Chapter 22
Dante
I go through the documents spread across my desk, flipping through pages of reports, bank statements, and security logs, none of them giving me what I fucking need. The rage festers inside me, a low-burning inferno that refuses to die down.
Still no lead on the stalker.
This ghost of a bastard who thinks he can threaten my fucking wife.
My jaw tightens as I press my fingers against my temple, the headache from earlier still lingering like a dull throb behind my eyes.
Fucking Martha. That insolent woman dared to address Harlow with the arrogance of someone who believed herself entitled to an opinion, as if she had any claim to dictate her place in my house, in my world. I stripped her of that delusion the moment she opened her mouth.
I fired her on the fucking spot. She should consider herself fortunate that I let her walk out alive. Had I been in a less forgiving mood, she wouldn’t have left at all.
Who the fuck did she think she was?
Still, the tension eases, just slightly, when I recall how Harlow held her own. Sharp, unshaken, cutting through Martha’s pathetic display. I smirk. She’s mafia royalty in every sense, Sicilian by blood, Outfit by legacy, and now bound to the Camorra. A queen in her own right, forged by the very underworld she refuses to bow to.
My phone pings, pulling me from my thoughts. I glance at the screen. Giovanna, my new assistant.
The moment I answer, she falters.
“Sir… there’s a matter that requires your attention.”
I have no tolerance for uncertainty. “Speak.”
She swallows.
“Mrs. Salvatore’s purchases have raised flags with the bank. Should I approve all transactions?”
I lean back in my chair, exhaling through my nose.
“Are you insinuating that my wife’s decisions require scrutiny?”
My voice is quiet, but it carries the kind of weight that makes lesser people sweat.
“N-no, sir, I just—”
“If you so much as hesitate again when it comes to her, you’ll find yourself out of a job before you can take your next breath.”
“I understand. It’s just that one of the purchases was… a company—”
“Approve everything.”
I cut her off, my tone icily final.
“And don’t ever presume to question my wife again.”
I end the call before she can say anything else. But I do find myself very intrigued. A smirk pulls at my lips.
What the fuck have you done now, wife?
A loud bang interrupts my thoughts. My office door swings open, without a fucking knock. Leonardo strides in, dropping into the chair across from me like he owns the place.
“I’m home.”
He announces, smirking like the cocky bastard he is.
I take in his appearance, the tailored shirt, the effortless arrogance in the way he lounges. The same sharp Salvatore features, the same fucking attitude.
I lean back, arms resting on the chair’s armrests.
“So I see. You didn’t pick up the phone when I called last week.”
“Ah, zio, I was busy. Isola Nascosta has… its distractions.”
His grin is nothing short of wicked.
I arch a brow.
“Keep your dick out of trouble.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
he retorts.
“Besides, I hear you’re the one who’s been distracted lately.”
I tilt my head, eyes narrowing.
I don’t humour him with a response. Instead, I say.
“Good to have you home. But if I ever catch you looking at my wife the wrong way—”
I let my words trail off letting the threat settle in the air.
Leonardo just laughs, shaking his head.
“You’ve got it bad, zio.”
A faint commotion outside catches my attention. I push up from my chair, already moving toward the door.
“I believe my wife has just arrived home,”
I murmur, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth.
“I should go welcome her.”
Leonardo smirks, standing as well.
“Then by all means, let me witness the chaos firsthand.”
Together, we make our way through the house and toward the front entrance. The moment I step outside, I come to an abrupt halt.
A convoy of workers is unloading crates of designer goods into my driveway, the sheer excess of it almost laughable. I glance at Leonardo, who bites back a laugh.
“Is that a truckload of fucking Prada in my driveway?”
I ask, my voice flat as I take in the sight.
Piero, nods.
“Yes, sir.”
I exhale slowly.
“It appears my wife is single-handedly keeping the luxury market alive.”
As I look around the commotion, my gaze settles on her, hat perched atop her head, stunning as always, like she just stepped out of a goddamn fashion editorial. She stands amidst the chaos she created, entirely unbothered, the very picture of confidence.
She’s becoming my fucking obsession.
And I don’t know if I hate it.
Or if I love it.
Or if I love to fucking hate it.
I approach, my gaze locked on her as she finally looks up at me.
“So you spent a few million today,”
I remark.
“Care to share what exactly you bought?”
Harlow grins.
“Oh, just the essentials.”
I narrow my eyes.
“The essentials, you say?”
“Well,”
she tilts her head, a glint of mischief in her eyes.
“first, I acquired a company. They had the most exquisite shoes, and securing the business outright was far more practical than purchasing the entire collection piece by piece. Consider it a strategic investment.”
I arch a brow.
“You bought a company for their shoes?”
She shrugs.
“I’m particular like that.”
I smirk, but inwardly, I already know the truth. My wife thinks she can play games with me, but I see through her. I was informed of the acquisition long before she decided to make a spectacle of it, how the previous owners were desperate for a swift sale, how she not only seized the opportunity but overpaid to ensure they walked away with more than they asked for. Not just that, she secured the jobs of every employee, ensuring the company remained intact. She’d never admit it, but beneath all that sharp wit and ruthless charm, there’s a part of her that refuses to be as merciless as she pretends to be.
I cast a look at the truck once more.
“And this?”
She lifts a shoulder in an elegant shrug, the picture of nonchalance.
“A few additions to my wardrobe.”
She says lightly.
“Though, if you must know, they aren’t all for me. I selected a few pieces for Mattia, even something for you. Oh, and for Leo.”
My jaw tightens.
“He can procure his own damn clothes.”
I say, my voice dropping into something sharp, possessive. I fight it with every instinct, but I fail.
“You don’t purchase clothing for another man that isn’t me.”
Harlow exhales, already rolling her eyes.
“For God’s sake, Dante, he’s your nephew. Or is this about the fact that we were once betrothed?”
She smirks, pushing me, testing me, waiting for a reaction.
I step in closer, my gaze locked on hers.
“You’re treading dangerous ground.”
I murmur, my voice a lethal whisper.
“Keep testing me, and I promise you, this game of yours will only end with you bound to my bed, legs spread, and begging for mercy you won’t receive.”
I see the flicker of heat in her gaze the moment the words leave my mouth. Yes, my Leonessa very much likes the idea. She tilts her head, lips curving with satisfaction.
“Jealous, amore mio?”
The nickname, mocking as it is, does something to me, and I grit my teeth in frustration. I lean in, my voice low, about to say something, when Leonardo steps toward us, shattering the moment like a goddamn hammer to glass.
Of course he fucking does.
My jaw clenches, irritation simmering beneath the surface. I don’t even need to look at him to know he’s smirking, thoroughly amused at his own perfectly timed intrusion.
“Peperina, I’m honored,”
he smirks.
“I just arrived, and I’m already entertained.”
Harlow rolls her eyes before shifting her attention to me, taking a step back to create distance between us.
“As I said,”
she muses, tilting her head ever so slightly.
“you were in dire need of refinement, someone with taste to curate your wardrobe.”
Her gaze drifts over me slowly.
“Your assistant, however, seems entirely unqualified for such a task. And, by the way, the clothes she keeps sending for your son? Either two sizes too big or far too small, almost as if she hasn’t the slightest clue how old he is. But I suppose that hardly matters, does it? She seems to have other talents… like shamelessly vying for your attention. I imagine that’s what truly kept her around.”
My brow lifts.
“Is that so?”
The words are deceptively calm, but beneath them, anger surges, at Marta for her audacity and at myself for not seeing it sooner, for not firing her the moment she became a problem.
As for Harlow’s jealousy? Unnecessary. Because I never fucked Marta, never wanted to. No one compares to my wife. She is all I see, all I feel, and nothing, no one, has ever come close to breaking that hold.
I don’t rise to the bait. Instead, I close the distance between us, my voice dropping as I lean in, lips near her ear.
“You think you’re being clever, leonessa,”
I murmur, my breath grazing her skin.
“but I see through you.”
I pause.
“This little act? It’s futile. Because I recognize exactly who you are.”
She stills at my words.
“This tantrum you’re throwing? It’s not fucking working.”
She blinks. “You—”
I pull back slightly, meeting her gaze.
“Oh, and Marta? She’s fired. So you don’t need to worry about her anymore.”
Harlow lifts her chin, feigning indifference.
“I never did.”
But I catch the flicker of satisfaction she tries to suppress, the smirk she hides.
And I fucking love it.
I shouldn’t. I tell myself this like a mantra, like a warning, but it’s a battle I’m already losing.
I might be falling for my wife. And that is dangerous territory. She drives me insane without even trying, without a single effort, just by existing. And no matter how much I fight it, I can feel the ground shifting beneath me.