22. Alessandro #2
His refusal doesn't surprise me. I wouldn’t come either. At the same time, I know Marco will consider changing his plans if only to get closer to my men. To see what he can glean about my organization.
When I arrive home, I retreat to my office and find an expensive bottle of Macallan 25 with a note from Marco expressing his regrets about missing dinner sitting on my desk.
“Sir.”
I look up to see my butler in the doorway.
“Is everything ready?” I ask him as I pick up the bottle.
“Yes sir. Mrs. Dante is waiting in the dining room.”
I hold up the bottle toward him.
“I believe that was delivered to Mrs. Dante.”
“Thank you.” With the bottle in hand, I make my way to the dining room.
I watch from the doorway as Isabella directs the staff. She's transformed the formal dining room in a few hours to something warm and inviting. A buffet of food is laid out and the bar is fully stocked, with one of the staff ready to make drinks.
Her chestnut hair falls in soft waves down her back, and I remember the way it felt to run my fingers through it.
The simple black dress she wears clings to her curves.
Watching her take on the role of my wife, not just in my bed, but in my home, with my staff, brings up the feelings I keep trying to suppress.
Despite not fully trusting her, I want her.
Isabella turns, finally spotting me. "Is something wrong?"
"No. Everything looks perfect." I move to her, giving her a kiss on the cheek even though what I want to do is toss her over my shoulder, take her to my bed, and sink into her body until I’m too exhausted to do anything but fall asleep.
The tension between us morphs from detached duty to the sizzle of attraction. I give up on the idea of taking her up to bed and instead think about dismissing the staff and laying her across the set table and losing myself in her again.
Tonight, perhaps. After the dinner. After I've shown strength and appreciation to my men and made it clear the Dante empire stands unshaken, then I can take her to our bed.
My men begin to arrive, and I turn my attention away from my new wife.
I raise the bottle of Macallan 25, the amber liquid catching the light. "A gift from my father-in-law," I announce to the men who've served me loyally through hell and back.
“You’re going to share that?” Adriano asks, impressed. “I’d hoard it if it were me.”
“That’s why I’m the Don.” I arch a brow. It’s the closest I come to teasing him.
I pour glasses for each of my men, as well as Adriano and myself. Isabella stands next to me with her dutiful Mafia wife demeanor.
"To the Dante family," I say, holding my glass up. "And to all of you who make this family strong."
"To the Dantes!"
Before I can drink, Isabella touches my arm. “Am I still needed?”
I glance down at her. “I’d like you to stay by my side.”
She gives me a smile that irks me in its duty over warmth. “Of course.”
I turn my attention back to the room, where my men are laughing and chatting. Adriano is checking his phone, no doubt texting with Eva or Mirabella.
Then Paulie, one of my captains, freezes mid-laugh. His glass slips from his fingers, shattering on the hardwood floor.
"Paulie?" Antonio's voice turns concerned.
Paulie clutches his throat, his face contorting and turning red. He pitches forward onto the table. Then Antonio seizes up, his body going rigid as his eyes roll back.
“Jokers.” Adriano lifts his glass to his lips.
"DON'T DRINK!" I knock the glass from his hand, sending scotch spraying across the floor.
All around us, men are collapsing. Choking. Foam bubbles from their lips as they convulse and fall to the floor. Dying.
My mind races. The scotch. Marco's gift. That smug bastard sent poison right through my front door, and I served it to my most loyal men like a fucking offering.
Isabella's scream cuts through the chaos. Her face is pale with horror as she backs away, hands pressed to her mouth.
"Get the doctor!" I shout at her, but she stands frozen, staring at the bodies. "ISABELLA!"
Her eyes snap to mine, wide with shock or maybe guilt.
"Get the doctor NOW!" I roar, already knowing it's too late for most of them.
I should have killed Marco Vitale when I had the chance. I had him by the throat. One squeeze, and the Vitales would be headless.
Instead, I played diplomat.
"Antonio, stay with me," I urge, kneeling beside my underboss who writhes on the floor, his eyes bulging with terror as he fights for breath. He grips my sleeve, trying to speak, but only bloody foam spills from his lips.
This man has been with me since I was a boy. Kept my secrets. Protected my family. Now he's dying on my dining room floor because I underestimated my enemy.
Because I was too fucking distracted.
I watch helplessly as life leaves his eyes, his grip on my sleeve going slack. These men trusted me to protect them. To lead them. I’ve failed them all.
"Boss," one of the surviving lieutenants calls, his voice cracking. "Five dead already. Three more won't make it."
Eight men. Eight loyal soldiers wiped out in minutes.
Isabella returns with the doctor. She hovers at the doorway, staring at the carnage with wide, horrified eyes.
Or is it an act?
She's a Vitale.
Eight men died before my eyes, and all I can think is… Did she know?