47.
The estate that hosted the mafia gathering wasn’t public. It didn’t have a listed address.
It existed in silence, down a private road lined in cypress trees and guarded by men who didn’t blink unless told to.
Dante's arrival was not announced. It was felt.
Three black cars rolled through the gates in formation—his car at the center, its obsidian frame polished neatly.
When the doors opened, guards stepped out first, weapons at their sides, coats tailored to hide violence.
And then him.
Dante exited slowly, like a man who had nowhere to hurry and no one to fear.
The cuffs of his shirt brushed his wrists with silver cufflinks shaped like serpent fangs.
He didn’t look around.
He didn’t need to.
The moment he stepped onto the marble walkway, the world adjusted itself.
Heads turned. Voices quieted. Every other boss in the courtyard straightened subtly. Not in fear.
In reverence.
At his side, Isolde followed.
Her lips painted wine, her hair was now pinned back to expose the line of her throat where the gold-and-obsidian necklace rested like a warning.
Inside, the ballroom gleamed under iron chandeliers.
Ancient portraits stared down from the walls like ghosts remembering better times.
Servers moved through the space with crystal flutes balanced on silver trays. Music played—slow, sensual, old-world.
Dante walked her through it like she was made of glass he dared the world to touch.
He did not hold her hand.
He kept one hand at the small of her back, guiding her, claiming her with the simplest contact.
When men greeted him, they did so with subtle bows or short nods.
“Valencourt.”
“Don Dante.”
He returned them all with a half-smile or nothing at all. Only when he reached the center of the room did he turn to Isolde fully.
“Stay here,” he said, his tone low. “Don’t move.”
She nodded.
Two of his guards took positions near her without a word.
He brushed a hand beneath her chin, tilting it just enough to meet her eyes.
“I’ll be gone 10 minutes. Not a second more.”
And then he walked away with Alex following behind.
His stride was precise. Each step measured.
He moved through the gathering like a wolf in tailored silk.
He spoke to other mafia lords in Italian, Spanish, clipped French.
Not one of them touched his shoulder. Not one of them turned their back while he spoke.
Meanwhile, Isolde sat on a cushioned bench.
Her legs crossed, the slit of her dress draping just enough to be suggestive without breaking his rules. Her fingers curled in her lap.
A waiter approached.
He didn’t speak.
He only offered her a flute of something pale pink. Sparkling.
She hesitated.
The guards were nearby, watching her. Everyone was watching her.
She took the glass.
A sip. Just a sip. She hadn’t realized it was real champagne. Not the soft kind. The kind that burned.
It hit her fast.
Three minutes passed. Her cheeks flushed. Her head felt light.
She laughed—once—soft and startled. Like she didn’t expect the sound.
She leaned forward to set the glass down. Missed the table by a few inches. Frowned.
“Oops,” she whispered.
One of the guards frowned, stepped closer.
“Ma’am?”
She blinked up at him.
“You’re so tall,” she said, voice hushed. “Are you always tall?”
He stiffened.
Another guest looked over.
No one laughed. No one dared.
But the air shifted. A few turned to see what the Valencourts wife was doing. None moved closer. None spoke.
A ripple of discomfort spread through the room.
The guard closest to her turned to his partner.
“Go..inform the Boss.”
But before he returned, Isolde stood.
Wobbled slightly.
The room swayed.
She blinked at the marble hallway leading away from the ballroom.
It looked quieter.
Safer.
She walked.
Unsteady steps. One hand grazing the wall. The other holding the necklace as if it anchored her to something real.
Behind her, whispers.
No one followed.
No one dared.
Because she was his.
And even drunk, she looked like a girl made of blood and silk who might set the whole room on fire if anyone so much as touched her.