Chapter 29
Dante
I drag a hand down my face, exhaustion pressing heavy behind my eyes. The bitter bite of my coffee does little to revive me, and an insurmountable workload still looms ahead.
Harlow and her fucking lychees.
Leaning back in my chair, I flex my fingers, attempting to ease the lingering tension coiled in my shoulders. Last night was nothing short of a test in endurance. Two excruciating hours. Wandering from one shop to another in search of perfection. The first store had them, but no, they weren’t the right shape, the right texture.
By the time she finally deemed a batch acceptable, I was dangerously close to putting a bullet through my skull.
And yet, when she bit into one, moaning like she’d just had an orgasm?
It was worth it.
I shake my head, exhaling a slow breath as I pull my laptop closer. The screen glows in the dim light of my office, the video call already connecting. Seconds later, the screen splits into multiple feeds.
Michael Moretti.
Giovanni Ricci.
His three sons, Enzo, Darion, and Niccolò, flank him, their expressions ranging from cool indifference to barely concealed hostility. Their faces fill the screen, the grainy feed of the video call doing little to dull the unease simmering between us.
Across from me, Leonardo lounges in his chair, exuding an air of casual calm. Mario stands off to the side, arms crossed, his silent presence a warning in itself.
I lean forward slightly, my tone even.
“Good morning, gentlemen.”
A round of curt acknowledgments follows, until Michael scoffs, his smirk edged with irritation.
“Of course, this is the hour you'd pick for our meeting.”
He rubs a hand over his jaw, exhaustion evident.
“Nothing like conducting business in the middle of the damn night.”
I don’t fucking smile.
“Let’s get to it.”
On the other side of the screen, Giovanni shifts slightly, his gaze assessing.
“First, my daughter, how is she?”
“She is well,”
I reply smoothly.
“But perhaps you should call and hear it from her directly.”
I don’t miss the flicker of hesitation in his eyes. It’s brief, barely there, but I catch it. A beat later, he nods.
“I intend to.”
I shift gears, my tone sharpening.
“However, there’s an issue we need to discuss. One that concerns my wife.”
That gets everyone’s full attention. Michael’s smirk vanishes. Enzo’s brows pull together in a deep frown. Darion stiffens, his fingers curling into fists.
I let the weight of my words settle before I continue.
“She has a stalker. Someone’s been following her.”
Enzo growls, his voice low, laced with menace.
“Who the fuck is he?”
I exhale slowly, my jaw tightening.
“We don’t know—yet.”
Michael leans forward, his voice a slow drawl.
“Are you telling me that with all the resources at your disposal, all your power, you still can’t track down a single man?”
I hold his gaze, unflinching.
“Not a man. A fucking phantom.”
Giovanni’s expression turns to stone.
“When did this begin?”
My tone is precise.
“The first notes surfaced while she was still in Chicago with her mother. Initially, she believed Troy was behind them.”
Darion’s head snaps up.
“Who the fuck is Troy?”
“Her mother's piece-of-shit boyfriend,”
I say flatly.
“She killed him.”
A cold silence follows my statement.
Niccolò exhales sharply, then smirks.
“Good. Makes me proud, little sister.”
I press on, my patience running out.
“After he died, she thought it was over. But the notes started again. Whoever he is, he followed her, from Chicago to Palermo. And then the night of our engagement, her bedroom was trashed, walls smeared in blood. It looked like a fucking murder scene.”
Enzo curses under his breath.
I level them with a steady look, my voice controlled but ice-cold.
“Now, he’s escalated. He got as far as Naples, into our bedroom.”
Giovanni’s voice cuts through like steel.
“How the fuck did he get past your security? Into your own home, under your nose?”
That pisses me off, because he’s right. I should have been able to protect her better. She deserved better.
Darion watches me closely, his expression unreadable.
“You said the stalker was in Palermo too?”
I nod.
“He left a note at Enzo’s gym. Meaning he was in the fucking locker room.”
Enzo’s jaw clenches, his grip tightening around the edge of his desk.
I let my gaze sweep over the screen, my voice menacing.
“Spread the word. Your men, my men, everyone is hunting this bastard. He’s careful, but he’ll slip. When he does, we’ll have him.”
Giovanni nods once.
“We’ll handle our side.”
Michael exhales sharply.
“We’ll look into it too.”
I nod in acknowledgment, then lean back slightly, shifting the conversation.
“Now, onto another matter. The Albanians.”
Michael’s eyes narrow.
“What about them?”
“They started something that I intend to finish. The last shipment from Calabria was seized. They encroached on my ports, millions were lost.”
Darion lets out a dry chuckle.
“You pissed them off?”
I arch a brow.
“Quite the opposite. If I fail to retaliate, I risk projecting weakness, which will only embolden them to escalate further.”
Giovanni’s fingers drum against the desk, his gaze thoughtful.
“What’s your plan?”
“First is securing access to one of your ports, Porto Belladonna, to be precise. Calabria is not a viable option at this time.”
Giovanni inclines his head.
“Consider it done.”
“And then I make my move.”
Michael exhales sharply.
“Dante, this is going to bring a fucking war to your doorstep.”
I smirk.
“Not if I put them in the ground first.”
Michael chuckles darkly.
“Just don’t underestimate those fuckers.”
I smirk, but my mind is already shifting gears.
“We’re prepared.”
Giovanni leans back slightly, his expression calculating.
“Let’s talk business. Our alliance means nothing if we don’t strengthen our operations.”
Michael nods, his voice turning sharp.
“Chicago’s casino operations are pulling strong numbers, but the Feds have been circling. We’re looking at offshore laundering options to keep everything clean. You still have banking connections in Monteverdi, Dante?”
I tilt my head.
“Of course. The channels are secure, but expansion needs subtlety. Ricci, your people move money through San Bastiano network. How much room do we have to manoeuvre?”
Giovanni smirks faintly.
“Enough. The right hands are greased, and as long as the system profits, no one asks questions. If Chicago needs a backdoor, we can arrange something.”
Michael exhales, pleased.
“Good. That keeps the Outfit’s money flowing.”
I shift slightly, fingers tapping against the desk.
“And the ports?”
Giovanni nods.
“Sicily controls arms shipments through Delmare Bay and the Varela Passage. If you need firepower for your situation with the Albanians, we can reroute some cargo through Naples, in addition to Porto Belladonna.”
He leans back slightly, assessing me.
“You already requested access to the port, but if the Albanians are pressing harder than expected, we can move shipments through multiple channels to avoid disruption.”
Michael raises a brow.
“And what does that do for Chicago?”
I glance at him.
“Leverage. The Outfit’s influence in the East Coast has always been a game of balance. With Sicilian shipments moving through, you’d have the weight you need to keep things in check. You hold the right doors open, and we ensure your supply lines remain intact.”
Michael considers this, then nods.
“It’s a strong play.”
Giovanni drums his fingers against his desk.
“And Camorra expansion? You’re locking down the Naples waterfront, but I hear whispers of pushback.”
I smirk.
“Nothing I can’t handle. Some families aren’t exactly pleased with our union, they think I’m expanding too aggressively. They forget who they’re dealing with.”
Michael leans back.
“And real estate?”
I exhale.
“Profitable. Developments in Naples and Palermo will serve as clean fronts for our operations. If Chicago wants in, you can invest through shell corporations. Clean money in, dirty money out.”
Michael chuckles.
“Now you’re talking.”
Giovanni nods.
“Then it’s agreed. Ports, finances, and expansion, we keep each other’s hands steady.”
The conversation continues, each of us ensuring our interests are aligned, our operations stronger with this alliance.
Then my phone pings against the desk. I barely glance at it, until I see the name flashing on the screen.
Harlow.
Everything else fades.
A cold rush spreads through my veins.
I answer immediately.
“Talk to me.”
Silence, except for her breathing. Shaky. Unsteady.
Then, in a voice so small, so fragile it barely reaches me. “Dante.”
I’m on my feet before conscious thought even registers.
Mario and Leonardo snap to attention as I shove the laptop aside.
“Handle the rest.”
I command, already striding for the door.
I take the stairs two at a time, my heart hammering, a dark fury uncoiling in my chest like a beast ready to tear through flesh.
Something is wrong. I fucking feel it.
The moment I step inside, my gaze sweeps the room, empty. My wife is nowhere in sight.
Then I see the bathroom door is slightly ajar.
I move. Stepping inside, I find her. Frozen.
Harlow stands there, pale as fucking death, her eyes wide, unfocused. Her chest rises and falls in sharp, shallow gasps, hands gripping her knees so tightly her knuckles have gone bone-white.
She’s spiralling.
I’ve seen enough panic attacks to recognize one, but seeing my wife like this is something else entirely.
Nothing could have prepared me for the way it slams into me, the sharp, visceral need to shield her, fix this, tear apart whatever put that look on her face.
Her breathing quickens, fingers twitching as she claws at her skin, desperate to ground herself, but it’s not working.
I move closer, dropping to my knees in front of her, keeping my voice low, firm.
“Harlow, you need to breathe. Look at me.”
Her head shakes—wild, erratic.
“I can’t, Dante… I—”
She grips her chest like she’s trying to hold herself together, her entire body trembling.
Fuck.
I take her hands in mine, squeezing just enough.
“Yes, you can. In through your nose. One.”
I pause, waiting, demanding.
“Out through your mouth. Two.”
She tries. Fails.
Her breaths are too sharp, too fast. Her pulse is racing, erratic, her skin pale as death.
I tighten my hold on her hands. “Again.”
This time, she listens.
One slow inhale. Two shaky exhales.
“Good girl.”
I rub soothing circles into her wrists, anchoring her.
“Keep going. Breathe with me.”
Her eyes flicker, recognition breaking through the panic. I don’t let go until I see the first shuddering signs of control returning to her body, the rigid tension in her limbs loosening, her breaths slowing. She’s coming back to me.
But I don’t let myself breathe. Not yet.
Not when I see what the fucker left behind.
I follow the slight flick of her gaze toward the mirror, and rage bleeds into my vision.
Written in blood, stark and mocking against the fogged-up glass.
Soon, my love, the wait will end.
No more running, no more pretend.
Resting on the counter, lies her wedding ring, smeared in blood, a final, unspoken taunt.
I exhale slowly, even as the violence coils in my chest, burning through my veins. This isn’t a warning.
It’s a promise.
And that—that is what terrifies me.
I clench my jaw, forcing my focus back to Harlow.
She’s staring at the mirror, eyes still glazed, her breathing uneven again.
I reach for her.
“It’s over, leonessa. He’s not here.”
She barely reacts. Fuck, she’s still shaken.
I don’t waver. I scoop her up into my arms and carry her out of that goddamn bathroom, keeping her pressed against me, letting her feel my strength, my presence.
She isn’t alone. She will never be alone.
I sit on the edge of the bed, keeping her in my lap, my arms wound tight around her.
“He can’t touch you.”
My voice is a lethal promise, meant for her and for myself.
“I won’t fucking let him.”
Her fingers curl into my shirt, silent, tense. I cup the back of her head, my fingers threading through the damp strands, anchoring her.
“You’re safe.”
She looks at me, eyes searching, then she nods. Just once. Small, but enough.
I exhale, pressing a kiss into her hair before slowly shifting us. I sit her down, brushing stray strands from her face, watching the flickering remnants of panic in her eyes. I move to the dresser, pulling out soft clothes for her. Her skin is cold. I need to get her warm.
She’s wearing nothing but her panties. Fuck. She was in the shower when it happened.
The thought sends fury surging through me all over again. He was here. While she was unaware. Unprotected. Vulnerable. The realization is a razor to my throat, the kind of rage that makes me want to tear the world apart.
I failed her.
Again.
I kneel beside the bed, guiding her arms through the sleeves of one of my shirts. She lets me, pliant, trusting. With gentle hands, I ease the fabric over her body, tucking it around her.
Still, not a word. And that doesn’t sit right with me.
Reaching for the towel draped over the chair, I watch her carefully. Damp strands cling to her skin, the lingering moisture cooling against her shoulders. Slowly, I squeeze the excess water from her hair, mindful of every movement.
Her routine is no mystery to me, I’ve observed it countless times. I’m man enough to admit it. I watch her. Always. Every detail, every habit committed to memory. Some might call it obsession. I call it inevitability.
So, I do exactly as she would.
The lotion sits on the bedside table, familiar in its place. Pouring a small amount into my palms, I rub them together before smoothing it over her arms, her legs, every touch meant to ground her, to bring her back.
I grab the hairdryer next, running my fingers through her strands as I dry them. Only when her body fully relaxes, her breathing slow and even, do I finally let myself unclench. Finished with her hair, I move to the bed, lowering myself onto it before drawing her close. She melts into me without resistance, head nestled against my chest. Before long, her breath evens out, warm and soft against my throat.
Moving carefully, I reach for my phone, ensuring not even the faintest sound disturbs her. My grip is tight. My mind, lethal. I type out the message with silent, burning fury, sending it to every one of my men.
Dante: HIGH ALERT. DOUBLE SECURITY. FIND THE FUCKER. ANY SLIP-UP, YOU PAY WITH YOUR FUCKING LIVES.
I stare at the screen for a long moment before I set the phone aside. This is too fucking much.
He got too close.
Too. Fucking. Close.
I press my lips to Harlow’s forehead, my jaw locked.