The Deal

Prologue

“ W ell, well, well, if it isn’t Dante Mancini,” Stefano Rossi says as I approach him where he’s sitting at the rear of his estate. His top lip slightly curls in disdain as he folds his hands behind his head and sits back further in his chair. “I was wondering if and when you would get around to seeing me. The word is you’ve been in Italy for weeks now.”

Stefano is the don of one of Italy’s most powerful crime families and my father’s closest ally when he was alive. However, I’ve never been fond of the man, so I’ve stayed away from him until now.

I find him cold and calculating. He sees everything as a means to an end, and nothing—not loyalty, friendship or love—is sacred if it stands in the way of his power. Rumour has it he was the one responsible for the brutal slaying of his own wife.

His ruthlessness knows no bounds. He leaves a trail of broken lives and shattered trust in his wake, each move designed to tighten his grip on control. I’ll never know what my father saw in this man.

I’m not surprised Stefano knew we were here—he has eyes and ears everywhere. I’ve been avoiding this visit for as long as possible. He’s the last person I want to deal with going forward, but everyone else I’ve tried to align myself with since being here was too terrified of his retribution, so I eventually had no choice but to bite the bullet and face him.

“I’ve been busy attending my brother’s wedding,” I tell him as I stop before him and extend my hand. He takes it but makes no effort to stand to greet me.

His blatant disregard doesn’t go unnoticed. I may not be my father, and I know I have big shoes to fill, but I am now the don of the Mancini family, and that alone demands respect.

I pin him with a look that has him clearing his throat and releasing my hand. He may be savage, but he’d be a fool to underestimate me.

He gestures for me to take the seat opposite him, so I unbutton my suit jacket and sit.

It feels like we are measuring each other’s resolve, knowing that every word spoken and gesture made is a move from which only one of us can emerge unscathed.

“Yes, I heard about the wedding, and I must say I was slightly offended by my lack of an invitation.”

“It was a small ceremony, immediate family and one of my brother’s closest friends. Only nine people were in attendance, including the bride and the groom.”

“Hmm,” he hums, clearly still unimpressed. My brother has never met him, but even if he had, he’s the last person he’d consider inviting. Alexander hates this lifestyle. “I also hear you’ve been shopping around while you’ve been here. Looking for a new supplier. Is there something wrong with the drugs I import to your country?”

I should’ve known word would get back to him.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d want to work with me since I’m not my father,” I lie, simply because I don’t have a death wish. This man may be intimidating and dangerous, but I’m no pushover.

While I may be smiling on the outside—which most people mistake for a friendly, jovial ease—inside, I’m hardened by a darkness that only I truly understand. It’s a quiet storm, constantly simmering beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to break free.

I feel like I’ve spent my whole life living under my brother’s shadow, always striving to earn my father’s approval. Constantly proving my worth in a game that seemed rigged from the start. But a lifetime of pushing myself to the limit has forged something in me—character, resilience, and strength.

“Bullshit,” he retorts. “It sounds more like the other way around.”

“I just assumed, with all the drama surrounding our last few shipments, and my father’s execution …” I let my words trail off, knowing he’s well aware of the story behind the slaying.

The Mortellis have been my family’s rivals for as long as I can remember. My father hated Vincent, their leader, with a passion.

They’ve been trying to encroach on our territory for years, and when we found out they were the ones behind the hijacking of our drugs—costing us tens of millions of dollars—my father gave the order to wipe him out.

The hit was a success, but weeks later, they retaliated, and that not only resulted in the death of my father, but some of his best men died right alongside him. I was also riddled with bullets, but by some grace of God, I survived. I will get the last laugh, though … I haven’t entirely worked out how yet, but those fuckers will pay for what they did.

“I still got my money,” Stefano replies, “So your unfortunate issue wasn’t a problem for me.” Of course, it wasn’t. I swear I hate this fucker. “Since the Mortelli scum got their hands on multiple shipments so easily sounds like they have someone on the inside if you ask me.”

My thoughts exactly.

That, along with the shooting at the estate, is something I intend to investigate as soon as I get back home. With the number of men my father had guarding him, the fact that the Mortellis could walk right up to us on our property and open fire without resistance tells me someone helped them.

If my suspicions are correct, I’ll find out, and whoever it was is a dead man walking.

“I’m sorry to hear about your father.”

“Thank you,” I reply, but when I see movement out of the corner of my eyes, my head snaps in that direction.

I can’t help it; after what happened, every time I sense, feel, or notice someone behind me, my entire body tenses up. Getting shot from behind, it fucks with your mind. I no longer trust my perception, and it’s something I can’t ignore. My gut goes into overdrive when I hear a step or feel a shift in my vicinity.

I always watch my back now, even when I shouldn’t have to.

We’re sitting outside in the manicured gardens, but it does nothing to ease my anxiety. Anyone could come at us from any direction; that thought never leaves my mind. It’s fucked up, and while I hope this feeling fades with time, I’ve got my doubts.

The nights are the worst—the true damage hits when I close my eyes. As if being the only survivor of a massacre wasn’t already a big enough burden to carry.

I’ll seek vengeance, though. I won’t rest until I do.

I watch as the driver of the black Maserati Levante pulls up along the side of the house, exits the car, and rounds the vehicle to open the back door. I find myself leaning forward to get a better look. When the first passenger alights, I rest my forearms just above my knees.

It’s a young woman.

The moment my eyes take her in, everything else seems to fade. I can’t see the majority of her face, as it’s hidden underneath the large black sunglasses she’s wearing, but her body, with the kind of curves that make it hard to breathe, is impossible to ignore. She’s like a work of art you can’t stop admiring.

Another woman steps out of the car next, but I don’t even spare her a glance. I’m too consumed by the first one. They’re both in their early twenties at best, maybe even younger, so I can only presume they are Stefano’s daughters.

The one who’s consumed my attention says something to the other woman, and they both laugh, link arms, and start walking towards the house.

The driver follows closely behind, his hands now laden with numerous shopping bags. The women are flanked by two guards, openly carrying semiautomatic rifles in their hands, which is a sight you’d never witness in my country. My men and I carry, but our guns are always concealed.

Her movements are fluid, confident, and unapologetically bold. Those fucking curves. My gaze is drawn to places I shouldn't be looking, especially with her father looking on.

Common sense tells me to look away, but I can’t seem to tear my eyes off her. There’s something magnetic about her that's drawing me in. She’s definitely a standout and is meant to be noticed.

It’s not just her undeniable beauty, but how she carries herself. She’s fully aware of the power she exudes; it shows—like a force of nature, and I can’t help but feel it.

It’s only when Stefano calls out, “Arabella … Lucia,” that I finally manage to drag my focus away. He gestures wi th his fingers for them to approach. “I don’t believe you’ve met my daughters.”

I glance back at the girls, only to see they’re no longer linking arms and smiling. Instead, their bodies appear rigid, and their hands are tightly clasped as they slowly approach us. Their expressions are now dark and sombre.

Is it because I’m here, or is their reaction directed towards their father?

“Hurry up,” he barks, and when they instantly spring into action, quickening their steps, I get my answer.

My eyes flicker to him, and I catch him grinning with a cruel, sadistic satisfaction. This man is something else. Does he take pleasure in intimidating his daughters?

“Sorry, Papa,” the one who has caught my attention says.

“So you should be, Arabella,” he grumbles. “When I tell you to come, you’d better run next time.”

Prick.

I stand when he gestures his hand in my direction. “Arabella … Lucia … this is Dante Mancini. He’s now running his family’s business since his father’s untimely passing.”

Lucia is the first to move, stepping forward and extending her hand to wrap her fingers around mine. The smile she gives me is a genuine one. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr Mancini. I’m sorry to hear about your father’s passing.”

“Thank you, but call me Dante, please. Mr Mancini makes me feel old.”

I shift my attention to the older sister next. The one I’m eager to meet. She’s pushed her sunglasses up to rest atop her head, and when our gazes lock, I’m momentarily struck by not only her beauty but the depth of her exquisite green eyes.

“It’s lovely to meet you, Arabella,” I say, extending my hand to her. She regards it as though it’s unworthy of her touch, leaving it to dangle in the void like a soul condemned to purgatory.

Only when her father clears his throat does she finally take it—barely. The tips of her fingers graze mine for the briefest moment before she quickly pulls away, wiping her hand on the side of her dress as if I’ve somehow contaminated her.

What the fuck?

I’m not used to being so openly disregarded by anyone, let alone a beautiful woman, but it’s clear the beauty only runs skin deep with this one. Beneath that polished exterior lies a sharp, dismissive arrogance that cuts deeper than any imperfection she might hide.

Her look is laced with utter disdain, instantly putting me on edge. This woman doesn’t even know me—how dare she pass such judgement?

“Leave us,” their father commands with a dismissive flick of his hand, and the women quickly scurry off.

I retake my seat once we’re alone again, feeling slightly rattled by the encounter.

Stefano’s gaze hardens, his eyes narrowing as he leans forward, his voice low but unmistakably sharp. “You looked at my older daughter differently than Lucia,” he says, his words slicing through the silence like a blade.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I saw the way you looked at her, Dante. Don’t play coy with me. Do you think I don’t see how men like you look at Arabella? It’s the same way they used to look at her mother until her untimely passing.”

He says that last part so flippantly. If there is any truth to him murdering her, it just shows how cold-hearted and ruthless he is. Does Arabella get those traits from her father?

I meet his stare without flinching, my expression guarded, but something in his eyes tells me he’s not about to let this go. The tension between us thickens, but he presses on relentlessly.

“I don’t take kindly to any man, especially one with your reputation, making eyes at my daughter. Arabella’s not some prize to be claimed, not some object to be ogled. Do you understand me?”

I nod, trying to steady my pulse. The knot in my stomach tightens because I don't know where he’s going with this, but there’s a heaviness in his words.

“I understand,” I say, keeping my tone neutral as my mind races. “I’m sorry if I offended you or your daughter.”

I’ll admit I felt an instant attraction, but now that I’ve met her and witnessed her iciness, I’ve lost interest, so he doesn’t need to worry. I prefer my women warm, with a fire in their eyes and a spirit that matches the heat they bring, not cold and distant.

Stefano leans back, watching me. His gaze calculating … reminiscent of his daughters.

The air between us feels thick with something I can’t quite place. “Perhaps it’s time we think about a different kind of arrangement.”

“Like what?” I ask.

“A union. A bond between our families.”

“Isn’t that what we already have?”

“No, I mean a marriage.”

The word hits me like a punch to the gut. “Marriage?” I echo, barely able to believe what I’m hearing.

“Yes,” Stefano replies, his voice unwavering. “If you want access to my daughter and secure your place with us, you’ll marry her.”

My eyebrows jump in surprise. “You want me to marry your daughter?” I ask, my voice rising an octave or two.

Stefano doesn’t flinch, his gaze steady and unyielding. “ It’s not just about you and her,” he replies, his voice firm. “It’s about something bigger. Something … mutually beneficial.”

“And what mutual benefit would I gain from this?” Apart from being bound to the ice queen, which isn’t very appealing.

“You’d not only get my business and my unwavering support with taking down the Mortellis, but you’d also get to fuck my daughter. I know you want to … it was written all over your face. She’s not only a beauty like her mother was, but she can cook, clean, sew, has childbearing hips, and is pure; you have no concerns there.”

I rear back as if I’d just been slapped. Did I hear him right?

What a chauvinistic pig.

I’m not only disgusted by the “fuck my daughter” comment but also his description of her. She’s a human being, not a damn checklist.

My father might have held similar views about women, but we’re no longer living in the dark ages. It’s the twenty-first century, where women have equality and deserve respect for more than just their physical attributes and outdated gender roles.

“I’m not getting any younger, Dante … I need an heir.” He gestures his hand around. “Someone to take over all of this once I’m gone.”

His words hang heavy between us, thick and suffocating, and for a moment, I’m caught in a split second of indecision—do I accept his offer, laugh at the absurdity, or walk away?

Standing, I fasten the button on my suit jacket, choosing the latter.

Do I need this union to get my family back on track? Probably. But being married to someone who can’t stand me would do nothing but breed resentment and dysfunction, making any so-called mutual benefit nothing more than a toxic illusion.

Fuck that shit.

I don’t want or need the drama that would entail.

I’ve had my fair share of women over the years, but if I ever decide to marry, it’ll be for love. I want the kind of relationship my parents once had … the one my brother, Alexander, shares with his new bride Chloe.

It’s evident that Arabella Rossi hates my guts, and honestly, I couldn’t care less. I’m not a fan of her either.

“Thanks for the enlightening chat,” I say to Stefano with a nod. Without waiting for a response, I turn and walk away.

I may be making a mistake by turning my back on a union between our families, but the alternative seems like a special kind of hell if you ask me.

The last thing I expected after leaving this morning, bewildered and more than a little disgusted, was to find myself back at the Rossi Estate.

But unfortunately, I’m desperate. My brother’s despicable ex has run off with their son, my nephew. We are in a foreign country, and since Alexander doesn’t have custody of him, and the polizia aren’t willing to help, I’m left with little choice.

Does this mean I’ll have to accept Stefano’s proposal and resort to marrying that woman? It’s likely, but if it gets Giovanni back safely, then it’s a price I’m willing to pay.

I guess my fate could be worse.

As soon as that thought crosses my mind, I tilt my head back and groan. Being tied to an ice queen like Arabella Rossi for the rest of my life sounds like a one-way ticket to hell—I know that, but there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for my family.

Even if the very idea of being shackled to her makes my balls want to shrivel up and die.

Stefano’s guard leads me down the long corridor towards his den. I’m surprised he agreed to see me, given how our last meeting ended.

“ Signor Mancini,” the guard says when we enter.

“Leave us,” Stefano replies dismissively. His sharp gaze moves to me. “Sit,” he demands.

I wish I could tell him to go fuck himself, I hate being ordered around, but that’s not going to help my plight.

His greeting is even colder than last time, but I’d be a fool to expect anything more.

I unbutton my jacket and take a seat.

“Let’s get the formalities out of the way first,” he says. And like I feared, this is how things are going to roll.

I exhale a long breath because, in a way, I feel like I’m sealing my fate. “Okay.”

He opens the top drawer in the desk and pulls out a small, brown leather box, placing it down and pushing it in my direction. “My late wife’s wedding ring … you can give it to Arabella.”

And there it is.

“Are you going to help me find my nephew?”

“As soon as the deal is made … yes.”

I may not like or wholeheartedly trust him, but a man’s word is everything in our world.

I sit up straighter in my seat. “Let’s get this over with, then.”

He picks up the phone on his desk and places it to his ear. “Tell Arabella I need to see her in my office immediately. ”

He slams down the receiver with a resounding thud once he barks out his order. He’s such a rude prick. My father was a brutal man at times, but Stefano Rossi always made him appear like a saint, which was no easy feat.

A few minutes later, there’s a light knock on his closed door.

Here goes nothing.

I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with air as I stand.

I feel a mixture of frustration, resentment, and deep unease. I’m torn between obligation and the overwhelming desire to flee this situation.

I’m not opposed to marriage as a whole, but for some reason, this feels more like a death sentence than a happy union.

“Come in,” Stefano growls.

I glance over my shoulder when the door creaks open, and Arabella’s pretty green eyes narrow the moment they lock on mine. I can’t help but mirror her gaze, even if my heart thuds erratically against my ribcage. I hate that, despite everything, there’s still some lingering pull, some damn attraction to the woman I should want to forget.

“You wanted to see me, Papa?”

Her voice is as sweet as honey, dripping with innocence, yet her expression has a hidden sharpness as if she knows exactly what’s coming.

His words are direct and spoken with finality. “You and Dante are to be married.”

His statement has her eyes widening to the size of saucers, and as much as I wish this wasn’t the case either, a smile tugs at the corners of my lips.

Her eyes dart briefly from Stefano to me, before settling back on her father. “Papa, please,” she begs, her voice thick with reluctance. “I ... I don’t want to marry him.” Tears shimmer in her eyes, and for reasons I can't quite explain, that sight stirs something in my black heart.

“What did you just say?” he yells as he pushes his chair away from his desk and abruptly stands. I don’t like the way his daughter cowers when he does this.

As ruthless as my father could be at times, I wasn’t scared of him. Deep down, I knew he would never hurt me or my brother.

When Stefano rounds his desk, I quickly reach for the small leather box, trying to defuse whatever is about to happen. If he lays one finger on her, I will have to kill him, and I really don’t want to do that.

“Could you give us a moment alone, please, Stefano?” I ask, trying hard not to let my anger show.

He nods, but I don’t miss the warning glare he gives his daughter as he leaves the room.

If we have any chance of getting Giovanni back safely, I need to make this marriage happen, so I swallow thickly and take a step towards my future bride.

My stomach churns as I remove the ring from the box.

When I stop in front of her, I reach for her delicate hand. I try to ignore her captivating scent, which is sweet and delicate, like an intoxicating breeze that draws you in and leaves you breathless—an overwhelming contrast to the woman herself.

I clear my throat and pull back my shoulders because I need to get this shit over with so we can begin our search for my nephew.

“We will be married by the end of the week,” I tell her, forcibly sliding the gold band onto her dainty ring finger.

“I would rather die than marry you,” she murmurs. Her accent is thick—dare I say sexy—but her English is perfect.

My eyes snap up to meet hers, and again, I’m taken aback by her beauty. “That can be arranged, Tesoro ,” I retort.

“I despise you and everything you represent,” she spits, with a look so lethal it could burn through steel.

“I can assure you the feeling is mutual.”

“Then why are you doing this?” she asks.

“I have my reasons.”

“If you think this is going to be a traditional marriage, you’re in for a rude shock,” she bites, lifting her chin in defiance. That move has my cock jumping in my trousers. “The thought of you touching me makes me want to purge my breakfast.”

I would never force myself on anyone. There is nothing appealing about that, but for some reason, her statement has me grinning. Her words may have been spoken with conviction, but I don’t believe her.

I drop her hand, leaning in to whisper, “I look forward to removing that stick from your arse once we’re married, Bellezza , and replacing it with my dick.”

My crudeness has her gasping as she raises her hand and slaps my face … hard . The sting hits me instantly, but I don’t react the way she likely expects. Instead, I flash her one of my most devastating smiles.

Being married to this woman might actually be fun.