Chapter 22 #2
Giovanni turns his head slowly, his expression calm in a way that makes my spine straighten.
“Yes,” he replies evenly. “This is my wife.”
A beat passes.
Another man leans back in his chair, folding his arms. “You could have sent her away for this.”
Giovanni’s mouth curves, faint and humourless. “Vèru. I could have,” he agrees. “But I did not.”
The smirk returns, sharper now. “That is not how things are usually done.”
Giovanni inclines his head slightly, as if considering the statement. “I keep hearing that, over and over. And my answer will always be the same. That,” he says, voice unhurried, “is because I am no one’s version of usual. Find your way to accepting that before you do yourself a mischief.”
The room shifts, a barely-there rustle that nevertheless raises hairs on arms and napes.
I feel it, the recalibration, the way attention sharpens and calculations begin to rewrite themselves.
The dragon is rousing, and they best take heed.
Another voice cuts in, older, rougher. “You’re asking us to believe you would risk everything for sentiment.”
Giovanni’s gaze flicks to the speaker, dismissive in its precision. “I’m not asking you to believe anything,” he replies. “I’m simply telling you what is already true.”
The man who smirked earlier lets out a soft laugh. His eyes flick back to me, lingering, disrespectful. “And what,” he says, “does she bring to the table, exactly?”
Before Giovanni can answer, I do something very small.
I turn my head and I meet the man’s eyes. I don’t smile or speak. I simply look at him, steady and unflinching, and then I lace my fingers through Giovanni’s and lift his hand to my lap, settling it right there on my thigh with quiet, deliberate certainty.
The effect is immediate.
Giovanni’s breath changes and the room goes still. Stiller.
The man’s smile falters, not because I’ve intimidated him, but because Giovanni has by calling his bluff. All their bluffs. By letting them see the force of our combined power.
Don and Donna.
My husband stares down at our intertwined fingers for a long beat, then he turns back to the table, voice calm, almost bored. “You will not look at her like that again,” he says. “If you do, I will remove your eyes and replace them with someone who understands where to focus his attention.”
It’s not threat dressed as poetry. It’s just a statement of outcome.
The man swallows as another man laughs, sharp and uneasy.
And Giovanni continues as if nothing has happened. “I did not come here to ask for recognition or permission,” he says. “After your actions in my city, you deserve neither my respect nor my cooperation. So I came here to inform you of a decision.”
Murmurs ripple through the room. He lets them.
“Chicago,” Giovanni goes on, “is available. The South Side, to be specific. The entirety of it can be taken under consideration in a number of years, provided you behave yourselves.”
That gets their attention.
Bodies lean forward. Brows lift. The room inhales as one.
“I am willing,” he says, “to grant La Fratellanza Nera operational control over specific sectors. Logistics. Distribution. Enforcement within defined boundaries.”
A pause, and I know every last one of them is holding their breath.
“Under Dragoni oversight.”
The scepticism is immediate.
One man scoffs. “You expect us to believe this is generosity.”
Giovanni’s gaze sharpens. “You don’t deserve generosity from me and you will not get it,” he replies. “This is structure. Rare opportunity.”
Another man leans in. “And if we refuse?”
Giovanni smiles then, slow and deliberate. “Then you will force me to remind you why my name is spoken quietly.”
Silence settles, thick and absolute.
I feel it then, the clarity blooming in my chest as I watch them weigh his words, not as a threat, but as an inevitability. He’s not offering them Chicago because he must. He’s offering it because once they accept, they’ll need him to keep it.
They will depend on Dragoni protection, Dragoni logistics, Dragoni restraint. And dependence, I realise, is the most elegant leash of all.
The head of the table finally speaks. “And your wife,” he says carefully. “Her position—”
Giovanni does not hesitate. “She’s more than my wife. She’s my Donna. And should it need clarifying, that means she’s double untouchable,” he says flatly.
A few men exchange looks.
Giovanni’s hand tightens around mine. “Make no mistake, gentlemen, if someone disagrees then they will die,” he says. “And I will attend the funeral to piss on their graves.”
The room holds its breath and bodies shift in their seats. But even before quiet discussions start and then die just as quickly, I know they’re afraid. And they understand.
That no single man is willing to rise against Don Dragoni.
“Take the day,” Giovanni offers. “Hell, take the week. Come back when you’re ready to agree to my terms. Or don’t come at all.”
As the meeting draws towards its conclusion, agreements sketched in language that pretends this is business and not survival, I feel something settle inside me with quiet certainty.
And when we stand to leave, Giovanni doesn’t rush and he doesn’t look back.
He simply turns, my hand still in his, and walks out, leaving the world to adjust itself to his whim and terms.
In the car, the door closing with a soft, final sound, my breath leaves me in a rush I realise I was half holding.
Giovanni glances at me, eyebrow lifting. “You were very quiet.”
I look at him, my pulse still racing. “I was watching,” I reply honestly.
His mouth curves. “And?”
“And I understand now,” I say. “Why no one dares challenge you outright.”
His gaze warms, pride flickering through it, sharp and unmistakable. “Good,” he says. “Because this was only the beginning.”
I look out the window as the city slides past, my reflection staring back at me, steadier than it has ever been.
And with startling clarity, probably since the night I ran, I know exactly where I stand.
Not separate and apart from him.
I stand within the circle of Giovanni’s power, where protection and possession blur into something far more dangerous.
And far more enduring.