9. Dante
Chapter 9
Dante
I exit the jeweller’s with my two guards in tow. Today is the day I officially inaugurate my men by assembling my inner circle. I’ve had rings specially made to mark the occasion, which is something my father never did.
Papa wanted to be the only one to wear the symbol of power, to set himself apart and remind everyone that his position was untouchable … that he was the only ruler in his kingdom. In his eyes, no one could stand on equal ground with him.
This family will not run that way moving forward. I believe I’ll gain far more from working alongside my men, valuing their input, and making decisions together. True power comes from unity, not just authority.
I’ve decided to keep Edoardo in the role he had with my father—the consigliere (Advisor), acting counsellor.
The old saying ‘Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer’ comes to mind. Is he the enemy? I’m not sure, but I’m not taking any chances. When it comes to confiding in him or using him as a sounding board like Papa did, I’ll only be sharing what’s necessary. I’ll keep a close eye on him from here on out .
I’m going to make Romeo my underboss; he’s proved his worth to the Famiglia . He also happens to be one of my closest friends. We grew up in this world together, and I trust this man implicitly.
My brother told me he sat at the hospital all night while I was in surgery after the shooting. His uncle was one of the men who got slain that day, but instead of mourning with his family, he was right there rooting for me to pull through.
He also visited me every day until I was transferred to Sydney and continued to check in regularly while I was there. That kind of loyalty does not go unnoticed.
Romeo is also highly respected within the family, so I don’t doubt there will be an issue with me appointing him as my underboss. Edoardo may be the exception, but I don’t care what he thinks. I’m running the show now.
“Arabella,” I call out when I don’t find her in the kitchen.
“I’m in here.”
“Where’s here?”
“Your bedroom.”
I stalk down the hallway and pause in the doorway. “You mean our bedroom,” I growl.
She glances at me over her shoulder and rolls her eyes. “Fine, our bedroom,” she mocks.
“What are you doing?”
“Testing out some paint samples on the wall. I thought I’d start the renovations in here.”
“I decorated this room myself … it’s probably the best one in the house.”
“Didn’t you just refer to this as ours ? It’s too masculine for me. ”
“If you intend to do all pink flowery shit in here, we are going to have a problem.”
She blows out a sharp breath as I close the distance between us. “I have no intention of adding any floral, Dante. I was thinking something that reflects both of our personalities.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What, like the devil reincarnate and the saintly prude?” I reply, coming up behind her and wrapping my arms around her tiny waist.
She’s been living here for two weeks now, and although nothing much has changed between us, in a way, everything has.
My dick is still dying a slow and agonising death on the sidelines—his only action being impromptu visits from Mrs Palmer and her five daughters—which usually happens after one of our hot make-out sessions. It’s a sad situation, but at least my wife doesn’t openly cringe when I touch her anymore.
“Ha ha! You missed your calling; you should’ve been a comedian.”
I grin as I bury my face in the crook of her neck and inhale her sweet scent. “I was known as the class clown at school.”
“Why does that not surprise me?”
“I bet you were the teacher’s pet.”
“I was homeschooled.”
“Of course you were,” I grumble.
“What colour do you like best?” she asks, pointing to the small patches she’s painted onto the wall.
“They all look the same … white.”
“They do not. This one is eggshell white,” she replies, pointing to the first sample before moving along the line. “Alabaster, ivory, snow white, cotton white?—”
“They are all white, Arabella.”
She sighs. “I don’t know why I bothered asking your opinion. ”
“Snow white,” I say, pointing to it. “If I had to narrow it down, I’d say that one is my favourite. It has a crisp, clean finish.”
She turns in my arms and looks up at me with a smile. “That’s my favourite as well.”
“Finally, we’ve found something we agree on.”
“I guess we do.”
“Snow white it is then.”
I take advantage of our position, leaning down to place my lips against hers. I love that she doesn’t hesitate to slide her arms around my neck and kiss me back. And fuck me, for an amateur, she can kiss. For someone who had zero experience when we met, she’s quickly become exceptional at it.
Before her, I wasn’t interested in inexperienced women. I’ve always liked them hard and fast, but there’s something thrilling knowing I’m the only man who’s ever had his lips on her. Hopefully, one day, she’ll let me take this further—not that I’ve tried—but I’m aching to be inside her.
One of my hands moves up to fist her ponytail, tugging slightly as I deepen the kiss. The other heads south, palming that peachy fucking arse of hers. She has such an alluring hourglass figure. Big tits, tiny waist, wide hips, and an arse I’m desperate to sink my teeth into.
This is about as handsy as I’ve gotten with her. What I want to do is palm that spectacular rack of hers in my hands, bite her taut nipples, suck them deep into my mouth, and bury my face between her legs. My list of wants where she’s concerned is endless.
I understand this is all new to her, and the last thing I want to do is rush her into doing something she’s not ready for. My dick wholeheartedly disagrees with me, but I can only hope that one day, my patience will pay off, and I’ll reap the ultimate prize … her respect, her body, and her heart .
My men and I are gathered around the dining room table. Today, there are only eight of us. My top men. The ones who will stand beside me going forward. My underboss, my counsel, and my future capos (Captains).
We’ve just finished another delicious breakfast, compliments of my beautiful wife.
Arabella claims to despise everything about this life, but it’s clear my men adore her, and she’s slotting in better than I ever imagined she would. She even participated in some of the conversation this morning, and I caught her laughing a time or two.
Stefano wouldn’t have let her sit at the table and enjoy a meal with his men, but I am not him. My father wasn’t like him either.
Angelina, the woman my father took in exchange for a debt after my mother passed, lived with us for more than a decade. Over the years, she became part of the family. She dined with us all the time.
It only seems right to have Arabella join us. Not only did she slave away in the kitchen for hours preparing our food, but she’s also my wife … the queen of my kingdom. I feel it’s beneficial for her to get to know my men on a more personal level.
Despite them being career criminals, there’s nothing intimidating or menacing about any of us when our guard’s down, and we’re in a relaxed environment. You’d never know the depravity we are capable of when we are together like this.
We might all share Italian roots, but Australians, as a whole, are a friendly bunch of people. This country has a laid-back, down-to-earth culture that puts you at ease. I doubt Arabella would ever admit to it, but I can assure you she’d see the difference between here and her homeland.
I’m seated at the head of the table, my wife is to my left, and Romeo is on the right. Edoardo should rightfully be sitting where she is, but I’ve moved him down to the far end of the table. He may think that position is also the head, but in my eyes, it’s the bottom. The lowest part, because internally, that’s how I view him now.
Arabella stands to gather our empty plates when all the food is eaten. I again take the opportunity to place my hand on her arse and squeeze it. I’ll probably pay for that later, considering we have an audience, but seeing that sweet blush creep up her neck is worth it.
“Thank you for breakfast. How about a bit of sugar?” I ask, craning my neck and giving her my best charismatic smile.
“I think you’ve had enough sugar,” she answers in that sexy fucking accent of hers.
“I’ll never get enough of your sugar, Bellezza .” Her eyes widen, then narrow as her blush deepens.
“You’ve just eaten a plate full of pastries …”
I pucker my lips. “Don’t leave me hanging in front of my men.”
She leans down with a sigh, and when she places her lips against mine, she whispers, “I’m going to kill you later.”
Her hollow threat has me stifling a laugh. As she turns to make her way around the table, she lets out a small squeak when I reach out and slap her sweet arse. I guess I’m a glutton for punishment.
I had a private conversation with Romeo earlier, before everyone else arrived. He’s completely on board with taking the position of underboss, so now all we need to do is vote on it. I’m not anticipating an issue there, but time will tell.
Since the majority of my father’s caporegime (Captains) died right alongside him, I’ll need to fill those positions as well. I won’t allow the natural succession … not when I’m trying to make my dream team. Some of our men have been he re longer than others, but that doesn’t mean they are more suited for the job.
None of my decisions thus far have been taken lightly. Any mistakes in my selection could lead to betrayal, power struggles, or even the downfall of the organisation, which is the last thing I want.
Although I’d do anything to have Papa still here sitting in this very chair, this is a position I’ve wanted since the moment I became a made man.
I’ve talked to some of my men one-on-one and conducted what I could best describe as interviews. I needed to make sure my visions and values aligned with whoever I chose. I also consulted with Edoardo and took his recommendations on board, but the ultimate decision was always going to be mine.
I informed him that he’ll be my counsel, and he gracefully accepted the position. Is he happy about it, though? Truthfully, I don’t give a flying fuck either way. He knows where the door is if he isn’t. He’s only still here because Papa thought the world of him.
I prepare for the blood oath once the votes are in and my team is complete. Like many generations of Cosa Nostra before him, my father ran things this way. Internally, I may be making some changes, but the family traditions will remain the same.
Sticking with traditions is paramount for a successful organisation. Sicilian Mafia rituals incorporate strong religious elements mixed with a deep sense of superstition.
To the outside world, this may seem barbaric, but our organisation operates by its own law, so it is essential to have rules.
Standing, I gather the items from the drawer of the side table by the wall, where I stashed them earlier this week, and carry them back to my seat.
The items include a custom-made knife, a bowl, and an image of Saint Michael the Archangel, the most commonly used figure in the blood oath ritual.
Catholics regard Saint Michael as a powerful, warrior-like figure for defeating Satan and evil forces, which fits our view since we class ourselves as both protectors and avengers.
Each member will make a small cut on their hand before placing their blood on the image while reciting, “I swear loyalty to the family, to the Don, and the Cosa Nostra.”
The bloodied image will then be placed in the bowl in the centre of the table and set alight, symbolising the irreversibility of the oath. A sacrifice that carries divine retribution.
Sacrilege against the sacred is considered a grave sin, so this act warns of the dire consequences that will follow any disloyalty. The fear of the curse is real and will fall upon anyone who betrays the family.
Our organisation is about loyalty, strength, and protecting this family and everything it stands for. The rules that come with being part of the Famiglia are non-negotiable.
The most important rule is omertà —the code of silence. This means never talking to the authorities, testifying in court, or sharing anything that could put the family’s criminal activities at risk. The rule extends beyond law enforcement. Friends, family, and even loved ones must remain ignorant of the Mafia’s activities.
Honour is paramount. Loyalty is valued above everything else, including personal relationships, personal safety, or financial gain. Treachery in this world is unforgivable and will result in death, which is typically carried out publicly and brutally.
The oath is a brotherhood; by the end, we will view each other as family, sometimes even closer than biological relatives. The bond formed here today will be unbreakable.
My men will leave here with a deep sense of trust and mutual obligation towards me and each other. They will be expected to always have each other’s backs, even when facing difficult or dangerous situations.
With the oath complete, it’s time to hand out the rings, starting at the top and working my way down. I intend to leave Edoardo last purposely. Call me spiteful, but out of all my men that sit here before me, he’s the one I don’t fully trust. My father put way too much faith in this man; he was the one who put pressure on Papa to take out the leader of the Mortelli family, which in turn led to his demise.
“Romeo,” I say as he kneels before me. I remove his ring from the box and slide it onto his pinky finger. “Wear this, not just as a symbol of loyalty, but as a bond that can’t be broken. This ring marks more than just blood. It marks trust, honour, and a promise. You stand with me now; when I give my word, it’s yours to carry too. Keep it close, and never forget this is not just a family; it’s a life. You protect it, and it will protect you.”
He grasps my hand once I’m done and kisses it as a sign of respect before standing.
When I was younger, I remember sitting back, watching my father and being in awe of his power. Now, I stand where he once did, and although I plan to do things differently, I’m confident I’ll make him proud.
I did a little work on Papa’s ring, adding a small blood red ruby in the centre to make it feel more like my own. In my eyes, it’s still his, but I wanted to personalise it. To me, it symbolises the rebirth I’m trying to bring to our Famiglia . It will carry the same foundation my father built, but just like the ring, I’ll add my own touch to elevate the overall structure.
The other rings for my men are decorated according to rank. Each is less ostentatious than the last. I left Edoardo’s plain because that nagging feeling in my gut is rarely wrong, so for now, I’m going to listen to it very carefully.
“Arabella,” I call out once I’ve handed out all the rings and the oaths are complete.
A few minutes later, she appears in the doorway to the formal dining room, holding a silver tray laden with crystal glasses. I asked her to prepare them before everyone arrived. Like the dutiful wife she is, she must have been waiting for my call.
Arabella hands me mine first, and after she distributes the rest of the drinks to my men, I pour a small amount of alcohol onto the bloodied picture of Saint Michael that’s now lying in the centre of the bowl.
“ Salute (Cheers)!” I say, raising my glass into the air.
“ Salute !” everyone replies.
I downed my drink in one gulp, place the glass on the table, and reach for the box of matches. Once I’ve lit the match, I drop it onto Saint Michael. The alcohol I tipped onto the image ignites with a slight whoosh , the flames licking the edges of the saint’s figure, casting a flickering glow. I’m so busy with the task at hand that I don’t notice my wife’s shift until the tray in her hand crashes to the ground with a heavy thud.
As the small fire grows, my gaze snaps to her. Only then do I notice her ghostly pale complexion and how the light from the flames seems to wash over her, highlighting the coldness in her skin.
“ Bellezza ,” I say, taking a step in her direction just as she extends her arm and pushes me aside.
My eyes follow her as she picks up a glass of water from the table and tips it into the bowl, extinguishing the flames with a hiss. The room falls silent as a string of smoke swirls in the air.
When my attention flickers up to her face, I see the tears clouding her eyes, and something shifts in the air. It’s an unspoken heaviness that seems to cross between us.
“Everybody out,” I bark.
My men don’t hesitate, clearing the room with the kind of quiet obedience I’ve come to expect.
I turn back to her, trying to steady my breath, but the tension in my chest tightens. “Why did you do that?” I ask, my tone remains low as I try not to show my frustration.
The question hangs in the air. Was it the burning of the saint, the fire, the ritual? Did I somehow cross one of her invisible lines?
“ Tesoro (Sweetheart),” I murmur when the first tear falls, tracing a path down her cheek; I can’t stand seeing her like this. “Are you upset that I set an image of Saint Michael on fire?”
“I-I,” she stammers, her breath hitching as she struggles to find the words.
“Talk to me,” I press gently, stepping closer to cup her face, trying to bridge the distance between us without crowding her. Something in her voice and the torment in her eyes tells me there’s more going on here than I can see.
“The fire … it …”
“It what?”
“It brings back memories,” she says, her voice trembling as she presses her face into my chest.
“Memories?”
“Of … my mother. Of her burning alive,” she chokes out with a sob.
I rear back slightly, startled by her omission. “Your mother died in a fire?” I ask, my voice soft with disbelief.
“Yes!”