Chapter 12
Harlow
The night air is the first thing that hits me as I step out of the plane. It’s warm, thick with the scent of salt and citrus, carrying the unmistakable weight of summer even though it’s not quite June yet. A week from now, it will be. The last stretch of May clings to the heat, the transition between spring and the full intensity of an Italian summer.
Naples smells different from Palermo. Less aged, less steeped in the slow, sun-worn history of Sicily. Here, the air is sharper, laced with the brine of the sea and the faintest trace of gasoline from the runway. It’s lively in a way that reminds me this city doesn’t sleep easily.
I move down the stairs of the private jet, stepping onto the tarmac. Behind me, I know Dante is following, his presence felt even before I see him.
A line of black SUVs is waiting, stationed outside the aircraft. Men stand at attention, their postures rigid, their eyes trained on us.
Salvatore’s Camorra.
The sight of them is a reminder of the world I’ve walked into, the one I am bound to now.
As I step toward the car, I feel the warmth of a palm at the small of my back. A single touch, subtle but firm.
I tense instinctively but don’t pull away.
His men shift, parting slightly as one of them steps forward, one I haven’t met before. He’s Dante’s age, built solid, his sharp features cast in the soft glow of the overhead lights, accentuated by the dim, evening ambiance. There’s a quiet confidence in the way he carries himself, an ease that suggests he’s been at Dante’s side long enough to know he has nothing to prove. The man’s hair is cut short, a clean buzz cut, and he sports a neatly trimmed beard. His eyes, blue, almost startling in their intensity, command attention the moment they land on you. They’re the kind of eyes that don’t just look, they hold.
“This is Mario,”
Dante states, his voice steady yet carrying an unmistakable weight of finality.
“My right hand.”
Mario’s eyes flick to me.
Assessing.
Measuring.
“Finally, we meet.”
He says, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
He extends his hand. I take it.
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” I reply.
His smirk deepens as he lifts my hand and presses a kiss to my palm.
Dante doesn’t like that.
A low growl escapes him, frustration seeping through despite his attempt to mask it. I catch the fleeting glimmer of irritation in his eyes, he despises himself for letting it show. He pulls my hand from Mario’s grasp.
“A handshake would have sufficed.”
He says, his tone pointed.
Mario raises a brow, but refrains from commenting. He’s clearly amused, though not foolish. Instead, he inclines his head slightly before redirecting his focus back to his boss.
“The men are prepared. Everything is in order.”
Dante responds with a quick nod, then turns his attention to the rest of the men.
“This is my fiancée, Harlow.”
His voice cuts through the air.
“You will guard her with every ounce of your being. Anyone who dares to touch or disrespect her, won’t live long enough to see the consequences. Make certain this reaches everyone.”
There’s a collective shift, an unspoken understanding passing between them. They nod, some murmuring their acknowledgments. Mario shakes his head slightly, muttering under his breath.
“I’ll be damned. Never saw this day coming.”
I feign ignorance to his comment.
Dante guides me into the SUV without uttering another word.
Inside, the leather upholstery is cool against my skin. Mario takes the front passenger seat, and the driver pulls away smoothly. Dante settles next to me, his presence heavy in the dimly lit cabin.
He and Mario slip into business, their conversation shifting into the language of the underworld, territories, shipments, men who need reminding where their loyalties lie. I listen without meaning to, catching fragments of information.
And I see how effortlessly Dante commands this world. He’s in his element here, unapologetic. He knows he owns this city and the people in it.
We wind through the streets, quieter at this hour but never truly still. The glow of golden lights reflects off the bay, illuminating everything in their path. It’s truly beautiful.
The drive doesn’t take long. Soon, the estate comes into view.
Perched on the outskirts of Naples, it looms on a hill overlooking the sea. The villa is sprawling, with classic Neapolitan architecture and modern touches, large windows that catch the pale glow of the moonlight. The structure is built to intimidate and impress in equal measure. Beyond the entrance, I catch glimpses of olive trees and the shadowy outlines of a private vineyard, barely visible in the darkness. The scent of the earth mingles with the cool, crisp air rolling in from the sea.
Men are stationed at every corner, the estate heavily guarded. Dante steps out first, then extends a hand toward me. I take it, and together we make our way toward the house.
As we enter, the interior greets us with the same striking elegance, minimalist yet opulent, with dark tones commanding the space. It’s past eleven, late enough that I expect the house to be quiet.
I am mistaken.
A door opens somewhere within the estate, followed by the sound of quiet footsteps.
I glance toward the staircase just as a boy appears, descending with a self-assuredness that makes it clear he belongs here. He’s no older than ten, maybe seven or eight, with dark, curly hair. His features are so strikingly similar to Dante’s that it’s impossible to miss the resemblance.
I freeze.
The boy halts a few feet away, a flicker of uncertainty in his steps as he takes notice of me.
“Dad.”
He looks up at his father.
Dante exhales slowly.
“Come here.”
He gestures for him to approach.
“It’s late. You have school tomorrow. I thought you’d be asleep by now.”
The boy steps forward, and Dante pulls him into a hug.
“You were gone a long time.”
He murmurs against his chest, before gently pulling away.
Dante doesn’t react immediately. He studies his son for a long moment, his silence heavier than words. Then, with a subtle tilt of his head, he asks.
“Everything alright at home? School? Practice?”
The child squares his shoulders slightly, a hint of defensiveness. “Yeah.”
He pauses, then adds with a small, proud smile.
“I’m a big boy now, I can take care of myself!”
Something flickers in Dante’s expression, vanishing before I can name it. There’s pride in his son’s resilience, but also something heavier.
Dante finally nods, then gestures toward me.
“Mattia, this is Harlow. My fiancée.”
Mattia turns his gaze to me, his eyes, so much like his father’s, flicking over my face. He doesn’t offer a greeting at first, and for a moment, I wonder if he’ll ignore me entirely. But then, with a poise that’s too mature for his age, he straightens slightly and says.
“I’m Mattia Salvatore.”
Not just Mattia. His full name, a quiet assertion of who he is.
I nod, offering a soft smile.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mattia.”
He considers that for a beat, then gives the smallest dip of his head, before shifting his attention to Mario.
“I heard you were back a few days ago. How come I didn’t see you?”
Mario smirks, crossing his arms over his broad chest.
“You always hear things, don’t you?”
Mattia doesn’t answer, but a smug expression crosses his face, as if he takes pleasure in knowing more than he lets on.
“Are you going to ask if I brought you something?”
Mario inquires, a brow arched in mild amusement.
Mattia shrugs nonchalantly.
“If you did, you would’ve given it to me already.”
Mario chuckles, shaking his head with a wry smile.
“Smartass.”
He pulls a small car from his suit jacket and hands it to the boy. Mattia’s face lights up, the joy in his expression undeniable.
“I can’t believe you got me this one! I can finally add it to my collection!”
Dante watches in silence, a faint smile tugging at his lips. There’s something about his son’s happiness that’s infectious, and for a moment, even the hardened man allows himself to enjoy the sight. Then, almost as an afterthought, he reaches into his own jacket and pulls out a small box, tossing it to Mattia. The boy catches it, fingers curling around the edges before flipping it open.
He smiles again, so bright it’s almost too much for his small face.
“Ferrero Rocher! My favourite!”
The enthusiasm is so pure, I don’t even realize I’m smiling.
Dante smirks slightly, his voice commanding.
“Do try to resist consuming them all before the night is through.”
“Maybe just one?”
Mattia asks excited.
“Only one, then. And see that you brush your teeth afterward.”
Dante’s tone is firm, yet there’s a subtle warmth beneath it.
Then he pauses, eyes narrowing just slightly as he adds.
“Alright, let’s call it a night. It has been an exceptionally long day.”
His gaze shifts to Mattia, the words turning pointed.
“You have school in the morning, and I highly doubt you’ll manage to keep your eyes open through your lessons.”
Mattia stands a little straighter, a flash of defensiveness crosses his expression, as if he’s trying to prove he can handle more than someone his age should. His gaze flickers to his father, seeking approval in the way he tries to mask his excitement with guarded maturity.
Despite his young age, it’s clear that Mattia understands the weight of the world around him.
He shifts.
“Ahh man. I don’t have curfew. Big boys don’t.”
“Apologies for shattering your illusion, young man, but you are indeed bound by a curfew.”
Mattia narrows his eyes at his father.
“Don’t call me little.”
He turns to leave but stops briefly, his gaze flicking back to me, neither hostile nor welcoming. Just observing. Dante’s voice cuts through the quiet.
“I’ll check in before you sleep.”
Mattia tenses, just slightly, before shrugging.
“I’m not a baby,”
he mutters.
“You don’t have to tuck me in.”
Dante’s expression doesn’t change, but something lingers in his eyes, regret, maybe. Like he hates that his son already feels the need to prove himself so much.
“I know,”
Dante says plainly.
“But I’ll still come see you off to bed.”
Mattia falters. Then, after a moment, he shrugs again, like it doesn’t matter either way. “Okay.”
And then he turns, ascending the stairs, the box of chocolates in one hand and his toy car in the other. As I watch him disappear, an uneasy twist coils in my stomach.
Dante has a son.
I didn’t know.
I should have.
I loathe being caught off guard.
Yet here I am, utterly blindsided.