Chapter 5
Dante
The drive doesn’t take long. The cars stop, and I exit, meeting Giovanni as he steps out of his own vehicle. We exchange a brief glance before walking side by side into the building. His irritation is barely masked by his typically unflappable demeanour. The sudden summons has cracked his composure, and I make a mental note of it. Every weakness is an opportunity.
An officer, clearly nervous but masking it poorly, greets us with a barely concealed flinch under Ricci’s sharp glare.
“Why did you call?”
Giovanni growls, his voice heavy with authority and laced with barely restrained anger.
The officer gestures for us to follow. We are led into a small, starkly lit room, the air taut with unspoken tension. Seated in a chair is a woman, her presence striking, almost magnetic, despite the austere surroundings.
“This woman killed one of Signor Dante’s men.”
The officer announces, the words slicing through the silence like a gunshot.
I remain silent, but my interest is piqued. My gaze sweeps over her, noting every detail. Her posture is unyielding, a subtle defiance radiating from her like a challenge. Long black hair frames her face, sleek and straight, a dark veil that accentuates her striking features. Her eyes, big, doe-like, a pale, unfeeling grey, lock onto something in the distance, unblinking and calculating. There’s a sharpness to her movements, a quiet confidence she wears effortlessly. She’s petite and slender, but there’s an undeniable strength in the way she holds herself.
Stunning, yes, but I don’t let that fucking affect me.
It never has.
I don’t allow women to mean more than fleeting distractions. They’re ephemeral, like smoke, and I’m too focused to let anything obscure my vision. I’ve never encountered a woman worth more than that. People like her are either assets or liabilities. I don’t care which. As Capo di Capi, I’ve learned one thing above all else, weakness, even in the form of desire, is a luxury I can’t afford.
“Interesting.”
I finally say, the word a slow drawl.
Ricci shifts beside me, his unease almost tangible. I let the moment stretch, feeding off the tension.
“She killed one of my men, you say?”
I ask, my voice even. My eyes remain on her.
The officer nods.
“Shot him. And the ID she was carrying? Fake. We’ve been digging, and it turns out her real last name is… Moretti.”
Ricci stiffens beside me, and I glance at him just in time to see his jaw tighten. The slight flicker of his surprise doesn’t escape me.
“Moretti?”
Ricci says, his voice low.
“As in the Chicago Mafia? Vincenzo Moretti’s family? Does she have any ties to them?”
The officer shrugs.
“We don’t know for sure. She refuses to talk.”
Before Ricci can press further, the woman’s voice cuts through the room, sharp and dry.
“I said I want a lawyer and a phone call. By law, I’m entitled to both.”
There’s venom in her tone, enough to make the officer bristle.
“You won’t get one.”
he snaps back.
She leans forward, her eyes flashing.
“Alright then. That’s fine. All my life, I’ve been defending myself. Don’t see why that should change now. And I don’t have anything to hide, so bring it on.”
I let out a low hum of amusement. She’s bold.
Bold is dangerous.
Bold is entertaining.
“Who was the man she killed?”
I ask, my voice is calm, but I make sure it carries. I don’t address her directly. Instead, I wait for the officer’s response, however my gaze is still fixed on her, unrelenting. The silence stretches.
Her eyes finally meet mine, and for the first time, she acknowledges me. Her gaze doesn’t waver, doesn’t shrink. That’s rare and intriguing.
The officer rifles through his papers.
“Marco DiStefano.”
“What exactly happened?”
I ask, my voice hard, my gaze still fixed on her, though my question is once again directed at the officer.
She lets out a cold, humourless laugh.
“The man attacked me. I defended myself. It was self-defence.”
Then her tone shifts, laced with something biting.
“I see what you’re doing, flexing your authority, pretending I’m invisible, like I’m just another pawn on your chessboard.”
That earns her a smirk. She’s just caught my attention, and she doesn’t even realize what a grave mistake that is. A woman like her, bold and defiant, doesn’t last long in my world unless she learns the rules, and quickly.
The officer scoffs.
“They all say the same.”
Her jaw tightens, her lips parting to hurl some sharp retort. But before she can, I cut in.
“Who are you? And what’s your reason for being in Italy?”
Her attention snaps back to me, storm-grey eyes ablaze with spite.
“That’s none of your concern.”
I step forward, each footfall echoing like a warning.
“Oh, but I assure you, it is. Answer the question, or I’ll be forced to extract the truth through other means. And I promise you, they won’t be nearly as civil as this conversation.”
Her lips curl, caught between a sneer and a challenge.
“I’m not afraid of you.”
A low, knowing chuckle rumbles from my chest.
“You should be.”
I let the silence stretch, before I continue.
“Do you truly believe you’re untouchable? You’re nothing more than an ember masquerading as a flame. Allow me to remind you just how powerless you really are.”
Ricci’s voice breaks through, accusatory.
“Why conceal your identity if you have nothing to hide?”
Her response is swift.
“I’m simply trying to live my life in peace, far from the chaos of the mafia. A name is just a formality. It neither defines me nor concerns you.”
I take another step forward, stalking my prey with intent. When I reach the woman, her name still unknown to me, in a swift motion, I draw my gun, pressing the cold barrel against her temple. My other hand grips her jaw firmly, forcing her head to turn until our gazes lock. The flicker of rebellion in those pale grey eyes falters, and tension rippling through her frame as I lean in, my lips brushing dangerously close to her ear.
“So, you do know about the mafia.”
My voice is a low murmur, a lethal whisper that coils between us like a threat.
“I’ll ask you once more, what is your connection to the Chicago Outfit?”
The heat of my breath grazes her skin, and I catch the slightest shift, the rigid defiance now laced with a flicker of unease. I smirk, savouring the control. To remind her exactly who holds the power here.
The fight in her posture falters, imperceptible to most, but not to me. I recognize the precise moment resignation creeps in, the instant she begins to understand the inevitability of this moment.
“Vincenzo Moretti is my grandfather.”
She spits, each word laced with venom.
“And Michael Moretti? My cousin.”
The revelation amuses me, a ripple of dark satisfaction threading through my thoughts.
“Hmm. So you are a mafia princess after all. And oh, how you’ve fallen.”
My smile sharpens, the kind that cuts, all teeth and quiet menace.
Her breath hitches, ever so slightly. But it’s the flicker in her eyes that holds my attention, insubordination.
Intriguing.
Before I can savour the moment, Ricci intervenes. I step back, my finger still tingling from the lingering charge of contact, then slide my gun back into its holster.
His mouth parts as if to speak, but something shifts when his gaze meets mine. Whatever words he had falter, swallowed by the unease stretching between us. His jaw tightens, his focus settling fully on me. “Leave.”
The command is clipped.
“What I have to ask next doesn’t concern you.”
A low chuckle escapes me, cold, devoid of amusement.
“Doesn’t concern me?”
I tilt my head, holding his stare, unflinching.
“She killed one of my men, Ricci. So I’d say that makes it very much my business.”
His gaze hardens, and his jaw tightens further.
“I’ll deal with her.”
He says, his voice edged with authority.
“You don’t need to worry about it. She’ll be handled.”
I take a slow, step forward, refusing to let his words sway me.
“That’s not how this works,”
I reply.
“If you think I’m going to walk away and pretend this didn’t occur, you don’t know me as well as you think you do.”
His posture stiffens, his eyes narrowing further.
“You’re on my soil, Salvatore. Don’t mistake that for permission to undermine me.”
“Undermine you?”
I smirk, letting the insult settle between us.
“If you think this is undermining, Ricci, then you’ve underestimated me. I don’t need permission to do what I want, no matter whose soil I’m standing on.”
Ricci straightens, the weight of his dominance pressing against the room.
“This conversation doesn’t require your presence.”
He repeats, the edge of command is unmistakable. “Get out.”
I don’t move. Instead, I take another slow step forward, my tone severe.
“I’m not going anywhere. If you think otherwise, you’re welcome to try and make me.”
The air between us crackles with tension, each word a gauntlet thrown down. For a moment, the room is heavy with unspoken threats, neither of us willing to back down.
Finally, Ricci exhales sharply, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Fine.”
he mutters, though his tone makes it clear he’s anything but pleased.
“But don’t push me, Salvatore. This isn’t your game to play.”
“You’re not the first man to warn me about that,”
I reply, a faint smirk curving my lips.
“Funny thing is, none of them could stop me either.”
Ricci’s glare burns into me, but he doesn’t reply. Instead, he turns back toward the woman in the room. His eyes narrow, scrutinizing her with renewed focus, suspicion darkening his features.
“So,”
he begins.
“If you’re Moretti’s niece, then that means…”
His gaze sharpens, the weight of realization settling behind his eyes.
“Carmela—she’s your mother, isn’t she?”
Her expression shifts instantly, her guard snapping into place like steel doors slamming shut.
“How do you know her?”
Ricci’s face remains impassive.
“Answer the question.”
He replies coolly, dismissing her demand without a second thought.
The woman doesn’t flinch. Instead, her chin lifts just slightly.
“No. You tell me.”
Her voice sharpens, cutting through the space between them.
“What’s your connection to her?”
For the briefest moment, something flickers in Giovanni’s eyes, a shadow of memory, perhaps, a ghost from the past. But just as quickly as it appears, it vanishes, locked away behind an unreadable mask.
“We crossed paths.”
He states.
“A long time ago.”
And then, as if struck by a realization, his gaze narrows, piercing, dissecting her with ruthless intensity.
“How old are you?”
Her eyes slit further, wariness settling into every taut line of her posture.
“Twenty-five.”
She replies cautious.
Ricci’s stare hardens, his mind clearly working behind those sharp eyes, pieces shifting into place at an unrelenting pace.
“Who is your father?”
His voice is adamant, slicing through the charged air.
“Is it someone in the family?”
She lets out a short, bitter laugh.
“Never met him. Nor do I intend to.”
Giovanni stares at her, his expression shifting from suspicion to something heavier. I don’t miss the way his hands clench slightly, the way his breathing slows. He’s piecing it together, and the realization is written all over his face.
“You don’t know his name?”
he presses, his voice quieter now.
“No.”
She snaps.
The tension in the room thickens, the air growing stifling. Ricci turns to me, his expression confirming what I already suspected. He looks at the officer and orders.
“I want a DNA test to be done this instant.”
Her scoff cuts through the silence like the crack of a whip.
“No. Even if you are my father, I have no interest in finding out. I don’t need answers. You abandoned me, so stay gone.”
A flicker of pain crosses Ricci’s eyes, brief, but undeniable.
“If you are truly my daughter, then understand this, I was never told you existed.”
She doesn’t soften. Not even a flicker.
“Well, if you have sex, there's always a risk. Next time, maybe wrap it up, or at least make sure you’re not leaving any surprises behind.”
A chuckle escapes me. She has a sharp tongue.
The sound draws both their attention, but I remain at ease, leaning back, my gaze settling on her with quiet amusement.
“This just keeps getting better. If this is indeed true,”
I say smoothly, letting the weight of my words stretch between us.
“then it appears you now have a daughter. And naturally, a marriage must follow.”
Ricci’s head snaps toward me, his gaze glacial.
“I’ve always known you were soulless, Salvatore,”
he says, his tone laced with quiet venom, each word precise, a blade honed to cut.
“No heart. No humanity. Nothing you value beyond your own power. But for once, read the damn room.”
His eyes narrow further, the disdain rolling off him in waves.
“You only see the advantages to be taken, the leverage to be gained. You’re incapable of anything else.”
A smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth, though it never quite reaches my eyes.
“Spare me the sanctimony,”
I say.
“You didn’t build your empire out of compassion, Ricci. You built it through dominance, because men feared your name, feared what you could do. So let’s not pretend morality had any place in your rise to power. You wouldn’t be where you are without the very ruthlessness you now condemn in me.”
The tension between us builds, thick and oppressive, until the woman in the room tears through it.
“I have no intention of subjecting myself to a DNA test.”
She snaps, her voice sharp and resolute, fire flashing in her eyes.
“And I’m definitely not marrying anyone. If you’re delusional enough to think otherwise, think again.”
I glance at her, a smirk tugging at my lips as I lean against the doorframe.
“We’ll see about that.”
I say smoothly, my tone as cutting as hers, but layered with amusement.
“I suggest you start shopping for a wedding dress.”
Her glare deepens, but I don’t give her the satisfaction of a response. Instead, I push off the frame, my gaze flicking to Giovanni as I turn to leave. He follows, the sound of our footsteps echoing through the corridor.
As we reach the door, Ricci’s voice cuts through the air behind me, laced with warning.
“If she is my daughter, the truth will reveal itself soon enough. And hear me well, Salvatore, if you so much as lay a hand on her, I will personally ensure your demise.”
I stop, turning just enough to glance at him over my shoulder, my smirk hardening.
“Careful how you speak, Ricci.”
I say coldly.
“It seems I’ve found a weakness. And let me fucking warn you, threaten me again, and you won’t be walking away. You’ll be carried out in a coffin.”
I don’t wait for a response. Turning, I stride off, the weight of my words lingering in the air long after I’m gone.
If that woman is truly Ricci’s daughter, the landscape just shifted in my favour.
She already carries the Moretti name, a blood tie to the Chicago Outfit. But if Ricci is her father, that means she’s also bound to Sicily, to the very heart of the old-world Mafia.
Chicago. Sicily. And, through marriage, the Camorra. A perfect storm. A consolidation of power that few could have anticipated, and even fewer could control.
Ricci will want to secure his claim, Moretti will move to strengthen his position, and I, I will be the one standing at the centre of it all.
Three empires intertwined. And I will dictate the terms.