Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Dante
The study smells faintly of leather, whiskey, and the cedar logs burning low in the stone fireplace along the far wall. It’s a scent I’ve known most of my life—rooms where decisions are made, where men weigh loyalty against ambition and blood against business.
Tonight the air is heavier than usual.
I thought that things would get easier once Valentina was mine.
Now, with the car wreck and the fact the Russos attempted a rescue of her at the cathedral, things are even more complicated.
I stand behind the desk that once belonged to my older brother, Matteo. Fitting. Transferring it from the former underboss to the current one.
I adjust the cuff of my shirt before slipping on the charcoal jacket that matches the rest of the suit. The fabric settles cleanly across my shoulders, the weight familiar, grounding.
Meetings like this require a certain armor, even when the men walking through the door are the same ones who have stood beside me since we were barely old enough to hold a gun.
The thrum of helicopter blades had echoed across the property not long ago, the sound carrying through the Hill Country evening as Nico and Dario arrived from Houston. I’d watched the aircraft descend from the window for a moment before stepping away to prepare.
I greet them as they enter.
Hugs. Respect.
The mafia way.
My brother takes a seat, but Nico moved to a place near the window.
I pour everyone a Bonds whiskey from the decanter resting on the sideboard.
Also part of the ritual.
Two fingers each into the heavy crystal glasses that are arranged on a tray. The amber liquid catches the lamplight as I carry them across the room.
Nico accepts the glass from my hand with a quiet nod, the kind that carries more meaning than most men’s words. The amber whiskey catches the soft lamplight as he lifts it, the liquid turning slowly as he studies it for a moment before taking his first measured sip.
Dario is seated in the leather chair in front of my desk, one ankle resting casually across his opposite knee. The posture looks relaxed, but I’ve known him for too long to mistake it for anything resembling ease.
With a nod, he takes the drink. Then his dark eyes track me over the rim of his glass, thoughtful and sharp in the way they always are when something about a situation refuses to settle cleanly.
No one mentions the wedding.
There’s no reason to.
That part of the day is finished. Whatever anyone thinks of the circumstances is irrelevant. The marriage exists now. There’s nothing left to debate there.
What matters is everything that happened around it.
I settle back behind the desk, the leather of the chair creaking faintly beneath my weight, and take a slow drink from my glass before letting the whiskey rest on the blotter in front of me.
“What’s the temperature?” I ask Nico.
He knows exactly what I mean.
After exhaling slowly, he eases his shoulders back against the window frame where he’s taken up position.
Behind him, the night stretches dark and quiet across the property, broken only by the faint glow of security lights and the distant hum of insects rising from the vineyard rows.
“Hot,” he acknowledges finally.
That’s not surprising, even though I’d hoped today would end calmly.
Then he brings us up to date.
“I’ve spoken numerous times with their consigliere. Following protocol, Giovanni was rushed back to the airport.” Nico turns the glass slowly between his fingers as he speaks. “He was on a plane a few minutes later.”
I nod once.
That matches the information that filtered in earlier.
“They’re saying the wreck was us.”
“Why wouldn’t they?” Dario shrugs. “You have to admit, it looks bad.”
“The same way we believe they had something to do with Don’s death,” Nico adds.
The room goes still.
Not silent.
Still.
Because we all know exactly what he means.
Raffaele.
My father.
The memory settles in the center of the room like a shadow.
When he was murdered, the Russos swore up and down they had nothing to do with it. They insisted someone else had orchestrated the hit, that they had no interest in igniting a war that would cost both families blood and territory.
Matteo was willing to listen.
I was not.
Especially when they were muscling in on our territory. And especially not when Valentina showed up in downtown Houston like she owned the damn streets.
“Matteo is furious,” Dario adds.
And I don’t blame him.
This mess is squarely on me. Not just as underboss, but as the man who kidnapped the Russo girl, allowed the Russo convoy to be hit, and allowed the breach of the cathedral.
That he hasn’t taken me out yet says something about family ties.
I take a slow sip of whiskey, letting the burn settle low in my chest.
“What’s the latest from the Russos?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “They say they will take our reassurances under advisement.”
The same polite fiction we offered them after Raffaele died.
But then Nico adds something else.
“And they insist the man who showed up at the cathedral wasn’t theirs.”
The room stills again.
Dario leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees as he studies Nico.
“Bullshit.”
“Maybe,” Nico says calmly. “Maybe not.”
I take a slow drink of whiskey.
The warmth settles in my chest as I consider the morning again—the flash of steel in his hand, the stubborn fury when I blocked him from gaining access to my bride.
“He claimed he was Russo,” I say.
Dario nods.
Nico is more measured. “Anyone can claim anything.”
Dario glances between the two of us, impatience creeping into his expression. “So what are we saying here?”
The question hangs in the air between us.
Two incidents.
One morning.
A convoy crash on a Houston interchange.
A man attempting to take my future wife from me.
Which leaves only one possibility.
There’s something we’re missing.
Dario looks at me consideringly. “Who benefits?”
It’s the question that sits at the center of every problem worth solving. As our CFO, he believes everything relates back to money. The muscling of our territory, the assassination of our father. With power comes considerable wealth.
I lean back slightly in the chair, the leather cool against my shoulders as I stare at the faint reflections dancing in the whiskey glass on my desk.
“Who the fuck benefits?” He asks again.
While we’re occupied with the Russo and they’re fucking with us, someone else might be profiting.
Before I can answer, the door opens, and all three of us turn toward the sound.
Valentina steps inside.
Fuck me.
My wife is goddamn beautiful and fierce.
Gone is the soft dress she wore on the patio, the one that caught the breeze and made her look like something far more fragile than she actually is.
Now she’s dressed like a woman walking into a negotiation.
Black slacks cut cleanly along the length of her long legs. A silk blouse is tucked in neatly at her waist, and the fabric catches the lamplight as she moves.
She’s pulled out the pins from her updo, and now her hair falls in thick, dark waves over her shoulders.
The calm set of her posture tells me she didn’t wander in here by accident.
She’s not here as my wife.
She’s here as the powerful woman that she is.
A strategist.
For a moment no one says anything.
Then she crosses the room without hesitation and stops beside the chair opposite my desk, resting her hands lightly on the back of it as she studies the three of us in turn.
“If you’re discussing my family,” she says evenly, “I assume I should be part of the conversation.”
Dario’s mouth curves faintly.
Nico glances toward me.
Waiting.
I lift my glass and take another slow sip before answering.
“She stays.”
Neither man argues.
As matriarch, we knew and respect the fact that Gina was Raffaele’s sounding board.
As communications director, Bella has become instrumental in conveying our family’s messaging.
And no one is sure that Matteo would be as calm and competent as he is without Alessia at his side.
She provided the emotional stability he needed as he ascended to the position of don.
Now, without waiting for an invitation, the woman I married pulls out the chair and sits.
And just like that, the balance in the room shifts.
Because if the Russos truly believe we attacked Giovanni’s convoy this morning…
Then the woman sitting across from me may be the only bridge keeping tonight from turning into a war.