CHAPTER 4
DANTE
The taste of her lingered on my tongue, a dangerous mix of dark cherry lipstick and sheer, unadulterated defiance.
I turned my back to my new wife, facing the twenty men standing in my foyer. They were clapping, murmuring their approval, celebrating the acquisition of the Brooklyn docks. That was what this was supposed to be. An acquisition. A hostile takeover wrapped in white silk and platinum.
But as I stood there, the heavy thud of my own pulse echoing in my ears, I knew I had made a tactical error.
I shouldn't have kissed her like that.
I should have pressed a polite, cold kiss to her cheek.
I should have treated her exactly like the piece of property her father had sold her as.
Instead, I had framed her face, felt the frantic flutter of her pulse against my thumbs, and taken her mouth with a level of violence that had nothing to do with business.
And for one terrifying fraction of a second, she had kissed me back.
I pulled a pristine white handkerchief from my breast pocket and casually wiped the corner of my mouth. A faint smear of red stained the linen. I folded it away, burying the evidence of my lapse in judgment.
"To the dining room," I told the men, my voice cutting through the low hum of conversation. "We eat, and then we get back to work. The Petrovs will hear about this before nightfall. I want the perimeter doubled."
The men nodded, moving en masse toward the west wing.
I turned back to Sienna.
She was still standing in the exact spot I had left her. The heavy silk of her dress pooled around her bare feet. She was staring at me, her brown eyes wide, the sharp, sarcastic armor she wore so well completely fractured. Her chest rose and fell in a rapid, uneven rhythm.
She looked beautiful. She looked entirely out of her depth.
"Put your shoes on," I instructed, keeping my tone perfectly flat.
Sienna blinked, the spell breaking. The shock in her eyes vanished, instantly replaced by the stubborn, infuriating fire I was quickly learning to hate.
"I threw them in the closet," she informed me, lifting her chin. "They pinch. If you wanted a wife who wears uncomfortable footwear, you should have specified in the contract."
"I specified obedience." I closed the distance between us, stopping just close enough to force her to tilt her head back. "Go upstairs and put your shoes on, Sienna. You are the lady of this house now. You will not walk into a room full of my soldiers looking like you just rolled out of bed."
She held my gaze for a long three seconds. I could practically see the gears turning in her head, calculating the risk of outright refusal. Then, without a word, she spun on her heel and marched up the grand staircase, the silk dress sweeping the marble behind her.
I watched her go, the tight knot of tension in my chest refusing to loosen.
Ten minutes later, the dining room was full.
My private chef had prepared a five-course Italian banquet. The long mahogany table was covered in imported crystal, heavy silver, and plates of braised short rib, handmade truffle pasta, and roasted vegetables.
I sat at the head of the table. Sienna sat immediately to my right. Luca took the seat to my left.
The room was loud. My men were not refined aristocrats; they were killers who liked to eat, drink, and argue loudly about sports and territory. I preferred the noise. It meant things were normal.
But nothing felt normal right now.
Sienna was sitting perfectly straight in her chair, wearing the strappy silver heels she had retrieved from her room. She hadn't spoken since she sat down. She was holding a heavy silver fork, methodically pushing a piece of truffle ravioli from one side of her plate to the other.
"You aren't eating," I observed quietly, leaning slightly toward her.
"I’m pacing myself," she replied, not looking up from her plate. "I want to make sure I have room for the poisoned wedding cake."
Luca, who possessed the hearing of a bat, choked on his wine. He slammed his glass down on the table, coughing into his napkin.
I shot him a look that promised a demotion, then turned my attention back to my wife.
"Nobody is poisoning you, Sienna."
"Statistically unlikely, given the guest list," she muttered.
She finally dropped the fork, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms. She looked down the length of the table, observing my men.
"So, is this how it works? We eat pasta, and then you all go out and do...
whatever it is mobsters do on a Tuesday? "
"Extortion," Luca offered helpfully, wiping his mouth. "Sometimes a little light racketeering. Depends on the weather."
"Fascinating." Sienna turned to Luca, completely ignoring my glare. "Do you guys have a group chat? Like, 'Hey, don't forget your brass knuckles today, bring an umbrella'?"
"We use an encrypted app," Luca answered, a wide grin spreading across his face. "But I like the umbrella idea. Very considerate."
I pressed two fingers against my temple. "Luca. Eat your food."
"I’m just making conversation with the bride, boss." Luca took a bite of his short rib. "She’s got a lot of questions. It’s a big lifestyle change."
Sienna picked up her wine glass, taking a generous swallow of the Barolo.
Her hand was steady, but I noticed the way her knuckles were white around the crystal stem.
She was terrified. She was sitting in a room full of armed men who killed for a living, and she was using a razor-sharp sense of humor to build a wall between herself and the reality of her situation.
It was a good strategy.
It wasn't going to work on me.
"Sienna," I said, my voice dropping to a register that immediately silenced the conversation at our end of the table. "Eat."
She set the wine glass down. "I told you, I’m not hungry."
"I don't care." I picked up my own fork. "You haven't eaten since yesterday morning. You are running on adrenaline and espresso. If you pass out in my dining room, it is going to ruin my lunch. Eat the pasta."
She glared at me, a hot, furious look that made the blood rush straight to my groin.
She picked up her fork. She stabbed a piece of ravioli with entirely unnecessary force, shoved it into her mouth, and chewed aggressively while maintaining unbroken eye contact with me.
I took a slow sip of my water, a dark sense of satisfaction settling in my chest.
Before she could swallow and deliver whatever insult she was currently formulating, the heavy oak doors of the dining room swung open.
The room went dead silent.
Fridge—the guard she had named yesterday—stepped into the room. He didn't look at the men at the table. He walked straight to me, his massive frame rigid with tension.
"Boss," he said, his voice low.
I didn't move. "What is it?"
"We have a delivery at the front gate." Fridge glanced nervously at Sienna, then back to me. "It’s not from a vendor."
The satisfaction in my chest vanished, replaced by the cold, familiar calculation of war. The Petrovs. They had found out about the wedding faster than I anticipated.
"What kind of delivery?" I asked.
"A black box. No return address." Fridge shifted his weight. "The bomb squad cleared it. No explosives. But... you need to see what’s inside."
I threw my napkin onto the table and stood up.
Luca was already on his feet, his hand resting casually over the left side of his jacket, right where he kept his weapon. The rest of the men at the table stopped eating, their posture shifting from relaxed to lethal in the span of a single second.
"Stay here," I ordered Sienna.
She stood up immediately, the chair scraping loudly against the hardwood floor. "No. If someone sent a bomb to my wedding, I want to see it."
"It is not a bomb," I said, my patience evaporating. "Sit down."
"I am your wife now, Dante." She lifted her chin, her eyes flashing with a stubbornness that bordered on suicidal. "That means your enemies are my enemies. I’m not sitting in a dining room while you go open a mystery box."
I stared down at her. She was twenty-two years old, wearing a silk dress, completely unarmed, and she was trying to issue demands to the head of the New York syndicate.
I should have locked her in her room. I should have left her upstairs.
But looking at the fierce set of her jaw, I realized something deeply inconvenient. I didn't want a terrified doll hiding upstairs. I wanted the woman standing in front of me, fighting for every inch of ground.
"Fine," I snapped. "Keep behind me. If I tell you to move, you move."
Her shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch in relief, but she nodded once.
I led the way out of the dining room, Luca falling into step beside me, and Sienna right behind us. We walked through the foyer and out the heavy front doors.
The September air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of exhaust from the city. The Morretti estate was surrounded by a ten-foot wrought-iron fence, heavily monitored by cameras and armed patrols.
At the main gate, three of my men were standing in a semi-circle around a small, square black box resting on the pavement.
I walked down the driveway, the gravel crunching under my expensive shoes. Sienna stayed close to my back, her silver heels clicking softly.
The men stepped aside as I approached.
The box was simple. Matte black cardboard. No ribbon. No card.
I crouched down. The bomb squad had already cut the tape holding it shut. I lifted the lid.
Inside, resting on a bed of black tissue paper, was a single, pristine white lily.
The traditional flower of death.
But it wasn't just a lily. The center of the white petals was heavily stained with a dark, rust-colored liquid. Dried blood. And resting beneath the stem of the flower was a silver necklace.
It was a delicate chain with a small cross pendant.
I heard a sharp intake of breath behind me.
I stood up, turning around. Sienna was staring into the box, her face completely drained of color. The sarcastic armor was gone. The defiance was gone. She looked like she had just been struck by a physical blow.
"Sienna," I said sharply.
She didn't look at me. Her eyes were locked on the silver cross. "That... that belongs to my sister."
The air in my lungs turned to ice.
Her father had two daughters. Sienna, the eldest, and a younger girl who had been sent to a private study program in Switzerland years ago to keep her out of the family business.
"Are you sure?" I demanded, stepping between her and the box, blocking her view.
Sienna finally looked up at me. Her hands were shaking violently now, the micro-tremors completely out of her control. "I gave it to her when she left. It has her initials engraved on the back. Dante... why do they have her necklace?"
I didn't answer her. I didn't have to.
The Petrovs hadn't just found out about the wedding. They had realized that taking Sienna was no longer an option, because she was behind my walls. So they went after the only other piece of leverage her father had left.
"Luca," I said, my voice dangerously calm.
"Yeah, boss." Luca’s switchblade was already in his hand, his eyes scanning the tree line beyond the gate.
"Get my wife inside. Lock down the estate. Nobody comes in, nobody goes out." I looked back down at the bloody lily in the box. "And get the jet ready. We are going to Switzerland."
"Dante, wait," Sienna reached out, her fingers wrapping around my forearm. Her grip was surprisingly strong. "You can't just leave me here. She’s my sister. If they have her—"
"If they have her, they are already dead," I interrupted, my voice dropping to a lethal whisper.
I looked down at her hand on my arm. The platinum ring I had put on her finger less than an hour ago caught the sunlight.
I had married her for a shipping route. I had expected a nuisance.
But looking at the sheer terror in her eyes, a dark, violent possessiveness clawed its way out of my chest and wrapped itself around my throat. The Petrovs had made a fatal miscalculation. They thought they were threatening her father.
They didn't realize they had just threatened what belonged to me.
"Go inside, Sienna," I ordered, lifting my hand and covering hers. I squeezed her fingers once, a silent, absolute promise. "I will bring her back."
I let go of her and turned toward the waiting SUVs.
The wedding was over. The war had just begun.