Chapter 6
Emilia
T he numbers on my computer screen blurred together as I tried to focus on the quarterly reports. The office hummed with its usual Monday morning activity—keyboards clicking, phones ringing, hushed voices discussing deals—but my mind kept drifting back to the yacht. To hushed conversations about missing money, to the sharp crack of a gunshot, to dark eyes studying me over blood-stained crystal.
This was supposed to be my domain, the one part of the Ricci empire where I could pretend I had some semblance of control. Real estate holdings were my family’s cleanest business, the front-facing operation that kept up appearances. We owned everything from luxury high-rises to shopping centers, sprawling estates to discreet properties that never made it onto public records. I managed it all—leases, deals, acquisitions. On paper, I was the Ricci family’s golden child, the one who kept her hands clean.
In reality? I knew just how dirty our business could get.
The discrepancies I’d overheard on the yacht weren’t new. Properties going missing, money funneled through shell companies, invoices that didn’t match the actual work being done. It was all part of the game, but last night had made it clear just how far the stakes could go. Mario had bled out because of it. And Dante—Dante had pulled the trigger without hesitation.
"Miss Ricci?" My assistant’s voice made me jump. She stood hesitantly in the doorway, holding a stack of files. "The Anderson contract needs your signature."
"Right." I blinked at the papers she held out, trying to force my mind back to work. "Just leave them on my desk."
She hesitated, her grip tightening on the folder. "They’re time-sensitive..."
"I said leave them." The words came out sharper than intended, making her flinch.
"Of course," she muttered, quickly setting the papers down before scurrying away.
I sighed, pressing my fingers to my temples in an attempt to ward off the headache brewing behind my eyes. Sleep had been elusive last night, my dreams filled with gunshots and Dante’s dark, relentless gaze. The way he had wiped blood from my face with such calm precision, his hands lingering just long enough to make my skin prickle.
The conversation I’d overheard before Mario’s death replayed in my mind, fragments of words circling like vultures. Something about real estate holdings. Discrepancies in the books. Missing money.
Was it one of our properties?
I wasn’t naive enough to think all of our real estate dealings were legitimate. Some properties were just fronts, others used to launder money or store shipments that couldn’t go through the ports. I’d always told myself I wasn’t involved in that side of the business, that my job was clean. But last night had reminded me just how thin that line was.
The office door flew open with enough force to rattle the windows. I barely had time to look up before Dante filled the doorway like an approaching storm, his usual elegant composure replaced by barely contained fury.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
"Dante," I said carefully, setting my coffee cup down as I straightened in my chair. My pulse quickened, though whether it was from fear or something else, I couldn’t say. "To what do I owe the pleasure? "
His gaze swept the room, taking in the sleek modern furniture, the wall of glass overlooking the city, the meticulously organized files on my desk. Then his eyes locked onto mine, sharp and unrelenting.
"Your office is nice," he said, his tone deceptively calm. "Quiet. Private."
I frowned, my hands tightening slightly on the edge of my desk. "Is there something you need?"
He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him with a soft click that felt far more ominous than it should have. The noise in the office beyond faded, leaving us in tense, suffocating silence.
"Where's your father?" His voice was deceptively soft, at odds with the tension radiating from his body.
I straightened in my chair, grateful for the desk between us. "Good morning to you too."
His eyes narrowed dangerously. "I'm not in the mood for games, princess. Where is he?"
"Out." I forced myself to hold his gaze. "Business meeting downtown."
"Call him."
"Excuse me?"
Dante stalked forward, bracing his hands on my desk and leaning down until we were eye-level. "Call. Him. Now."
I lifted my chin. "No."
Something dangerous flashed in his eyes. "No?"
"No." I was probably pushing my luck, but yesterday's events had left me feeling reckless. "Not until you tell me what this is about."
His laugh was sharp, devoid of humor. “You want to know what this is about? Ask your father about the books. About why twenty million dollars has vanished into thin air.”
The amount made my breath catch. Twenty million. I didn’t know if it was shock or curiosity that made me press further. “Is that why you killed Mario? Over money?”
Dante straightened, adjusting his cuffs with deliberate precision. “The money was just the spark. The real issue was respect.”
“And killing him was the solution?”
His gaze locked on mine, sharp and unrelenting. “Killing him was the message.”
His words landed like a weight between us, and I pushed back my chair, standing to meet him on more equal ground. “The mafia is supposed to be about loyalty,” I said, crossing my arms to steady myself.
“Loyalty?” His tone was almost mocking as he stepped around the desk with slow, deliberate movements. “The mafia is about power, princess. Everything else—loyalty, family, respect—is just a fairy tale we tell ourselves to feel noble.”
I took a step back, instinctively creating space as he advanced, but my pulse quickened with each step he took. “So what? You kill anyone who messes up?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.
“Anyone who betrays me,” he corrected, his tone low and steady, his control unnerving. “Loyalty is earned and maintained. Mario forgot that.”
I swallowed hard, my back hitting the cool glass of the window. “Is that what yesterday was? A reminder?”
His eyes darkened, and for a moment, I swore I saw something more than anger in them—something unreadable. “It was justice,” he said finally, his voice as cold and unyielding as steel.
“For who?” I countered, refusing to back down despite the way his presence seemed to steal the air from the room.
“For me.” His voice softened, but it lost none of its edge. “And for your father. Whether he likes to admit it or not.”
My chest tightened at the implication, but I didn’t let it show. “And what about the twenty million?” I asked, keeping my voice steady.
Dante tilted his head slightly, studying me. His hand came up again, brushing a strand of hair from my face, the gesture so deliberate it felt like a warning. “The money can be replaced. Trust cannot.”
My breath hitched as his fingers lingered near my temple, his touch infuriatingly gentle. I should have moved away, but I couldn’t. The air between us felt heavy, charged, as if the room itself was holding its breath.
“There’s always a cost, Emilia,” he said, his voice soft but laced with steel. “The question is whether you’re willing to pay it.”
I swallowed hard, my pulse roaring in my ears. “And what about you?” I asked, the words escaping before I could stop them. “What’s your price?”
His lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile, more like a shadow of amusement laced with warning. “You couldn’t afford it.”
His thumb brushed my lower lip, making my breath hitch. "Tell your father I'll be by the house later. We need to discuss some...discrepancies."
"What if he's not there?"
"He will be." Dante stepped back, breaking the spell of his proximity. "And Emilia?"
"What?"
"Wear something that isn't white. Just in case."
The threat should have chilled me, but all I felt was heat curling low in my stomach. I watched him stride out of my office, his usual grace restored now that he'd delivered his message.
Only when the door closed behind him did my breathing calm. My reflection in the window looked flushed, lips slightly parted where his thumb had touched them. I sent my father a text letting him know Dante had been by.
What the hell was wrong with me? The man was a killer, and clearly involved in something dangerous enough to warrant execution. I should be running in the opposite direction, not wondering what his hands would feel like on other parts of my body.
My phone buzzed – a text from my father asking about Dante's visit. I stared at the screen, thinking about missing millions and bloody sunsets and the way Dante's eyes had darkened when I'd challenged him.
"Just business," I typed back, the lie sitting heavy in my stomach. Because whatever was happening between Dante and me, it felt like anything but business.