around my wrists like an afterthought.
The heels match the dress.
My smile does not.
It is sharper.
The Rossi town car slips down the narrow streets of the portside business district, past rows of shuttered cafes and high-rise offices, all of them too clean, carrying no memory of the blood they were built on.
Nuova Speranza is already awake, merchants shouting over crates of lemons and silk, engines sputtering in protest at the sea-slick roads.
The air is cool and flat in the car.
My laptop is open on my lap, the screen showing the quarterly figures that were finalized late last night.
Everything is ready.
The numbers align, the shell companies will hold, the customs records are scrubbed just enough to pass.
The location for the meeting is one of those half-finished Salvatore real estate ventures, perched like a relic above the old waterfront tower.
It was once the administrative hub for the port authority, back when the government still pretended it controlled this city.
Now, the upper floors are repurposed as Salvatore offices, a blend of steel, glass, and Sicilian marble, their windows overlooking a view of docks that stretch out into a murky sprawl of commerce, secrets, and salt.
It’s a clever place for a meeting—visible, yet above scrutiny.
The Salvatores no longer operate in the dark.
They have stepped into the light, and they dare you to question what you see.
A man I don’t recognize holds the car door open as we arrive.
I step out into a courtyard paved with stone that is too white to be anything but imported.
The building rises in clean lines, all smoked glass and restrained wealth.
Inside, the lobby smells like bergamot and fresh paper.
A young woman at the desk checks my name without meeting my eyes and waves me toward the private elevator.
We rise in silence, and I catch my reflection in the gold of the elevator doors.
I look exactly as I should.
The conference room is on the thirty-fourth floor, lined with floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a sweeping view of the port.
The table is a wide slab of dark walnut, unadorned but for a tray of fresh espresso, still steaming, and an array of delicate pasticcini, some filled with blood orange, others with pistachio cream.
I select one and place it on a porcelain plate, then pour myself an espresso, no sugar.
I sit at the head of the table, not the foot, and begin reviewing my notes again.
This is not just another quarterly review.
It never was.
On the surface, we are here to reaffirm terms: five shipping routes tied to Salvatore-licensed holding companies, two new investments in pharmaceutical logistics, one pending the restructuring of a shell company that needs to be disbanded quietly.
The real discussions, however, will hover beneath the numbers.
The Salvatores are tightening their grip, and this meeting is a test.
Of our efficiency.
Of our loyalty.
Of whether or not the Rossis will remain an asset or begin to look like a risk.
And now that Dante—not Marco, not even Valentina—has been sent to evaluate us, it means the Salvatores are shifting strategy.
Rafa wants me to flirt.
To soften the Salvatore prince, charm him into keeping our leash looser than the rest.
What he forgets is that men like Dante don't loosen leashes.
They like the pull.
They enjoy the choke.
So, I will not flirt.
I will offer efficiency and the illusion of invitation.
That is all.
What Dante chooses to make of it is his problem, not mine.
Time moves slowly in rooms like this.
Every tick of the clock is deliberate.
I review the dossiers again.
Our numbers are strong, cleaner than they have ever been, thanks to the systems I implemented after our last audit.
The customs records are reconciled, the port contacts paid.
There is no loose thread to tug—or so I tell myself.
I finish the espresso and set the cup down with a small, decisive clink.
The port stretches out beyond the window, cranes moving containers like chess pieces, the sea a dull, slate-green mirror that reflects nothing.
The elevator chimes once.
The door opens, and Dante Salvatore steps into the room.
He is in charcoal grey today, the suit fitted to the point of arrogance.
The fabric catches the light in all the ways men like him are born understanding.
His shirt is crisp, collar open, no tie.
His hair is still damp, as if he showered only moments before arriving, and there is a kind of glint in his eyes that speaks of mischief and violence held just barely in check.
He does not smile when he sees me, but he doesn’t look away either.
"Gianna," he says, in a tone that manages to be both greeting and provocation.
"Dante," I return, voice smooth, rising just enough from my seat to offer a nod, not a bow.
I don't extend my hand.
He does not offer his.
He walks to the table and sits, not across from me, but beside, just one seat over.
The room is large, but suddenly, it feels crowded with the shape of his attention.
He lifts the espresso pot, pours himself a cup, drinks it black.
"You're early," I say, watching the way his fingers curl around the porcelain.
"So are you. I thought that was my thing."
I allow a hint of amusement to curl at the edge of my lips, but I don't answer.
He leans back, one arm slung lazily over the chair beside him, posture loose, but eyes sharp.
"Let's begin," he says, setting the cup down without looking. "Show me what your family's survival is worth."
And there it is.
The opening shot. I smile, slowly and patiently, reaching for the tablet before me.
"Of course. Let's begin with the port manifests. The last quarter saw a fourteen percent increase in throughput, largely due to the rerouted shipments through the Palermitan corridor. Your team requested a leaner customs model. We delivered."
I tap the screen.
Charts light up.
I watch his eyes track them, flicker with interest.
Behind the lazy charm, he’s sharp—as sharp as his brother is cold.
Where Luca moves like a man who expects obedience, Dante moves like a man who already knows where you’ll break.
He doesn’t look at the numbers for long.
He looks at me.
"Tell me about the customs liaison," he says. "The one who replaced Murati."
"Ferro," I reply without pause. "You won’t find him in any official listing. He doesn’t take bribes, but his brother runs three warehouses outside Cagliari. We adjusted our shipments accordingly."
"And your cut?"
"Five percent markup. Clean and buried under freight adjustments."
He nods approvingly, before shifting in his chair, and I can feel his gaze drop like a stone.
His eyes trail from my face to my mouth, then down, to the crimson silk that hugs my waist, my thighs, my calves.
He does not apologize, nor look away.
"You wore that for the numbers?"
I don't blink.
"I wore it because I own it."
He hums once, low in his throat, and the silence that follows stretches between us like a thread pulled too tight.
Then, softly, he leans forward, his voice near my ear.
"Let’s hope I own this room by the time we’re done."
My stomach flips.
Not from nerves.
Not from fear.
From fury.
From the thrill of it.
He is playing with matches.
So am I.
I press my palms flat to the table, smile thin and practiced.
"You already do, don’t you? Isn’t that what this is about? Reminding us whose city this is?"
His hand brushes against mine.
Not a grab.
Just a suggestion.
He does not move it further, but he doesn’t move it away either.
I draw back just enough to look him full in the face.
His hand is still there, grazing mine, poised at the edge of something.
His palm is warm against the cool lacquer of the table, his thumb a breath from my skin, and the space between us charges with a friction I refuse to acknowledge.
"No," he murmurs. "This is about finding out what you’re worth, Gianna Rossi."
"I’m worth exactly what I say I am," I reply, voice low and sharp as a blade kept too long in the dark. "And if you think otherwise, feel free to put that in your report. I’m sure Luca would love to see a full cost-benefit analysis of who’s still keeping his southern corridor functional."
That gets a smile from him—faint, crooked, full of things I shouldn’t want.
He pushes back from the table slowly, standing to his full height.
The room shifts with him, not physically, but perceptibly.
The temperature doesn’t change, but my pulse does.
My mouth tastes of blood orange and espresso and something far more dangerous now.
He walks, not around the table, but behind it.
Behind me.
I don’t turn to look.
I hear the quiet tap of leather soles on marble, the faint catch of breath as he stops just at my back, so close I feel the heat of him pulse against my shoulder blades.
Still, I don't look.
"You always sit at the head of the table, don’t you?" he says, his voice pitched lower now. It’s a comment, not a question.
"I’ve earned the chair."
"I believe you. That’s what makes it so interesting."
I don’t answer.
My spine remains straight, posture perfect, even as every nerve in my body goes tight with awareness.
He’s circling me now.
He stops beside my chair and leans down, placing his hand flat beside mine on the table.
His mouth is near my ear again, but this time, he doesn’t speak.
He breathes.
Then, "If you earned the chair, show me how you hold it."
I turn my head slowly.
Our faces are so close now that I can count the gold flecks in his eyes, can see the slight indentation in his lower lip where he must have bitten it earlier out of boredom or pleasure.
His gaze drops again—not to my chest, but to my mouth, as though already plotting what to do with it.
"I’m not some coin to be weighed, Salvatore," I murmur, not moving away.
"No. You’re a weapon," he replies, his tone dark and amused. "And I like weapons that know they’re sharp."
The breath between us hums with heat.
He reaches down and runs two fingers along the length of my wrist, featherlight.
I know what this is.
Not seduction but power, drawn slow like a blade from its sheath, held between teeth instead of fists.
"Close the tablet," he says, still not touching me properly. "This meeting’s over."
It’d be well within my place to laugh and make a flimsy comment about how arrogant and presumptuous he is.
Instead, I close it.
Not out of surrender.
Out of curiosity.
He watches me do it, then extends a hand—not in command, but in invitation.
I place mine in it.
The moment our fingers lock, I feel everything I’ve tried not to feel since that night in the bar, since that first glance over the table, since he walked in and looked at me like a man who already knew how I tasted.
He pulls me gently to my feet, then turns and walks toward the inner office that juts out beyond the conference room, its glass door tinted just enough to blur what happens inside.
My heels click against the floor.
I follow without speaking.
The office is spare.
Just a desk, a leather couch, a marble-topped bar with crystal decanters.
No cameras.
No distractions.
The kind of room where business ends and appetites begin.
He closes the door behind us and locks it.
I don’t flinch.
Dante turns, slowly, and studies me for a long moment.
There is no hurry in his gaze, no nervousness.
Just intent.
"Do you want me to leave you alone, Gianna?" he asks, voice lower now, rougher around the edges.
"No."
He steps forward, closing the space between us with three long strides.
His hand comes up, brushing the curve of my waist, fingers tracing the slit in my dress where it parts along my thigh.
I feel the warmth of his palm even through the fabric, and it makes my skin tighten beneath it.
"Say it again."
"I said no."
His mouth catches mine without ceremony, without hesitation.
The kiss is not sweet.
It is possession, pressed against my lips with the force of a man who has waited exactly long enough and not a second more.
His hands are on my hips now, dragging me closer, until my thighs bump the desk and his body cages mine in place.
I part my lips, not for air, but for him, and he takes the invitation like it’s owed to him.
His tongue sweeps deep, tasting, teasing, then biting down on my lower lip hard enough to make my nails dig into his shoulders through his perfect, expensive suit.
He groans against my mouth, then yanks the slit of my dress higher, sliding a palm beneath it to find bare skin, bare thigh, and then further.
My breath catches.
His other hand knots in my hair, tipping my head back, exposing the line of my throat to his teeth.
He bites once, just below the jaw, not hard enough to leave a mark, but enough to make me want to offer him one in return.
"You don’t flirt," he whispers, dragging his mouth down my neck, licking the place where my pulse beats. "You don’t beg. You don’t play. That’s why I want to fuck you so badly I can’t think straight."
He hooks my leg around his hip, pressing his thigh between mine until the pressure drives a quiet gasp from my throat.
"And," I whisper, voice tight with want, "you think that wanting me is enough to have me."
"No," he says, one hand now at the small of my back, the other between my thighs. "I think the moment I touch you the way you want to be touched, you’ll stop pretending you don’t already belong right here."
He lifts me onto the edge of the desk in one smooth motion, dragging my hips forward until the heat of his breath is at the bare skin just above my panties.
And then he drops to his knees.