19. Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Seventeen
Dante
Rome has always felt like a wounded beast. Ancient and predatory. Vicious and sacred.
The presidential suite at Hotel Raffaello provides the perfect vantage point. Francesca stands at the window, her fingers pressed against the glass as she takes in the Eternal City's nocturnal glow.
She's wearing a simple black robe, hair damp from the shower, skin still flushed from the brutal fucking I subjected her to mere moments after our arrival.
My woman is getting so smart, so intricately weaved into my world that I needed to claim her again. To remind us both precisely who wields the power between us.
"When are you meeting Nico?" she asks, not turning from the stunning view outside.
I adjust my cufflinks, straightening my black dress shirt. "One hour. A private room at Diavolo's ."
"And I'm still not invited," she says, a statement rather than a question.
She knows the answer already, but tests the boundary anyway. Like she always has. It's what makes her mine… this constant challenge, this refusal to bow completely even after she submitted to her knees an hour ago, her mouth working my cock as I spanked her perfect ass red raw.
"You stay here," I confirm, crossing to stand behind her. My hands find her waist, soothing over the curve that I might have been a little too rough with. "Marco has organized for us to be behind locked doors. With security positioned at every access point."
She leans back against me, the silk robe doing nothing to disguise the irresistible curves she hides beneath. "I could help you assess him, you know. I'm good at reading people."
"You're good at many things," I murmur against her neck, teeth grazing her skin. "But this is Ravelli business."
Her spine stiffens. "As your partner—"
"As my queen," I correct her, spinning her to face me. "Your task is to remain safe. To be here when I return." My fingers tangle in her hair, pulling her head back to expose her throat. "Is that understood?"
The fire in her eyes tells me she's not satisfied. But she nods, a single sharp movement. "Fine."
My lips curve into a smile that makes her pulse quicken beneath my fingertips. "Good girl."
She pushes against my chest, creating distance between us. "Just be careful, Dante. Nico may be your brother, but blood hasn't exactly proven reliable in your family history."
The truth of her words stings more than I care to admit, but I kiss her goodbye, and pile into the car waiting for me.
Diavolo's Cigar Lounge sits beneath street level in Rome's financial district, accessible only through a nondescript door and a long descent down red-carpeted stairs.
The air is thick with expensive smoke and even more expensive perfume, the lighting deliberately dim to obscure the identities of its exclusive clientele.
I pass the main floor where Italian politicians mingle with crime lords, where judges share drinks with the very men they'll pretend to prosecute tomorrow.
This is a world where power is the only currency that matters.
And every fucker here possesses it in abundance.
Marco flanks me, his presence a silent warning to anyone who might consider approaching. The manager, a former Mafia enforcer with a scarred face and perfect discretion, leads us through velvet curtains to the VIP section without a word.
The private room is exactly the decadence I expected.
Dark wood paneling absorbs the low light, creating shadows where secrets can be spoken but never shared beyond them. Leather couches line the walls, occupied by barely dressed women whose beauty is exceeded only by their interesting choice of music.
Through the haze of cigar smoke, my gaze catches on the dancers.
Their bodies twist in slow, hypnotic movements that remind me of Francesca beneath me. One particularly striking brunette arches her back against a pole, her black lace barely containing breasts that would tempt lesser men.
But I've tasted better.
The music pulses low, matching the rhythm of blood in my veins. Another dancer, all pale skin and red lips, slides to her knees before a businessman who doesn't deserve her attention.
The dancers continue their performance, a symphony of flesh and shadow. A raven-haired beauty approaches, her eyes promising pleasures I know she can't deliver.
"Hey… can I keep you company?"
"No." My voice rips a fucking hole through her practiced smile.
She retreats quickly, recognizing the danger in my tone. These women are masters of fantasy, and in the center of it all, sits my youngest brother.
Nico sits at a circular table, tumbler of scotch in hand, cigar smoldering in a crystal ashtray beside him. Unlike Luca and me, he's always been leaner, more refined. The diplomacy to our brutality, Vito would say.
Two women drape themselves across his shoulders, their skin gleaming in the dim light, their fingers trailing lazily through his dark hair. He dismisses them with a gesture as I approach, their near-naked forms sliding away with grace that tells me they'll be back.
"Dante." He stands, drink still in hand. "Thank you for coming."
I don't embrace him. Don't offer the expected brotherly greeting. Instead, I scan the room, taking note of exits, of potential threats, of the dancer in the corner whose attention seems a fraction too interested.
"I couldn't ignore your request, Nico. Your message sounded urgent," I reply, taking the seat across from him.
At the side of the room, Marco positions himself near the entrance, his back to the wall, gaze monitoring both my brother and the rest of the room.
Nico signals to one of his girls for another glass, and they pour me two fingers of scotch from a nearby bottle of whiskey.
My brother leans back in his chair, and huffs a heavy breath. "Look, Dante, I'll be direct. Things are changing in London. Rapidly."
I accept the drink, but don't lift it to my lips. "Such as?"
He exhales a stream of smoke, the scent of Cuban tobacco mingling with perfume and whiskey. "Come on, you're a smart man. It's clear the Volkovs are playing both sides, brother."
I take a slow sip of the scotch, letting the burn coat my throat while I consider Nico's words.
The Volkovs. The way my accounts suddenly froze after years of careful building.
The timing of it all - right when I was gaining ground against Luca and preparing to strike.
But the Volkovs gave me Francesca. Or at the least, helped me acquire her. Why do that if they planned to betray me?
My jaw clenches as I remember the last report from my financial team back in London. Thirty million in assets, locked. Secret trading accounts suspended. Even my backup reserves in Switzerland are fucked.
Unless...unless she was meant to be a distraction. Keep me focused on breaking her while they dismantled everything I'd built.
The thought makes my hand tighten around the glass. Maybe I've been watching the wrong pieces on the board.
"The Volkovs have always played both sides," I say carefully, keeping my voice neutral. "It's how they've survived this long. I have agreements with Dimitri and Demyan. Arrangements sealed in blood and verified by actions."
I won't give Nico the satisfaction of knowing how deep their potential betrayal cuts. I won't let him see that I'm scrambling to hold my empire together while they systematically strip away my resources.
Nico takes another drag of his cigar, those carefully watchful eyes studying my face. He's fishing for information, trying to gauge how much I know. How desperate I might be.
"Like your arrangement for the Castellano girl?" Nico raises an eyebrow, his tone deliberately casual. "That pretty little thing you've been keeping at Elena's villa?"
My fingers tighten around the glass. "Watch yourself, Nico. Some topics remain off-limits."
He holds up a hand in mock surrender. "No offense intended. She's a beautiful acquisition. But my point stands. The Volkovs facilitated that transaction because it served their immediate purposes. Not out of loyalty to you."
"They've upheld their end of our agreements," I counter.
Nico leans forward, lowering his voice despite the music covering our conversation. "Dante, wake up. They're meeting with Luca twice weekly now. Dimitri personally. And they've begun moving shipments through his northern corridors instead of your southern routes."
The information collides with my reality.
"You have proof?" I demand, already assessing the implications if true.
Nico slides a phone across the table, screen unlocked and open to a series of images. Grainy surveillance photos show Dimitri Volkov entering the Ravelli mansion in London. Timestamp: three days ago.
"There's more," Nico continues as I swipe through the damning evidence. "Bianca's pregnancy... there are complications."
I look up sharply. "What kind?"
"The kind that have Luca leaving important meetings to rush her to specialists. The kind that have him distracted. Vulnerable." Nico takes another drag from his cigar, blowing smoke rings toward the ceiling. "And yet, paradoxically, he's more dangerous than ever."
One of the dancers approaches, her sequined outfit leaving nothing to imagination as she slides onto the leather beside Nico. He absently places a hand on her thigh, but his eyes remain locked with mine.
"Explain exactly how he's more dangerous," I demand.
"Bianca has changed him," Nico says with a simple lift of his shoulders. "Their relationship, this child... it's given him something beyond the throne to fight for. Something personal. Transformation through love. It sounds like sentimental nonsense, but I've seen it firsthand."
I dismiss his romantic notions with a wave. "It's weakness, that's what it is."
"That's what I thought too," Nico admits, fingers sliding on the dancer's bare skin. "But it's not that simple. Having something to protect, someone to fight for... it's made him both more vulnerable and more formidable. More willing to cross lines even our father would have hesitated at."