Chapter 39
LORENZO
After Emily leaves to walk Biscotti, I look out the high-rise window as if I can see her through the maze of green.
Then I go to Dante’s penthouse upstairs.
I have to act calm and controlled in front of Emily, like entrails are sent on people’s doorstep every day.
But as soon as I’m in front of Dante in his office, I can no longer control my anger.
“Lorenzo. Calm down,” Dante says, the picture of calm as I stand ranting in front of him.
“It isn’t like you to lose your edge over something like this. We’ve managed Petrov threats before. We’ll survive this one.”
“The Petrovs came into my territory, Dante. They touched what’s mine. This clever little arrangement with her uncle was supposed to clean up the gaming commission, not put a bullseye on my wife.”
I sink into a leather chair, forcing myself to rein in my anger.
“The arrangement worked,” Dante says, his black eyes finally rising to meet mine. Unreadable. Ice-cold.
“Her uncle stepped off the commission yesterday, citing the family tie. Exactly as planned.”
“Which backed the Russians into a corner,” I snap, rising and leaning down until I’m in his space. “And when rats get cornered, they bite. They didn’t just drop a warning, Dante. They sent a message directly to Emily.”
“And now, we wait,” Dante says, leaning back in his leather chair, the picture of absolute, unyielding control.
He looks too much like our father in his prime—calculating lives like numbers on a balance sheet.
“Until the time is right. Emily is insulated.”
“Insulated?” A dark, humorless laugh cuts through my chest.
“They served her a plate of fucking entrails on our doorstep. That isn’t a threat, Dante. That’s a timer counting down. You think your containment plan stops a Russian hit squad when they’ve already crossed my threshold?”
Dante’s expression doesn’t shift, but the silence stretches tight enough to snap.
He isn’t used to me questioning his calculus.
“She’s protected because I say she is, Renzo,” Dante says, his voice flat, dropping an octave. “Our best men are monitoring the situation. Stand down. Keep your eyes on the casino. When it’s time to spill blood, you’ll be the one holding the blade.”
I stare at him, feeling the dark, violent pulse vibrating in my own throat.
To the Iceberg, everything is strategy. But Emily isn’t strategy.
“You better be right, Dante,” I say, backing away slowly, my hands opening and closing at my sides. “You better be right.”