14. Dante
DANTE
T he next morning settles into the south wing with a hush that feels almost sacred.
For once, I don't wake to silk sheets tangled around a stranger’s limbs or the noise of the city bleeding in through the windows.
There is warmth beside me, not heat; softness, not seduction.
The scent clinging to the pillows is Gianna’s—orchids and something citrusy beneath them, a ghost of a perfume that I never learned the name of.
I lie still, watching the ceiling catch the pale sweep of early sunlight as it spills through the high windows.
For a moment, I don't move.
The rhythm of life is different now.
It's slow and steady, but not dreadful in the way I thought it would be.
Not like chains, not like a sentence.
There is gravity to it, yes, but it feels earned.
Real.
Gianna stirs, still tangled in the sheet, her brow furrowing as if even in sleep she is already calculating something.
I watch her for a breath longer, then slide out of bed, take a shower and dress without noise.
The morning air has cooled, the estate’s old stone walls holding onto the breath of night.
My shirt clings damp against my back where the shower hadn’t fully dried me.
I leave my tie undone.
In the hallway, the staff pretend not to look, but I catch the glance one of the servers gives as I pass him on the way to the garden.
There’s a different tone to his nod now, it shows less deference and more acknowledgement.
As if marrying Gianna has made me into something permanent, something rooted, in a way the Salvatore name alone never did.
I follow the muffled sound of giggles until I reach the terrace.
The garden lies just beyond, glowing with sunlight.
The olive trees sway in a breeze too soft to feel from the hallways.
The twins are out there, racing along the low stone wall that wraps around the lavender beds, their curls flying, barefoot despite the dew still clinging to the grass.
A housekeeper attempts to trail them with a disapproving look, holding out a pair of shoes as if that might make them stop.
It doesn’t.
They shriek with laughter when they see me.
Arietta barrels forward first, mouth full of questions.
Alessia follows, slower, eyes sharp and steady.
She watches everything I do like she’s measuring me against some metric I’ll never see.
Arietta grabs my hand, tugging hard enough that I almost stumble.
"You said we could see the horses today."
I raise an eyebrow.
"Did I?"
"You promised," she says, though I know I didn’t.
"Then I must have been drugged. Only way I’d agree to something so early."
Arietta’s mouth twitches. They begin chattering over each other, explaining their plans for the day, the games they’ve invented, the flowers they’ve named.
Somewhere in that stream of words is a mention of school.
A quiet, half-thought sentence that sticks.
I kneel down, brushing hair from Arietta ’s forehead.
"What school?"
"Miss Marina’s. Our nanny showed us the pictures. The one with the purple gate and the turtle fountain."
It takes me a minute to place it.
A small, private school just outside the villa district, attached to the convent but run independently now.
Luca had it cleared years ago for associates’ children.
Quiet. Safe. Untraceable.
"You like it?"
Both nod, a little too fast.
That automatic eagerness kids get when they think a wrong answer might get something taken away.
"It’s close," Arietta says, "but far enough that we get to ride in the big car."
I nod, my voice softer now.
"Then you’ll go. I’ll make sure of it."
It is such a small thing.
A few minutes of conversation, a handful of reassurances.
But the look Gianna gives me when she finds us later, my sleeves rolled up and Arietta playing in my lap, is not small.
She watches for longer than she needs to, saying nothing.
I don't move.
I want her to see it.
I want her to know I am trying.
I mean it when I say I want this to work.
I am not ready.
I am not sure I will ever be.
But I will not run from them.
Not now.
We eat late breakfast in the garden, the four of us.
Gianna divides the fruit.
I pour the coffee.
The girls spill more juice than they drink, but no one raises their voice.
It is strangely domestic, like something from a memory that does not belong to me.
Between bites of pastrami sandwich, I tell her about the school.
She's nervous at first, but eventually agrees when she sees the earnestness in the eyes of the girls.
All I need to do is make a quick call, and they'll be in.
Once that's out of the way, I do take them all to see the horses.
The stables sit on the far edge of the estate, nearly a mile from the south wing where we sleep.
You have to pass the orchard, the vineyard, the dried-out tennis court no one’s bothered to resurface in a decade.
When I was younger, they were kept only for show, for clients, for dignitaries, for deals that required something more elegant than a dining room.
Now, they’re a luxury still, but not paraded around.
Arietta tumbles out from the golf cart after me before I can stop her, landing in a splash of muddy grit with a triumphant laugh.
Gianna’s hand shoots out instinctively to steady Alessia, who climbs down more carefully.
She wears her mother's frown today, the one that looks carved from restraint and observation.
The horses stir before we’re even through the gate.
They know the sound of our engines by now.
Costello, the jet-black stallion I never let anyone else ride, tosses his head and paws at the bedding in his stall, already impatient.
Two stablehands wait outside, nodding as we approach, their postures straightening like they’re about to meet a general.
Gianna walks between the girls.
She’s swapped her silk blouse for something plainer, more durable—tucked into dark riding pants and boots that have seen use.
Practical.
Gorgeous.
It smells like hay, leather, and clean sweat inside.
The morning sun falls in narrow shafts through the slatted roof, gilding the dust as it floats.
The twins dart ahead before I can catch them, their excitement crackling through the stable like static.
"They know not to run behind them," Gianna says.
"I know," I murmur, watching Arietta throw both arms around the neck of a patient roan mare named Cielo. "But they’ll test everything anyway. It’s what children do."
Costello stamps again, the heavy ring of his hooves echoing.
I move toward him without thinking, pressing a hand to his neck to steady him.
His muscle tenses, then settles.
There’s always been something ancient in his gaze.
Alessia reaches him next, tiny palms held up like she's approaching royalty.
"He’s too big," she says, awed, then turns to me. "Can I ride him?"
I kneel, meeting her eyes.
"Not yet. But one day, if you learn to ride properly and treat him with respect."
"Do you ride him?"
"When I need to."
Her brow furrows. "Do you need to a lot?"
I glance at Gianna, who’s running her hand down Cielo’s neck, murmuring something in Sicilian that makes the mare sigh. "I used to," I say.
There is a small paddock behind the stables, hedged with olive trees and lined with white stone.
The twins climb the fence like it’s a jungle gym, shrieking with delight when one of the grooms brings out two smaller horses that are already saddled.
They are glossy and calm.
Gianna doesn’t sit.
She leans against the fence, arms folded, the shadow of a smile teasing her lips.
I move beside her, handing her a thermos of coffee one of the staff packed without asking.
She doesn’t thank me, but she drinks.
"They’re fearless," I say quietly, watching Arietta tug on the reins like she’s commanding a tank.
"They’re pretending they don’t see you watching," Gianna answers. "But they see everything."
I nod, eyes on the girls as they circle the paddock, their laughter cutting clean through the wind. "It doesn’t scare you?"
Gianna’s eyes are unreadable.
"Of course it does. But fear isn’t the enemy. Not knowing where it hides—that’s what kills you."
Costello makes a low sound behind us, a rustle of tension in his muscles.
I glance back at him, and something in his stillness reminds me of my father’s temper—controlled, dangerous, never soft even when still.
"I want them to have this," I say. "Not as a performance. Not just because their last name gives them privilege."
The wind picks up. Somewhere in the trees, a dove calls out, lonely and low.
I step into the paddock finally, lifting Arietta from the saddle and spinning her until she laughs so hard she hiccups.
Alessia protests until I lift her too, quieter, clinging tighter.
When I look up, Gianna is watching us as if she is holding the image in her mind.
The peace lasts until the next afternoon, when I'm summoned by the oldest Salvatore.
I find them both in the west study.
Marco leans against the fireplace mantle, flipping through one of the ledgers I’m fairly certain is just for show.
Luca stands behind the desk, his arms crossed, the light from the stained-glass window throwing fractured color across his collar.
I shut the door behind me, taking the seat they left conspicuously vacant.
"Congratulations," Marco says without looking up. "You looked almost respectable on your wedding day."
I say nothing.
Luca’s the one who matters in this room.
He watches me, his expression unreadable.
"You’re a married man now."
"I was there. I remember."
Luca’s mouth does not twitch, but Marco snorts.
Luca continues.
"You are no longer just a Salvatore. You are husband to a Rossi.
And whether either of you like it or not, that makes your daughters part of the house as well.
You don't get to exist at the edge anymore.
No more ghosting from clubs to contacts and pretending your name shields you from the cost of your choices. You are one of us. Fully. Now."
His voice does not rise, but I feel then strike clean anyway.
I lean back. "I never pretended."
Luca cuts me off.
"You did. You’re not going to anymore. This marriage was not just to patch your mistakes.
It was a strategic decision. And you are going to make sure it pays off.
Publicly. Politically. Personally. If the name Salvatore is going to continue holding what we have built, then every son of this house needs to carry his share. "
Marco finally closes the book.
"Which means no more brothels. No more disappearing to Marrakesh. No more cleaning up bodies that no one ordered you to drop."
I meet Luca’s gaze.
"And what do I get in return?"
"Gianna. Your daughters. A position. A future."
I sit in silence, the scent of Gianna’s skin still lingering on the cuff of my shirt.
The memory of Arietta ’s laugh still echoing in the back of my mind.
Marco looks at me hard.
"It’s time to grow up."
I stay silent for a beat too long.
Luca doesn’t blink.
Marco’s leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, the kind of posture that says there’s more coming and none of it good.
Luca reaches over to the decanter at his side and pours another glass, not for himself, but for me.
Slides it across the old table between us. "Drink," he says.
I do.
Not because I need it, but because I know better than to pretend this is casual.
The whiskey’s older than I am.
It burns clean, like it’s trying to cauterize whatever wound’s about to be carved open within me.
Marco speaks first, his voice low but firm.
"You’ve heard the chatter in the city, haven’t you?"
I shrug, just enough to say maybe.
I’ve heard plenty.
Half of it nonsense, the other half just true enough to keep the streets tense.
New power always draws noise.
But they’re not talking about that.
"There’s discontent," Marco says. "Not from the outside. From within."
Luca’s fingers drum against the armrest of his chair.
"Some of our own men think we forgot what built this family. They say we’ve gone soft. That we bought our way into power instead of earning it with blood."
I set the glass down, slower than I need to. "They’re not wrong, not exactly. We didn’t inherit the old guard. We carved our own seat at the table."
"That’s not comfort," Luca says. "That’s the problem. They think we don’t have the stomach to hold it."
Marco stands, crosses to the window where the light cuts sharp against the curtain.
"Last week, shipments were held up at the port. We lost three crates and had to bribe the inspector more than usual. Two days ago, the Belvini crew intercepted one of our cars near the garment district. Only let it go after they stripped it bare."
"Why the hell didn’t anyone tell me this?" I ask.
Luca lifts a brow. "You were busy, little brother."
That one lands.
I don’t flinch, but I feel it.
The shift.
The expectation that I was always going to be the wildcard in a silk suit with a sharp smile and soft hands.
They gave me time because they thought I’d burn myself out.
They gave me a wife because they thought it would settle me.
And now, they’re laying the ledger bare.
I lean forward, resting my forearms on my knees.
"You think they’re testing us."
"I know they are," Luca replies. "They want to see if we’ll fight for what we built."
"And if we don’t?"
Marco turns from the window. "Then we lose the city. Inch by inch. Not in one clean coup, but in a hundred little betrayals. And once we bleed enough, someone bigger steps in."
It’s not just business anymore.
It never was, but this is different.
The idea that our own men might be the ones holding the knife—there’s history in that.
Men who forget where they came from tend to dig up the past to make a new future.
And the Salvatore name might be carved into marble now, but it’s still fresh.
Still drying.
"You want me to help," I say, though it’s not a question.
Luca lifts his glass. "No. We want you to lead."
My laugh is hollow. "You’re not retiring, Luca."
"No," he agrees. "But I’m no longer in the streets. You are. They know your face. You’re the one they followed into clubs and back alleys, into back rooms with stacks of cash and silk-draped girls. They looked up to you once. If there's anyone who can rally the forces, it's you."
I bristle, but Marco’s nod cuts through the heat rising in my chest.
"He’s right. You’re not just a Salvatore anymore. You’re a father. You’re a husband. That’s power, Dante. If you wear it right."
I sit back.
Let it settle.
Let the past seven years of indulgence and chaos trickle back in, then flicker away like ash.
I’ve been many things.
Reckless.
Charming.
Disposable.
But never useless.
And never unready.
"All right," I say finally. "Then teach me. Show me how you’ve been running this empire without me. I’m ready to know what I’ve been missing."
Luca gives nothing away.
But Marco smiles, just faintly, as he crosses the room to pour himself a drink. "Be careful what you ask for, little brother."
"I’m not asking," I say, standing. "I’m stepping up."