11. Dante
DANTE
I found myself attending an Omertá working meeting outside of Rome. It wasn’t the first time, and unfortunately, it wouldn’t be the last. It was just the way of running a criminal empire.
“They just had to call this meeting today,” I grumbled to my brother, Amon, as Cesar pulled up in front of the restaurant where Omertà meetings were usually held. A row of black SUVs was parked around the restaurant with several soldiers patrolling the street.
“Don’t they know kids are back home from school? And it’s fucking midnight,” I added, but really, the fact that Skye was less than five hundred miles away while I was stuck in Rome is what had me on edge.
“Thanksgiving means next to nothing to these Italians.” Amon chuckled, shaking his head. “And since when do you have an issue with late-night meetings?”
“Since I entered the middle-aged stage of my life.”
He scoffed. “You’re delusional if you think you’re middle-aged. You’re practically an old man.”
“Fuck you.”
Enrico Marchetti and Luca DiMauro were already here, and judging by their body language, they were in the midst of an argument. They stood outside Rosa Spinosa , the English translation being Thorned Rose , which was owned by the Marchettis.
“Those two will kill each other one day,” I said, reaching for the door handle.
“If they haven’t in the twenty years they’ve known each other, I’m not so sure,” Amon reasoned.
We slid out of the car, their eyes shifting to us, and whatever they were arguing about instantly ceased.
If I had to guess, I’d say the topic of contention was the arranged marriage of Luca’s firstborn to Enrico’s boy.
It was the one thing they saw eye to eye on, but it was often the source of heated discussions.
Even under the moonlight, I could see they were both dressed impeccably in dark suits, looking more like respectable businessmen than the heads of Italian criminal families.
Adjusting my cuffs, I followed my brother as we made our way over.
“Are we the last ones?” Amon asked.
“Yes, Sasha Nikolaev just arrived.”
I tensed at the mention and gritted, “This was supposed to be strictly Omertà business. The Nikolaevs aren’t part of the Omertà.”
“Illias Konstantin couldn’t make it, so Sasha came in his stead,” Luca drawled, the unspoken challenge clearly aimed at Enrico. Luca’s connections to the Nikolaevs dated back decades, before any arrangement with the Marchettis.
“No matter.” Enrico clicked his tongue with annoyance flaring in his eyes, clearly directed at Luca. “With the recent developments, it’s everyone’s business.”
Amon and I shared a look. He was referring to the organ trafficking that’d been plaguing the criminal world.
“Anything your side is aware of?” Enrico asked Amon, who headed Yakuza operations.
“We’re running into a similar problem.” Amon slid his hands into his pockets.
“We’ve located a warehouse where underground surgeries were performed, but as soon as we shut it down, ten more popped up on our radar.
The business is too lucrative and people are too greedy to turn down the opportunity. ”
I agreed, but despite the fact that we were sharing information and trying to get ahead of organ trafficking, we were constantly a step behind the masterminds running it.
Marco King’s bastard child was dead. We cut off one head of the snake, and two more popped up.
The truth was that we weren’t even sure who was involved.
“We need to send a message,” I stated matter-of-factly. “It shouldn’t be a venture anyone even considers aligning themselves with. If they witness us dismantling everyone touching that business, people will start dropping off. Risks have to outweigh the benefits.”
“Matteo Vitale attempted to establish a relationship with an FBI agent, but it seems the scrupulous fed has an agenda of his own,” Luca pointed out. “If we can’t find a way to join forces, the organ traffickers will continue to be a step ahead of us.”
“Let’s head inside,” Marchetti cut in. “And I shouldn’t need to remind either of you: weaponry doesn’t cross the threshold.”
I nodded and we disarmed at the entrance of the restaurant, securing our pieces in the vault kept exactly for this situation.
The restaurant had a Mediterranean feel—the walls were hand-painted with motifs of vineyards, Roman ruins and statues, and Sardinian beaches. The tinted bulletproof windows worked to keep the guise of elegance protected and made patrons like myself feel at ease among fellow criminals.
I nodded toward the men around the table, but it only took one look at Sasha Nikolaev for my blood pressure to spike. It was bad enough I’d have to look at his ugly face for Thanksgiving weekend, but he had to show up here too.
My Nix carried a baby for him and Branka, and it turned out to be her last healthy pregnancy.
She wanted to ensure peace between our families, and once Damien was born, we tried for another baby of our own.
It ended up being a stillborn. The doctor claimed abnormality and cautioned us against having any more children.
Despite his advice, my wife wanted to try for another baby, but I refused to risk her life.
The whole experience made me feel robbed by Sasha and the whole damned Nikolaev family. It was irrational; I knew that.
“Gentlemen,” Enrico greeted. “We’re ready to start.”
“About fucking time,” Sasha grumbled. “What kind of restaurant doesn’t at least put out a spread?”
I barely controlled the urge to strangle the blond Russian bastard.
“Dante, don’t start,” Amon muttered under his breath. I met my brother’s eyes, registering the warning they held. He’d always been the calmer, saner of the two of us.
We took our seats at the circular table, Marchetti opposite me and Amon on my left.
“Let’s get this over with. I want to be home before my family wakes up,” I started.
“We learned of five separate cases in Italy alone over the past week where a body was found with organs extracted,” Marchetti said.
“And even more in the States,” Sasha chimed in, causing me to grit my teeth.
I locked my eyes on him, picturing all the ways I could wipe that stupid smile off his face. If only it wouldn’t upset Skye. She thought of him as her second father. That’s right: he was second. I was first, and the most important.
“It’s happening globally,” Amon stated. “Spreading like a disease. The only reasonable assumption is that it’s run by several people. Other than that, we’re in the dark about any details regarding who, where, or why.”
“Probably our past haunting us,” Luca grumbled.
“Which is exactly why I propose we make certain alliances,” Enrico chimed in.
I frowned, something about his tone raising the hairs on the back of my neck. “What kind of alliances are we talking about?”
The silence stretched, the tension building, and I fucking thrived on it. Let it fucking explode .
“Marriage alliances between factions who align with our interests,” Enrico answered like it was the best idea he’d ever had. “Luca’s daughter was promised a while back, but it’s time we consider it for other daughters too. Like yours, Dante.”
I didn’t mind explosions, but for fuck’s sake… this one detonated in my face.
“Fuck no,” Sasha and I said, in agreement for the first time ever.
“I’m not marrying my daughter off,” I gritted.
“ Our daughter,” Sasha corrected, and the urge to kill him was back on.
Enrico released an exasperated sigh. “Enzo’s marriage to Penelope can kick it off.”
“No.” Luca’s one word cut through the air like a sharp blade. “She’s only twenty-one. Your boy is what… thirty-two, thirty-three? He’d had time to enjoy his youth and freedom. Penelope has barely started living.”
“And she had twenty-one years to get ready for this marriage,” Enrico reasoned, refusing to take the bait. Then the fucker dared to look at me. “And we can marry your daughter to Amadeo.”
My jaw clenched to the point of cracking. “Over. My. Dead. Body.”
“And mine,” Sasha hissed.
And here I thought it’d be Sasha who’d push me over the edge.
A clock ticked. Ice clinked in a glass. Windows fogged.
We were in Sasha’s St. Regis hotel suite in Rome, fuming and scheming on how to end Enrico’s ludicrous marriage proposition. The old man must have lost his goddamn mind.
I leaned back with one elbow on the armrest, watching Sasha Nikolaev and his nephew Nikola, who’d apparently accompanied him on this trip.
“Are Italians too cheap to serve snacks?” Nikola asked, his boots on the oak coffee table that had probably been around for hundreds of years. It’d be lucky to survive a night with these two idiots. “I made some popcorn if you want some…”
“Less worrying about the fucking popcorn and more about where you left your shirt, boy.” My lips curled in distaste. The boy had some serious beef with clothing. It was bad enough that he seemed to wear the suits all wrong, but for fuck’s sake, he could at least put a T-shirt on.
I didn’t need to be looking at the angry ink covering every inch of his skin.
“Forget Nikola’s shirt,” Sasha cut in, slamming his own feet on top of the coffee table and causing it to rattle. “We need to talk about killing Enrico, because he isn’t marrying off my… our Skye.”
I flicked a dark look at Amon, who was watching on with a self-satisfied smirk. Easy for him to be fucking amused, Marchetti didn’t dare put his kids on the marriage market. Yes, they were too young, but still… fuck this bullshit.
“What the fuck?” Nikola asked, straightening, although he didn’t look too surprised. “What marriage? And to Skye?”
“Calm down,” I gritted. “And I didn’t agree to Skye marrying Amadeo.”
“But Marchetti always gets what he wants.”
“Not today.”
“And we’re not killing Enrico,” Amon chimed in, pinning Sasha and Nikola with a look that said Rein it in . “We don’t need a war within the Omertà, so strike that out of your vocabulary.”
Sasha pulled a cigar out of somewhere and lit it up, filling the room with smoke.
“Well, fuck, I was looking forward to killing an Italian.” Nikola sighed as if truly troubled by the thought. “I’d start with shredding that stupid Italian suit he’s so keen on wearing.”
“Enough,” I barked. My gaze found Sasha’s through a haze of smoke. “If you must start a killing spree, locate those organ traffickers and focus on them. That will save Skye from this ludicrous marriage arrangement.”
Nikola let out a sardonic breath, shaking his head. “You all are too temperamental.”
My jaw clenched. That little fucking shit. Nobody was as temperamental as these two fuckers sitting opposite of me, and he dared put that trait on us—the Italians.
Sasha puffed on his cigar one last time before putting it out, his expression contemplative. “We’ll eliminate those bastards, but in the meantime, we need to come up with a faux marriage contract for Skye and ensure it’s dated before today.”
My eyebrows shot to my hairline. “Excuse me?”
“That way Enrico can forget about marrying Skye off to his son,” Sasha explained. “The faux marriage agreement would trump Marchetti’s idiotic suggestion.”
I rolled my eyes. “As if that would work.”
Enrico Marchetti wasn’t an idiot, and the fact we didn’t use that reasoning during our meeting would be a dead giveaway.
“Well, I could marry her,” Nikola deadpanned, his expression serious.
I didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely not.”
“No,” Sasha said, stabbing his cigar into the ashtray. “You ever say that again and I’ll blind you, nephew. Besides, you two are cousins.”
Not really, but I wasn’t going to point that out now. At this very moment, it worked to my benefit to emphasize their familial ties.
“And I’ll slice you up and throw you off my yacht,” I supplied, my gaze settling on Nikola. He wouldn’t be my choice if he was the last man on this earth. “She’ll never marry you.”
“Why not?” the little fucker dared to challenge. “Better me than that Amadeo Marchetti. He thinks himself to be a Casanova type, if you know what I mean.”
“My Skye won’t marry either one of you,” I gritted, reveling in the satisfaction of being able to deny him.
“Okay,” Nikola agreed, seemingly too calm and collected, and something about it bothered me. He was too much like his father at this very moment. “Then let’s plan on how to eliminate Enrico Marchetti.”
Ah, I spoke too fucking soon.
My phone buzzed, and the moment I read the message, I knew our plan was already doomed.
Enrico: Sending a courier with a contract. I’m expecting both of your signatures, or a declaration of war. Try to kill me, and your wives will hear of it.
That was a cheap fucking shot. Nix was best friends with Enrico’s wife, and he knew that she’d kill me right along with the Nikolaevs if she got wind of our scheming.
“Fucking Italian asshole,” Sasha hissed, and I lifted my eyes to meet his murderous expression as he scanned his phone screen.
“Watch it, I’m Italian,” I growled. “Although, I agree. He’s being an asshole.”
“Who? What? Why didn’t I get a text?” Nikola questioned, his eyes darting between us.
“Marchetti expects us to sign the marriage contract he’s sending over, and he’s using his wife’s friendship with Phoenix to ensure compliance,” Sasha explained. “Fucking tattletale.”
I pushed my hand through my hair, then typed a reply.
Me: Send it over and we’ll sign it.
My best bet was to keep delaying the wedding date until another solution presented itself.