Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Dante
The gates swing open as Marco approaches my ten feet of wrought iron with security cameras embedded in the stone pillars on either side. Two of my men nod as we pass—Ray and Tony, both armed, both trained to shoot first and ask questions never.
My estate sits on twelve acres in Alpine, New Jersey, where the neighbors include CEOs, old money, and people who know better than to ask questions.
The driveway curves through manicured gardens that cost thousands of dollars to maintain per month, past the fountain imported from Tuscany, toward the house itself.
Calling it a house feels inadequate. It's eight thousand square feet of limestone and glass, all clean lines and floor-to-ceiling windows that would be a security nightmare if I didn't have the best system money can buy. The kind of place that screams wealth without being gaudy about it.
I built this. Not inherited, not given—earned through deals and buried bodies and knowing exactly when to apply pressure and when to pull back.
My father's estate is twice the size, but his is tainted with scandal and failure.
Mine is clean. Well, as clean as mafia money can be.
Marco pulls up to the entrance where two more men flank the double doors. They straighten as I step out, their respect immediate and absolute. This is what power looks like—not speeches or titles, but men who would die on your word without question.
I glance back at the SUV. Bianca is still pressed against the window, eyes wide as she takes in the house. The grounds. The security. The sheer magnitude of wealth she's just stepped into.
My lips twitch.
Marco opens her door, and she climbs out slowly, like she's not sure the ground will hold her. Her dress has settled back into place—thank God—but I can still see it in my mind. Black lace. Completely see-through. The kind of underwear that doesn't match her modest schoolteacher persona at all.
The image is burned into my brain like a fucking brand.
I noticed the curve of her hips. The smooth expanse of thigh.
The way that tiny scrap of lace did absolutely nothing to hide what it was supposed to cover––pink, creamy, plump skin––and when she'd scrambled to pull her dress down, the flash of panic and embarrassment on her face did something to my self-control that I'm not ready to examine.
My throat is dry just thinking about it.
I head straight for the house, Marco trailing with Bianca. Inside, the foyer opens up two stories, all marble and modern lighting. Original artwork on the walls—a Rothko, a Basquiat and more.
Maria appears from the kitchen hallway, my housekeeper for the past five years. Mid-fifties, efficient, and smart enough to never ask about the blood I occasionally track in.
"Maria, this is Miss Mancini. She'll be staying here." I don't elaborate. Don't explain. "Make sure she's comfortable."
"Of course, Mr. Vitale." Maria's expression doesn't change, but I catch the curiosity in her eyes.
My phone buzzes. I pull it out, see the name, and feel my jaw tighten.
Pa.
Perfect timing. As always.
I turn to Bianca. "Maria will show you around. Don't leave the house."
"Where would I go?" She says flatly, all the fire from earlier dampened by exhaustion.
I almost smile. Almost.
Instead, I head toward my office, answering the call as I push through the heavy oak door. "What."
"Is that any way to greet your father?" Pa’s voice is smooth, cultured, the voice of a man who spent twenty years in the Senate before corruption charges ended his career. He never went to prison—I made sure of that—but the stain remains.
"It's the greeting you get when you interrupt my day." I close the door, move to the bar cart, and grab a bottle of water. My throat still feels like sandpaper, my mind still replaying lace and smooth skin and the way Bianca's breath hitched when I reached across her.
I drain half the bottle in one go.
"I wanted to discuss the Bellandi arrangement," Pa says, getting straight to it. He never was one for small talk.
"There is no arrangement." I grunt.
"Dante." The disappointment in his voice is thick enough to choke on. "We've been over this. The Bellandis are one of the most powerful families on the East Coast. An alliance with them—"
"Means nothing to me."
"It means everything!" His voice rises, and I can picture him in his study, pacing in front of the fireplace like he used to when I was a kid. "Do you know what kind of connections Massimo Bellandi has? The shipping routes, the political contacts, the—"
"I have my own connections." I drop into the chair behind my desk. "I’m Matteo’s capo, Pa, I don't need his."
"You need legitimacy. Respectability, after everything that happened with my career, this family needs—"
"Your scandal isn't my problem to fix."
Silence.
"Everything I did was for this family," he says finally. "For you."
"Everything you did was for yourself." I deadpan. "And Mom paid the price."
"Don't." The word cracks like a whip. "Don't you dare blame me for—"
"For what? For her drinking herself to death because she couldn't handle the shame you brought on our name?" I lean back, stare at the ceiling. "I was there when she died, Pa. Held her hand while she choked on her own vomit. Where were you?"
Another silence. Longer this time.
"The Bellandis expect an answer," he says, his voice carefully controlled now. "Caterina is a beautiful, intelligent woman from an impeccable family. She would be an asset—"
"She's a viper in Prada heels who sees me as a stepping stone to more power." I finish the water, toss the bottle toward the trash. It bounces off the rim but I don't care. "I'm not interested."
"Then what are you interested in? Running Matteo Romano's errands for the rest of your life?"
Only he can undermine my position like this.
"I'm interested in not being controlled by a man who destroyed his own reputation and now wants to rebuild it through his son's marriage." I snap. "I make my own decisions."
"Bad decisions, apparently. Do you have any idea what kind of scandal it would cause if you reject the Bellandis? Massimo is not a man who accepts insults lightly."
"Then maybe you shouldn't have promised him something I never agreed to."
I hear him exhale, long and slow. The same sound he used to make when I'd disappoint him as a child. When I'd choose to spend time in Matteo's neighborhood instead of at political fundraisers. When I'd refuse to smile and shake hands with men I knew were corrupt.
"You're making a mistake," he says quietly.
"Uh huh.”
"If you walk away from this, if you embarrass the Bellandis, there will be consequences. For you. For the family. A scandal could even erase you from your position as Matteo’s capo and you know this. You—"
"I'm not walking away from anything because I was never part of it.
" I pull out my second phone, open my calendar, and scan the next two weeks.
"And for your information, I already have a girlfriend.
Someone I'm serious about. I'll be introducing her to the family soon, so you can call Massimo his daughter will have to find another stepping stone. "
Another pause.
"A girlfriend."
"Yes."
"You've never mentioned anyone."
"Because it's none of your business."
"Everything about this family's reputation is my business, Dante.”
“I’m going to end the call now.”
"You'll regret this."
"I've regretted a lot of things in my life, Pa. Following your advice has never been one, because I stopped listening years ago."
"When do I meet her?" The question catches me off guard. "This… girlfriend of yours."
"When I'm ready."
"Dante—"
"Goodbye, Pa." I end the call before he can respond, toss the phone onto the desk.
My reflection stares back at me from the window. Same cold eyes. Same controlled expression. But underneath, there's a knot of tension that won't unwind.
I hate talking to him. Hate the way he makes me feel like I'm fifteen again, desperate for approval I'll never get. Hate that he can still get under my skin with mentions of Mom, of scandal, of reputation.
Most of all, I hate that he's right about one thing: rejecting the Bellandis will cause problems. Massimo doesn't take rejection well, and his daughter Caterina takes it even worse.
But that's a problem for tomorrow.
Today, I have a schoolteacher wandering my estate, wearing see-through lace under her modest dress, who just agreed to be my fake girlfriend.
I grab another bottle of water from the bar and drain it.
It doesn't help.