Chapter 18
Dante
My wife keeps her distance.
And I allow it. For now.
Since our wedding night, I haven’t stepped foot in our bed. Sleep is a fleeting luxury, one I neither have the time nor the inclination to wallow in. My nights are spent elsewhere, consumed by the weight of responsibility, the unrelenting demands of my world. Between overseeing operations, keeping the families under my command in line, and waging war against my own damn thoughts, there’s been no room for anything else. And now, with the weight of this arranged marriage settling into place, there’s even more to handle. Merging alliances, securing loyalty, ensuring the foundations of this union hold, it's a battle of its own. One that requires precision, strategy, and control.
Control that’s been slipping ever since I put a ring on her finger. But that doesn’t mean I don’t watch.
I always keep my eyes on her, whether directly or through the estate’s surveillance. It’s become an obsession, a quiet fixation that gnaws at the edges of my control. A need.
And that alone fucking infuriates me.
I demand discipline in all things. Restraint.
Yet with her, I keep failing.
I observed my wife this morning, as I always do. Watched as those tight fucking leggings moulded to her body, clinging like a second skin, like they existed for no other purpose than to test my restraint. Every movement, every slow, languid stretch sent a sharp current of need straight to my cock, tightening something inside me that was already wound too fucking tight.
And then one of my men made a grave mistake.
He looked.
He dared to approach, and then he disrespected her.
Might as well have signed his own death warrant.
Which is why I’m here now, deep in the underbelly of my estate, where the walls have heard more screams than confessions. The air is thick with sweat, blood, and impending death. Before me, the bastard sits strapped to a chair, bleeding, trembling, drowning in the weight of his fate. My men stand in a silent formation, waiting. Watching.
No one speaks. They wouldn’t dare.
Everyone here knows what comes next, they’ve witnessed it before. There’s no need for words. Only action.
I pull my gun, the weight familiar in my grip. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, the tension wrapping itself around the man strapped to the chair like a noose.
And then I fire.
The first shot tears through his leg. A strangled scream rips from his throat, reverberating off the cold stone walls. I take my time. Let the pain settle in. Let the fear sink its claws deep.
Then I fire again.
Another shot. Another scream.
The sound is almost musical.
I watch, emotionless, as blood pools beneath the chair. His face twists in agony, his breathing ragged as he tries to suppress his cries. I step forward, lowering my gun. My voice remains calm and unaffected.
“You allowed your gaze to wander where it had no right to linger. You spoke to her with blatant disrespect,”
I say evenly.
“Entertaining thoughts expressly forbidden.”
A strangled groan escapes him, it’s the sole response he’s capable of offering.
Good.
I sweep my gaze over my men, letting the weight of my words settle like a blade at their throats.
“Let this be a lesson to every one of you, no one goes near my wife. If you see her, you turn the fuck around. You don’t speak to her. You don’t so much as breathe in her direction. The only thing you do is ensure her safety, even if it costs you your life.”
Silence grips the room, thick and suffocating.
Then Mario’s voice cuts through it, sharp and commanding.
“Your Capo has spoken!”
His roar reverberates off the stone walls.
A chorus of voices follows, swift and absolute.
“Sì, Don Salvatore.”
I turn back to the man in the chair, taking in the sight of him. His head hangs forward, blood pooling beneath him, but I don’t spare him another word.
Not worth it.
My gaze lifts to Mario instead, a single nod.
“You know what to do. Make sure I don’t see his face ever again.”
Mario smirks, as he steps forward.
“With pleasure, Capo.”
I don’t wait.
Without another word, I turn and leave, my boots striking against the stone floor, each step echoing as I ascend the stairs. The rage still burns beneath my skin, simmering, unspent. My wife is making me do things I never intended. But sentiment has no place in power. I am a ruler. A man who commands absolute control.
If my own men believe they can cross me without consequence, then my enemies will see weakness. And weakness is an invitation. A death sentence.
Discipline isn’t just a necessity, it’s the foundation of my rule. A kingdom without fear breeds rebellion, and I will not give anyone the illusion that I can be tested.
Not my men. Not my enemies. Not even her.
This marriage was never part of my plans. Never meant to be anything more than a strategic move.
And yet, here I am, spilling blood in her name. Losing sleep over a woman who should mean nothing. Letting thoughts of her consume me at all fucking hours of the day. And if it comes to that, killing for her, without hesitation or doubt.
I reach my office, intent on burying myself in work, but before I can step inside, my phone vibrates in my pocket. A deep frown settles on my brow as I pull out the phone. My wife’s name glows against the screen.
She never calls. The realization sends a sharp current through me, something dark and urgent stirring beneath the surface.
Swiftly, I answer. “Harlow—”
But the voice that greets me isn’t hers.
It’s Mattia.
“Dad, something’s wrong. We need you here.”
I don’t stop to think. I turn sharply, striding down the hall, barely registering my men as they fall into step behind me. The only thought in my mind is getting to them.
I take the wheel myself, pushing the car to its limits. A ten minute drive turns into five, tearing through the streets, breaking every rule of circulation without a second thought. When I finally pull up, my eyes immediately find them, my wife. My son.
Harlow stands there, her expression carefully composed, shoulders squared as if nothing can touch her. But I see it. That fucking habit, her silent confession. The way her nails dig into her palm, pressing hard enough to break skin. A tell she can’t conceal, no matter how hard she tries. Blood stains the hood of the car, stark against the paint, a crumpled note clutched in her hands.
She wants to appear unshaken, unaffected. Untouchable. But I know better. Her breathing is shallow, just a fraction too fast, controlled, but barely. She’s standing on the edge of a panic attack, fighting to keep herself from slipping, from giving in to the weight of it. Battling for control, even as it frays at the edges. I move, reaching for her, my hands gripping her shoulders. “Harlow.”
She doesn’t register me at first.
I cup her face, forcing her focus up.
“Look at me.”
My voice is firm.
Her eyes snap to mine.
“You’re okay,”
I murmur, my thumb gliding over her cheek.
“You’re okay.”
Her breathing steadies, slowly, but surely.
Without breaking eye contact, I carefully take the crumpled note from her hand, my fingers grazing hers for the briefest moment. A moment too short. Not enough. My jaw tightens as I scan the words, the ink carving itself into my mind like a brand. Rage coils in my gut, sharp and unforgiving. I glance at the car, blood staining the hood like a warning, like a fucking challenge.
I turn back to Harlow and Mattia.
“Let’s go.”
Mattia moves toward my car and slides into the back seat without a word, his steps quick, instinctively obedient. But when Harlow takes a step to follow, I stop her.
Before she can react, I lift my wife into my arms, holding her close, bridal style.
I fucking need this.
The rage inside me is unrelenting, burning through my veins, rattling in my bones, making my hold on her tighten. I need to feel her. To know she’s here.
Safe.
Breathing.
“Tell me you’re okay, baby.”
I whisper, my voice low, rough, a plea wrapped in a command.
She doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t need to. The tension in her frame, the way she grips my shirt, it tells me enough. I don’t let go until I reach the car, setting her in the passenger seat and fasten her seatbelt myself.
“Dante, I can do it…”
“Don’t argue with me right now.”
I say, my voice gruff.
I shut the door before she can respond or insist she doesn’t need my help. My eyes sweep over my enforcers, cutting through the chaos until I find Mario, already moving toward me.
“Find him,”
I growl.
“I want every security feed pulled. Raze the fucking earth until we have the bastard.”
Mario nods, his expression dark.
“Consider it done, Boss.”
His gaze moves to the car, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looks inside, scanning Harlow, assessing her through the glass, as if checking for any sign of injury. His scrutiny is careful, thorough, the kind of calculated observation that would go unnoticed by most.
But I see it. And it gets under my fucking skin.
I know it’s irrational. It should reassure me that she’s being watched over, that he’s placed her under his protection. It means she’s safe, that someone is ensuring her security in my absence. A necessary precaution in our world. And yet, it does nothing to silence the unrest creeping through me. Doesn’t temper the possessive fury tightening like a vise. But logic has no place where she’s concerned. We’ve already established that. When it comes to my wife, I’m fucking irrational. And I don’t like anyone looking at my woman.
I hold Mario’s stare for a moment longer than necessary before finally turning away, stepping into the car. The silence stretches between us as I pull onto the road. Harlow doesn’t say a word, her gaze fixed on the passing scenery, lost in thought. I let her be. I can’t ask the questions burning through me, not with Mattia in the car. But the moment we pull up to the estate, the restraint holding me together begins to fray. Mattia bolts out of the car and disappears upstairs. Harlow moves to follow, but I grab her wrist, halting her in place.
“Not so fast. You and I need to have a serious conversation.”
She sighs but doesn’t resist as I lead her toward my office.
Once the door closes behind us, I turn to face her, my tone unwavering.
“I’m listening. Start talking.”
My gaze sharpens.
“First your apartment, and now this? I expect answers, Harlow.”
I catch a flicker in her expression before she exhales sharply, steeling herself.
“I’ve been receiving these kinds of notes for some time now. But there was never blood before.”
Her throat bobs as she swallows, the weight of her words settling between us.
A slow, seething rage carves through me like a blade. My grip tightens, rage simmering beneath the surface, seeking an outlet. “Who?”
She exhales slowly, shaking her head.
“I don’t know.”
Her voice is quiet, reserved. She doesn’t elaborate, I can see her holding back, not yet ready to trust me fully. For now, I don’t press further, but something about this doesn’t sit right.
This isn’t merely a threat.
It’s a warning.
A promise.
Someone believes they can take her from me. A lethal fury coils inside my chest. My pulse is steady, controlled, but the violence simmering beneath the surface is ready to fucking detonate. I close the distance between us, my voice a quiet, deadly promise.
“You belong to me, Harlow. And no one lays a fucking hand on what’s mine.”
Her eyes flicker with something indiscernible, a shadow of emotion just out of reach.
“I don’t know what to tell you, Dante. I have no idea who he is or what he wants from me.”
I hold her gaze, my jaw tightening, my patience wearing thin.
“I’ll find out. And when I do, this bastard will wish he had died long before I got to him.”
That rage I carry? It doesn't just burn for vengeance, it burns for her.
She looks drained, the weight of everything pressing down on her, softening the sharp edges of the woman I’ve come to know. Dragging a hand down the back of my neck, I exhale slowly, forcing restraint back into my body. Without a word, I take her hand and lead us upstairs. She doesn’t resist, allowing me to guide her into our bedroom. The space is bathed in the golden glow of the evening sun, its warmth at odds with the storm still raging inside me.
I guide her toward the bed, my grip firm as I ease her carefully against the pillows. She doesn’t protest, doesn’t speak, simply allows me to take care of her. Once she’s settled, I kneel at the edge of the mattress, fingers gently wrapping around her ankle as I slip off each sneaker, placing them neatly beside us. Still, she remains silent, watching me with eyes that reveal far too much, yet offer nothing at all. I pull the blanket over, ensuring she’s warm, cocooned. She barely stirs, releasing the faintest exhale before sleep claims her. She looks vulnerable in a way that makes something dark coil inside me, something possessive, something primal.
I lower myself into the chair beside the bed, my posture rigid, my mind far from still. I don’t know why I stay. Maybe it’s the need to watch the steady rise and fall of her chest, to confirm with my own eyes that she’s here, breathing, safe.
Mine.
Maybe it’s because, for all my rage, that I can’t do a fucking thing until I know who I’m hunting. My jaw tightens as I pull out my phone. I text Mario, demanding an update. His response comes almost instantly, short, to the point, and fucking useless.
Nothing. No tracks. No suspects.
My fingers tighten around the device before I force myself to exhale, glancing toward the bed once more. I should leave. I need to.
And yet, I hesitate.
That realization pisses me off more than anything else. This is why I fight it. Why I don’t allow weakness to take root. Because in my world, attachments are vulnerabilities, and vulnerabilities get exploited. Now here I am, standing in this fucking room, wanting to stay instead of handling my business. Instead of ruling like I’m supposed to.
It’s unacceptable.
There’s a meeting I can’t afford to cancel. One that wouldn’t be wise to postpone. My jaw clenches as I finally force myself to move, crossing the room in quick strides. I glance back once, before shutting the door behind me with a quiet click.
I make my way down the hall and stop in front of Mattia’s door. I knock once.
His voice rings out almost instantly. “Come in.”
When I step inside, he’s exactly where I expect him to be, sitting cross-legged in front of his TV, controller in hand, fully engrossed in whatever game he’s playing. The moment he looks up and sees me, he grins. But then it falters. Just slightly.
“Oh… it’s you.”
I arch a brow.
“Who were you expecting?”
He shrugs a little too quickly. “No one.”
I know exactly who.
Harlow.
My son has grown attached to my wife, and I don’t know how the fuck that makes me feel yet. He needs it, more than anyone. That much is obvious. I’ve seen the change since Harlow entered our lives, the way he’s started to come back to himself, to something he lost a long time ago. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Because attachments lead to expectations. And expectations lead to disappointment. I’ve already watched him lose himself once. And it nearly broke him. I won’t let that happen again.
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed.
“I have a meeting to attend. I might be late, but I’ll try to make it back in time for dinner.”
Mattia barely looks in my direction, already immersed in his game again. He nods absently. “Okay.”
That’s all I get. I don’t press for more. That’s not how we work. Pushing off the doorframe, I step back into the hallway, my gaze lingering for a brief moment before I turn away. The house is quiet, as I make my way downstairs.