1. Gianna #2
Our accounts are still flush enough to buy loyalty where needed, to host dinners that remind the right people that the name Rossi still carries weight, even if it is a different kind of weight now.
We invest quietly.
Construction projects on the outskirts of the city.
Import-export businesses tied to the new shipping routes controlled by the Salvatores.
Pharmaceuticals smuggled in crates labeled as medical aid.
Weapons moved through back channels opened by old contacts in the south.
It is enough.
Enough to live well, if not loudly.
Enough to keep our pride without inviting too much scrutiny.
Enough to ensure that the next generation of Rossis grows up knowing the taste of power, even if it is not served to them on a silver platter.
But enough is a dangerous thing.
It breeds complacency.
And complacency, in a city like this, is just another word for death.
I turn from the railing, restless, the conversation at the bar replaying in my mind with a clarity that unsettles me.
Dante Salvatore.
The one they say Luca himself cannot fully leash.
A wild card.
A beautiful disaster waiting to happen.
Moving to the vanity, I flip open one of the leather notebooks.
Lists of names, accounts, shipments.
Notes written in a hand sharper than my brother's.
My work.
My quiet rebellion against becoming another ornamental branch on the family tree.
I have brokered deals that kept this family afloat while Rafa played at politics and my cousins drowned themselves in whiskey.
I have learned to navigate a world where loyalty is a leash and ambition is a blade, and I have done it without losing myself.
But tonight, something has shifted.
A tremor in the earth beneath the surface of this carefully constructed peace.
I can feel it.
Dante is not a man who plays at politics.
He is a man who sets the table on fire just to see who runs and who stays to burn.
And I, fool that I am, am curious enough to wonder which one I will be.
Lightning rips the sky open and brings thunder with it.
Rain begins falling, softly at first, then heavier, drumming against the balcony stones.
I close the balcony doors and draw the curtains, shutting out the night, but the restlessness does not leave me.
I flip open the ledger I keep in the second drawer, scanning tomorrow’s schedule.
The shipping broker is due at ten.
The customs liaison at noon.
A string of accounts need reconciling before the end of day, and a report must be finalized and forwarded.
Just then, Rafa walks in without knocking.
He’s always assumed my time is his to interrupt, as if the title of eldest son still grants him seniority over everything, including the hours I steal from my own sleep to keep our half-buried empire from slipping under entirely.
He says nothing at first, choosing to just stand at the threshold instead.
"The Salvatores sent word," he finally says, voice casual. "Tomorrow’s meeting…Dante will be there."
That gets my attention.
I look up slowly, pen still over the column of figures.
"Not Marco?"
Rafa shrugs.
"Luca’s letting the youngest cut his teeth. They’re moving pieces. Testing waters. Call it whatever you want."
I lean back in my chair, my fingers still curled around the pen.
"And we’re part of the waters, I take it?"
He doesn’t answer that.
Just gives me the look—the one he’s used since we were children, whenever he thought I was getting too clever for my own good.
"Don’t make this difficult," he says instead, walking further in. "He’s not there to slit throats. Just to listen. Maybe weigh options. And maybe," his voice drops a notch, "you make yourself…memorable."
My mouth goes dry.
Rafa, oblivious or pretending to be, continues, "You know how this works, Gianna. Half of what we have now, we only have because they didn’t gut us like the Lombardis. You want to keep your seat at the table, remind them you’re not just paperwork and profit margins."
He doesn’t say it outright, but the implication hangs between us like old smoke.
Be charming.
Be agreeable.
Be the kind of woman a Salvatore man might want to keep around.
It doesn’t matter that I rebuilt our books from the ground up, that I negotiated the Viennese arms deal when he was too drunk to read the manifest.
All of that folds under one unspoken truth: in this world, a woman’s usefulness is never just about what she brings to the room.
It’s about how the men in it look at her.
Still, I don’t bite.
I push the ledger aside and close it with a clean snap, keeping my tone easy. "Of course."
He studies me a moment longer, waiting for resistance.
When he doesn’t find any, he nods once, already moving toward the door.
"Wear the crimson dress," he says without looking back. "The one with the slit." With that, he’s gone, his footsteps fading into the muted hush of carpeted floors.
I set the ledger aside and cross the room to my closet.
My hand skims past the usual dresses, the tailored navy, the black silk, the soft greys that belong to boardrooms and polite negotiations.
I am not reaching for those.
Instead, I pull out the crimson dress tucked against the far side, which I have not worn since the last major deal we closed six months ago.
It is sleek, cut close to the body, modest enough to be respectable but with a slit that slides high enough up the thigh to catch attention if someone is looking.
And he will be looking.
I drape it carefully over the chair by the window, smoothing the fabric flat with my palms.
Then I lay the matching heels beside it.
Tomorrow, I will sit across from Dante Salvatore at whatever table he chooses.
I will hand him the necessary documents, recite the necessary figures, smile the necessary smile.
And while I do, I will watch him watch me.
Tonight, though, I stay in the quiet, the scent of rain still threading through the open window, and let the thought of the future settle within me.