Chapter 19
Dante
Outside the estate is bathed in a golden hue as the sun sinks lower. I nod to my men, and without a word, one moves ahead, pulling open the car door. I slide inside, the door shutting behind me with a finality that mirrors my mood. The drive is short, but my patience is already stretched to its limit. Before I know it, the car slows, pulling up in front of Il Vero, an exclusive club that operates as neutral ground for our business. A place where deals are made, alliances tested, and, sometimes, bodies disappear.
Mario is already there, leaning against his car, a cigarette between his fingers. Smoke curls in the air as he watches me step out, flicking the ashes onto the pavement.
“Took your time.”
He says, exhaling.
I glance at him as I shut the door.
“You just like being early.”
He smirks, tapping his cigarette once before taking another drag.
“Or maybe I just enjoy the silence before the bullshit starts.”
I say nothing as I adjust my cuffs and head toward the entrance. Mario falls into step beside me, discarding his cigarette before pushing open the heavy doors. Inside, smoke lingers in the air, thick and heavy, mixing with the scent of aged whiskey. The dim lighting in the private room casts long shadows across the polished table. The men seated around it fall silent as I step in, their conversations dying mid-sentence.
Vito, head of the Carbone family, is the first to speak. He’s the oldest at this table, in his fifties, with years of blood and business behind him. Traditional. Calculated. More interested in power than loyalty.
“We have a problem.”
His voice is low.
“The last shipment from Calabria was seized. We’re talking millions in losses.”
I take a seat at the head of the table, my fingers tapping once against the wood. “And?”
His brows pull together.
“And? What do you mean, and? We need a new route—”
“Or we take back what’s ours.”
Adriano Esposito, the youngest at the table, barely into his thirties, cuts in. He’s reckless. Impulsive. The kind of man who would rather start a fire than put one out.
“Allowing them to believe they can encroach on our ports would be a grave mistake.”
One of the Albania’s most ruthless mafia syndicate, have been a relentless problem, their greed and arrogance growing with each passing day.
I exhale slowly, unfazed.
“They’re probing for weaknesses. If it’s war they want, war is what they’ll get. But reckless action costs more than shipments.”
A slow chuckle pulls my attention to Lorenzo Gallo, another one of my Capos. He tips his glass lazily, swirling the amber liquid inside, the ice clinking against the crystal.
“Speaking of limits…”
His voice drips with amusement, each word drawn out like a man who enjoys hearing himself speak.
“That Moretti woman of yours, she was quite the sight at the wedding.”
He leans back, eyes glinting with something I don’t like.
“I can see why you rushed to put a ring on her. A woman like that? I bet she’s—”
The gun is in my hand before he finishes. I fire a single shot into the wall behind his head. The room goes silent. Lorenzo doesn’t move. His smirk vanished.
I set the gun down with meticulous ease, letting the silence stretch, the weight of inevitability settle over the room. My voice drops.
“Next time, it won’t be the wall. It’ll be your fucking skull split open across this table.”
I tilt my head, eyes cold.
“This is getting fucking tedious.”
My fingers tap once against the wood.
“And it’s Mrs. Salvatore to you. Show some damn respect, or I’ll carve the lesson into your fucking bones.”
I sweep my gaze across the table, meeting each set of eyes in turn, ensuring they understand exactly where they stand.
“You all seem to be forgetting something.”
My voice remains low, each word edged with warning.
“I am not your equal. I am not someone you joke with.”
My gaze lingers, cold and absolute.
“You owe me everything you have. Your businesses. Your power. Your lives.”
Mario remains still beside me, watching.
Lorenzo exhales, slow and careful, his jaw tight, the muscles ticking beneath his skin, hate evident in his eyes.
“I meant no disrespect, Don Salvatore.”
“Good.”
My voice is calm.
“Because if you ever speak about my wife, I’ll put you in the ground.”
Riccardo, Boss of Russo family, leans back in his chair, fingers tapping against his glass, a slow smirk playing at his lips.
“Now that we’re done with the theatrics, shall we redirect conversation back to business?”
I gesture for him to continue.
“The smaller crews are restless,”
he says.
“They don’t like how you’re running things. They think you’re getting too... soft.”
Mario snorts beside me. “Soft?”
Adriano shifts in his seat, arms crossed.
“They don’t like the Sicilian ties. Some of the old guard think you’re too close to the Riccis.”
I smile, slow and sinister.
“Then they’re welcome to voice their concerns, to me.”
Silence. I let it linger, before leaning forward, my voice dropping to something far more dangerous.
“This marriage isn’t a burden. It’s leverage. It fortifies us, consolidates power. Anyone too blind to see that, too fucking shortsighted to understand it, is a liability.”
Vito Carbone studies me with measured scrutiny before offering a single nod.
“Your wife is of no concern to me. Business is. If this alliance fortifies our position, I have no objections. But if it weakens us, if it so much as fractures the foundation we’ve built, you know what must be done.”
My gaze holds his, unwavering.
“Do you think I don’t?”
He doesn’t press further, so I continue.
“From now on, all shipments go through Porto Belladonna. The Riccis control it, which means I control it. Calabria is too hot at the moment.”
I pause, letting the weight of my words settle.
“Handle it.”
Mario inclines his head in silent acknowledgment.
I shift my attention to Adriano. He’s been itching to say something, and when our eyes meet, he doesn’t hold back.
“The Albanians aren’t going to ignore this,”
he says, leaning in his chair, arms crossed.
“They stole from us, millions gone because they thought they could push into our business. If we don’t hit back, they’ll see it as weakness.”
I smile darkly.
“Then let’s make sure they fucking regret it.”
My statement is met with silence, the weight of unspoken doubts.
Carbone is the first to voice it.
“Retaliation means war. There’s no way around it. Are we ready for that?”
His tone is careful, the meaning clear. This isn’t just about taking back what’s ours, it’s about escalation.
Russo doesn’t speak right away. He sits back, one arm draped over the chair, fingers idly tracing the rim of his glass. There’s always an air of detachment about him, as if he’s weighing every possible outcome before making a move. He doesn’t speak to fill silence, when he does, it matters.
Finally, he exhales, tapping his glass once against the table.
“We all know what happens if we move too soon.”
His tone is even.
“The Albanians don’t play by the same rules as us. They don’t care about structure, honour, or negotiations. They came for our money, now they’ll come for blood. We take the port, we force their hand. And when they strike back, it won’t be a question of if we’re at war, it’ll be how far we’re willing to go to finish it.”
Gallo lifts his glass, amusement flickering in his eyes.
“That’s assuming they even get the chance to retaliate.”
He takes a slow sip, his meaning clear, strike hard enough, and there won’t be anyone left to fight back.
Adriano scoffs.
“So what? We roll over? Let them dictate how we do business?”
His voice is sharp, reckless.
Riccardo gives a half-smirk, but there’s no humour behind it.
“The question isn’t whether we hit them, it’s how. If we move too soon, we give them a reason to unite against us. But if we make them bleed the right way? We control the entire chessboard.”
I lean forward, my voice dropping.
“They made their move. Now we make ours. We take the port they rely on, we make it ours, and we remind them who holds the power in this country.”
My gaze sweeps across the room.
“Let them retaliate, so I can dismantle them piece by piece, until their empire is nothing but dust beneath my feet.”
Carbone exhales slowly, the weight of the conversation settling over him like a decision he already knows is inevitable. Across the table, Riccardo’s gaze sharpens, assessing, not just the risks but the advantage. Gallo swirls his drink, watching the way the light catches the amber liquid, his expression betraying nothing but quiet amusement, as if he’s already anticipating how this will unfold. Esposito leans back, fingers drumming against the table, restless but silent, the tension coiling in his stance. They may have their doubts, but they know the truth, I never move without certainty.
I push back my chair, the legs scraping against the polished floor, the sound cutting through the heavy silence.
“This meeting is over. You all know what needs to be done. If anyone has second thoughts, speak now, or don’t speak at all.”
My gaze sweeps across the room, cold and expectant. No one says a word. I straighten my suit, adjust my cuffs, and turn for the door. Mario follows, but my mind is already elsewhere. The weight of the meeting lingers, but it’s nothing compared to the thought creeping in, the one I can’t shake no matter how much I try. My wife. I clench my jaw, pushing the thought back, but it’s fucking useless. I reach for my phone, ready to pull up the surveillance feed, just to catch a glimpse of her, to know she’s there.
But I stop myself.
I need to fucking fight this. Not play into my obsession more.
By the time I step inside, the house is quiet, dimly lit with the kind of stillness that settles late into the evening.
I loosen my tie slightly as Bianca steps into view.
“Has Mattia dined yet?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
“They’re having a late supper this evening. Mrs. Salvatore woke not too long ago, and they’re still enjoying their dessert in the garden.”
I nod and head towards them.
The closer I get, the sharper my focus becomes. The murmured conversation, the faint sound of laughter, it all weaves into the stillness of the night, grounding me in a way I didn’t anticipate.
As I approach, my steps slow. The table is elegantly set, bathed in the soft glow of the garden lights, their golden hue casting long, delicate shadows across the stone pathway. A picture of quiet serenity.
And there, seated with Mattia, laughing softly at something he said is Harlow.
My chest seizes, a slow, insidious pull I can’t ignore. Watching them like this, so at ease, so untouched by the world beyond these walls, stirs something deep, something primal. A need to protect them. To preserve this fragile peace at any cost.
This isn’t what I wanted and it’s not what I planned.
And yet, standing here, watching them, the weight in my ribs settles, an emotion I can’t place.
But I feel it.
And I struggle to make sense of it.
Mario comes up behind me, so quiet I barely register his presence, a mistake in my fucking world. I exhale, forcing myself to focus just as he mutters.
“I’ll catch you later.”
I glance at him, my mind still half elsewhere.
“Aren’t you staying for dinner?”
Mario smirks, shaking his head.
“Nah. I’ll let you enjoy the evening with your family.”
His voice is laced with amusement, but the glint in his eyes is anything but soft. He stretches his arms, the picture of ease, though I know better.
“I have... other appetites to satisfy tonight. Let’s just say my hunger isn’t for fucking food.”
I roll my eyes.
“Try not to get yourself killed.”
He chuckles, low and knowing.
“You’re one to fucking talk.”
With that, he strides away, leaving me alone. I step forward, toward the table. Mattia notices me first, his small head tilting up, his face still flushed from laughter. A second later, Harlow follows, her gaze lifting. And when our eyes meet, something shifts. That tightness in my chest spreads, coiling, pressing, suffocating. She doesn’t look away. Neither do I.
Fuck.
I feel more grounded in this moment than I have in my entire goddamn life. As if I’ve spent years wading through smoke and shadow, only to step into daylight for the first time.
And that’s how I know—this woman is going to ruin me.