Chapter 32
32
EMILIA
D ante’s closet was bigger than most apartments. All dark wood and glass, the kind of space designed for a man who didn’t just wear power—he curated it. Rows of tailored suits, polished shoes, and silk ties lined the walls like a museum exhibit on how to intimidate a room without saying a word.
I stood in front of the floor-length mirror in the corner of his bedroom, adjusting the neckline of my dress. It was black—of course. Sleek, backless, and just this side of indecent. The kind of dress that whispered elegance while threatening to start a war. I’d chosen it because I knew exactly how Dante would look at me in it.
And because I knew exactly how his family would.
He stepped out of the closet, still buttoning the cuffs of his crisp white shirt, his black slacks hugging his hips in a way that made my mouth go dry. He looked up, and for a moment, he just stared.
“Don’t wear anything irreplaceable,” he said, voice low, amused.
I arched a brow. “That a threat or a promise?”
He smirked, crossing the room in a few long strides. “Just a precaution. You know how Conti dinners go.”
“Blood, wine, and passive-aggressive toasts?”
“Something like that.”
He stopped in front of me, his gaze sweeping over my body in a way that made my skin burn. Then he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small red box.
Cartier.
My breath caught.
“For you, my princess,” he said simply, flipping the lid open to reveal a diamond necklace—delicate, brilliant, and unmistakably expensive. The kind of gift that said I own the world, and I want you to wear it.
I didn’t move.
He stepped behind me, brushing my hair over one shoulder, and fastened the necklace around my throat. His fingers were warm against my skin, his touch reverent. When he was done, he pressed a kiss to the back of my neck.
"Although, you're my Queen, Princess just does something to me."
I rolled my eyes as he chuckled.
“You look absolutely stunning,” he murmured.
I turned to face him, my hand brushing the front of his shirt. “You’re trying to distract me.”
“It’s working.”
I rolled my eyes, but the smile tugging at my lips betrayed me. He offered his arm, and I took it, letting him lead me out of the bedroom and down the hall.
The estate was already buzzing. Staff moved quietly through the space, setting up the last of the arrangements. The Conti estate might’ve been the official setting for family dinners, but tonight, Dante had insisted on hosting.
His house. His rules.
And everyone was coming.
Even my family.
The thought made my stomach twist.
We stepped into the main room, and I could already see the gathering storm. Rafe stood near the fireplace, drink in hand, his expression unreadable. Rafe and Luca were arguing over something that involved a lot of hand gestures and a bottle of whiskey.
And then there was my family.
My brothers stood near the bar, already halfway through their first drinks, their suits slightly wrinkled and their expressions wary.
Dante’s hand stayed at the small of my back as we moved through the room, greeting people, exchanging pleasantries that felt more like veiled threats. Everyone smiled. Everyone lied.
It was a mafia dinner, after all.
But beneath the surface, I could feel it—the tension. The anticipation. Like everyone was waiting for something to happen. Like we were all standing on the edge of a cliff, pretending we didn’t see the drop.
Dante leaned in close, his lips brushing my ear.
“Smile, wife,” he murmured. “We’re about to put on a show.”
I did.
Because I knew how to play the part.
And tonight, I was wearing diamonds. Cartier diamonds.
So I smiled. Or at least, I wore something that looked like one. A practiced curve of the lips, a softening of the eyes—just enough to pass. Just enough to make the room believe I was the perfect Conti wife, draped in diamonds and loyalty.
But beneath the surface, my nerves were a live wire.
Dante’s hand stayed firm at the small of my back, a silent tether as we moved through the room. He was calm, composed, every inch the don—his suit crisp, his jaw set, his dark eyes scanning the crowd like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.
And I was the bait.
Not that he’d ever say it out loud. But I knew. I could feel it in the way his body tensed when someone looked at me too long, in the way his fingers flexed against my spine when someone from my father’s side of the room drifted too close.
This wasn’t just a family dinner.
The room buzzed with artificial warmth—laughter that didn’t reach eyes, smiles sharp enough to cut glass. The table was set like a scene from a magazine: long and gleaming, candles flickering, wine already poured. But no one sat. Not yet.
Because everyone was waiting.
Waiting for the show.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Rafe said, stepping forward with a glass of wine in hand. His voice was smooth, practiced. “Before we sit, I’d like to thank our host for tonight’s gathering—Dante, for opening his home to all of us.”
A polite round of applause followed. Hollow. Obligatory.
Dante gave a nod, his hand tightening slightly on my waist. “Family is always welcome in my home,” he said, his voice calm, but laced with steel. “Even when they forget what that word means.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then a few chuckles.
But not from Rocco.
He stood near the far end of the room, a glass of red wine in one hand, his other tucked casually into the pocket of his tailored suit. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
He hadn’t looked at me yet.
And that told me everything I needed to know.
He knew.
He knew I remembered.
And he was waiting.
“Shall we sit?” Dante said, his voice light, but I felt the tension in his body. He was coiled tight beneath the surface, a storm waiting to break.
We took our seats—Dante at the head of the table, me to his right. His brothers flanked the opposite side, Luca already halfway through his wine. My brothers sat further down, their expressions wary. My mother was talking too much. My father was too quiet.
And Rocco?
Rocco sat directly across from me.
Of course he did.
I met his gaze, and for a moment, the room faded.
It was just him and me.
His smile was slow. Calculated. Like he was daring me to say something. Like he was waiting for me to flinch.
I didn’t.
I just raised my glass and took a sip.
He mirrored the motion.
Dinner was a blur of courses and conversation. I barely tasted the food. My appetite had vanished somewhere between the soup and the second glass of wine. Dante spoke little, but his presence was a constant force beside me—his hand resting on my thigh beneath the table, his thumb tracing slow, grounding circles against my skin.
It helped.
But not enough.
Because every time Rocco laughed, I wanted to scream.
Every time he offered a toast, I wanted to throw my glass.
And every time he looked at me, I wanted to reach across the table and claw the truth out of him.
But I didn’t.
Because this wasn’t my war.
Not yet.
“Dessert?” a server asked, leaning in with a tray of delicate pastries.
“No,” Dante said, his voice sharp. “But I think it’s time for something sweet.”
I looked at him.
“You’re safe.”
Dante’s voice was low, steady—so calm it made my skin crawl.
Because safety, in the Conti world, was never a promise. It was a performance. A loaded word dressed in silk and blood, whispered behind closed doors while the knives were being sharpened just out of sight.
We were sitting at the long mahogany dining table, surrounded by crystal chandeliers, polished silverware, and the kind of tension that made the air feel thick enough to choke on.
Dante’s hand rested lightly on my thigh beneath the table, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles against the silk of my dress. His other hand cradled a glass of Barolo, untouched.
I stared at the wine in my own glass, watching the crimson swirl like blood.
“You’re safe,” he said again, softer this time, and I turned to look at him.
His expression was unreadable. Calm. Cold. Beautiful in the way a blade was beautiful—sharp, gleaming, and meant to cut.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
Because I knew what was coming.
He’d told me earlier that day, in the quiet of our kitchen, his voice low and even as he buttered toast like he wasn’t planning a public execution.
“Tonight,” he’d said. “It ends tonight.”
And now, here we were.
The dining room was loud with conversation, laughter, and the clinking of glasses. Rafe sat at the head of the table, his expression as unreadable as ever. Luca was already on his second glass of wine, cracking jokes with Matteo, who didn’t smile, but didn’t stop him either. The rest of the family filled the seats—Contis by blood, marriage, or fear.
And then there was Rocco.
Across from me. Smiling. Laughing. Wearing a navy suit and a gold tie like he hadn’t stolen twenty million dollars and tried to pin it on me.
Like he wasn’t about to die.
I couldn’t look at him for too long. Every time I did, I felt my pulse spike, my stomach twist. Because I knew what he’d done. Because I remembered his face in my father’s office. Because I remembered the way he’d looked at me at the gala, like he was still in control.
But he wasn’t.
Not anymore.
Dante raised his glass.
The room quieted instantly, like a switch had been flipped. All eyes turned to him.
He stood slowly, his chair scraping back against the polished floor, the sound sharp and final.
“I’d like to make a toast,” he said, his voice smooth, almost lazy.
Everyone lifted their glasses.
“To family,” he began. “To loyalty. To blood.”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the room.
“And,” he added, his smile razor-sharp, “to executions.”
Laughter.
Actual laughter.
Like it was a joke.
Like he wasn’t dead serious.
I didn’t laugh.
I couldn’t.
Because I saw the way his eyes flicked to Rocco. Saw the way his fingers tightened around the stem of his glass. Saw the way the room shifted—just slightly—as the weight of his words settled in.
Rocco chuckled, shaking his head. “You always did have a dark sense of humor, Dante.”
Dante didn’t smile.
He set his glass down with a quiet clink and reached into the inside pocket of his jacket.
My breath caught.
He pulled out a folder.
Not a gun.
Not yet.
He opened it slowly, deliberately, and began to pass it down the table.
“Inside, you’ll find a detailed paper trail,” he said, his voice still calm. “Wire transfers. Shell companies. Off-shore accounts. All leading back to one man.”
The room was silent now.
Dead silent.
I watched as the folder made its way down the table, hands flipping through the pages, brows furrowing, expressions shifting from confusion to disbelief to fury.
Dante turned to Rocco.
“You’ve been shorting the family for years,” he said. “Skimming off the top. Laundering through Romanov’s network. And then, when you got greedy, you stole twenty million from me.”
Rocco’s smile faltered.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, too quickly.
Dante tilted his head. “You tried to frame my wife.”
All eyes turned to me.
I sat still, spine straight, hands folded in my lap. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t blink.
Rocco laughed. “This is insane. You really think I’d steal from you? From the family?”
“I don’t think,” Dante said, stepping around the table. “I know.”
He stopped behind Rocco’s chair.
“Dante,” Rocco said, his voice rising. “You’re making a mistake.”
“No,” Dante said. “You did.”
He pulled the gun from his waistband and pressed it to the back of Rocco’s head.
Gasps. Screams. Someone dropped a glass.
Rocco froze.
“Wait—” he started.
Dante pulled the trigger.
The sound was deafening.
Rocco slumped forward, face-first into his plate.
Blood splattered across the white tablecloth, staining the linen and the silverware and the untouched bread basket beside him.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
Dante set the gun down on the table, wiped his hands with a cloth napkin, and returned to his seat beside me.
He picked up his wine glass and took a slow sip.
I turned to him, my heart still pounding, my ears still ringing.
And then he picked up his fork and started eating like nothing had happened.
Like he hadn’t just executed his cousin in front of the entire family.
Like this was just another Sunday dinner.
And maybe, for the Contis, it was.
The silence after the shot was the kind that didn’t just settle—it sank. Into the walls. Into the bones. Into me.
Rocco’s body slumped across the pristine white tablecloth, his blood a slow, spreading stain that crept toward the silverware like it had somewhere to be. No one moved. No one breathed. The only sound was the faint clink of Dante’s fork against his plate as he calmly resumed his dinner like he hadn’t just executed his cousin in front of twenty people and a thousand years of family legacy.
And me?
I sat frozen beside him, my wine glass trembling slightly in my hand, the stem slick between my fingers. My heart thudded in my chest like it was trying to claw its way out, but my face—my face was still. Blank. Perfect.
“Well,” I said, my voice dry, “first time I’ve seen you kill someone without getting blood on my dress.”
He laughed, dark and low.
I stared at the blood inching toward the breadbasket and thought well, there goes the focaccia.
Dante didn’t look at me. He didn’t have to. His presence next to me was a wall of heat, of certainty, of power so absolute it made the air hard to breathe. He chewed slowly, deliberately, like this was just another course. Like Rocco’s death was a palate cleanser.
Across the table, Rafe finally moved, reaching for his wine glass with the same calm precision he used to sign death warrants. He took a sip, then set it down gently.
“Well,” he said, voice dry. “That was overdue.”
A few murmurs of agreement rippled through the room—quiet, cautious. No one dared raise their voice. No one dared look away from the body. Except for Luca, who reached across the table and plucked a cannoli off the dessert tray like nothing had happened.
“Shame,” he said, licking powdered sugar off his thumb. “I liked that tie.”
I let out a breath.
And then I laughed.
Quietly. Just once. A sharp, disbelieving sound that slipped past my lips before I could stop it.
Dante turned to me then, finally, his eyes dark and unreadable. “You okay?”
“Peachy,” I said, lifting my wine glass in a mock toast. “Nothing says family bonding like a little light homicide.”
He didn’t smile. But his hand found mine beneath the table, his fingers curling around mine, grounding me.
I squeezed back.
After dinner—if you could call it that—Dante ordered the staff to clear the room. No one argued. No one asked questions. The body was gone within minutes, the table reset like Rocco had never existed. The blood was wiped clean. The wine was refilled.
The family remained.
Because that’s what we did.
We stayed.
We endured.
We smiled.
I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room, staring out at the city below, the lights twinkling like stars fallen to earth. My reflection stared back at me—lips red, eyes sharp, diamond necklace glittering at my throat like a collar.
I looked like a queen.
But I felt like a weapon.
Behind me, I heard the soft click of shoes against marble. I didn’t turn.
He stepped closer, his hands sliding around my waist, pulling me back against his chest. His mouth brushed the shell of my ear.
“You were perfect tonight,” he murmured. “Poised. Unshaken. Mine.”
I tilted my head, letting it rest against his shoulder. “You killed your cousin.”
“He betrayed me,” he said simply. “He betrayed you.”
He didn’t flinch. “Would you rather I let him live?”
“No,” I said. “But I would’ve liked a warning.”
His eyes darkened. “You had one. I told you this would end tonight.”
I looked away, my gaze falling to the floor. “I didn’t think you meant it literally.”
He reached up, cupping my jaw, forcing me to meet his eyes. “I always mean it literally.”
I exhaled slowly, my body still humming with adrenaline and wine and something darker—something that felt like power and grief and satisfaction all tangled together.
“I’m not sure what scares me more,” I whispered. “That you did it. Or that I’m glad you did.”
He leaned in, his lips brushing mine. “You’re not scared of me, Emilia.”
“No,” I said. “I’m scared of what I’m becoming.”
He kissed me—slow, deep, and unapologetically possessive. Like he was reasserting his claim. Like he needed me to remember exactly who I belonged to.
And I didn’t stop him.
Because I already knew.
I was his.
Wholly.
Unquestionably.
And I couldn’t tell if that made me powerful… or just marked.
Maybe both.
Later, when the guests had gone and the house was quiet again, I found myself back in the kitchen, barefoot and in one of Dante’s shirts, the diamond necklace still hanging around my neck like a promise I hadn’t made.
I stood at the counter, staring at the fridge, debating whether it was too late for another glass of wine.
Behind me, I heard him enter.
I didn’t turn.
“You’re still awake,” he said.
“So are you.”
He crossed the room, his presence a slow-moving storm. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Guilt?” I asked, reaching for the wine.
He stepped behind me, his hands sliding around my waist. “Satisfaction.”
I poured the wine, took a sip, and leaned back against him. “You’re a monster.”
“I never claimed otherwise.”
I turned in his arms, looking up at him. “You’re also mine.”
He smiled, slow and dangerous. “Always.”
And then he kissed me again.
And I let him.
Because tonight, the war was over.
And I’d won.
Even if it didn’t feel like it yet.