CHAPTER 8
DANTE
The scalding water did nothing to ease the tension anchored deep in my shoulder blades. I stood under the heavy spray in my private bathroom, watching the last faint traces of pale pink water circle the drain.
Swiss blood. Russian blood. It didn't matter. It all washed away exactly the same.
I turned the brass handle, cutting the water, and stepped out onto the heated marble floor.
I dried off quickly, avoiding the mirror above the double vanity.
I knew what I looked like. I had been awake for nearly forty-eight hours, fueled by espresso, violence, and a dark, entirely inconvenient obsession with the woman currently occupying my guest wing.
I pulled on a fresh pair of black trousers and a crisp white shirt, leaving the top two buttons undone. I skipped the tie and the jacket. I strapped my leather shoulder holster into place, the familiar weight of the Glock 19 resting against my ribs, a necessary comfort.
When I walked down the grand staircase fifteen minutes later, the atmosphere in the house had shifted from a defensive lockdown to an offensive war room.
The heavy mahogany doors to the formal dining room were closed, flanked by two of my most trusted guards. They pulled the doors open as I approached.
The room smelled of stale cigar smoke, bitter coffee, and old men who were used to getting their way.
Four Capos sat around the massive table.
These were the men who controlled the boroughs under my command.
Sal from Queens, a man who had been loyal to my father before me.
Carmine from the Bronx, quiet and lethal.
Marco from Staten Island, who cared only about numbers.
And Enzo from Brooklyn. Enzo was the youngest of the four, ambitious, sharp, and far too comfortable questioning my authority.
Luca was leaning against the far wall, his arms crossed over his chest, watching the men with the casual intensity of a predator deciding which one to eat first.
I walked to the head of the table and sat down.
The low hum of their conversation died instantly.
"The Petrovs crossed a line," I started, my voice quiet enough that they had to lean in to hear me. "They breached a secure location in Geneva and took Clara Rossi. I retrieved her this morning. Four Russian casualties. None on our side."
Sal nodded slowly, his thick fingers drumming against the polished wood. "A clean hit. Good. But Dante, respectfully, why are we bleeding for Antonio Rossi’s kid? The man is a rat. He skimmed from our routes, and now he owes the Russians ten million."
"Rossi is a dead man," I clarified, looking directly at Sal. "When we find him, I will put the bullet in his head myself. But the Petrovs didn't just take his daughter. They delivered a bloody message to my front gate. They threatened my territory. They threatened my wife."
Enzo shifted in his chair, a cynical smile touching the corner of his mouth.
"Your wife of twenty-four hours. A marriage arranged to secure the docks, which Rossi didn't even have the authority to trade because the Russians already claimed them for the debt.
We are walking into a full syndicate war over a girl who was supposed to be a business transaction. "
The air in the room dropped ten degrees.
Luca pushed off the wall, his hand dropping casually to his waist.
I didn't raise my voice. I didn't reach for my weapon. I simply rested my forearms on the table and locked eyes with Enzo.
"Sienna is a Morretti now," I said, the words carrying a lethal, absolute finality.
"If the Petrovs think they can drop a threat on my doorstep and walk away, they will learn otherwise.
We hit their distribution centers tonight.
All three of them. Burn the product, take the cash, leave no survivors.
I want them bleeding from a dozen different cuts before midnight. "
Enzo’s cynical smile vanished. He swallowed hard, nodding once. "Understood, boss."
"The problem," Marco interjected, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses, "is finding Rossi. The Russians want him for the ten million. If we find him first, we have leverage. We hand him over, we keep the docks, the war ends."
"Rossi is a ghost," Carmine muttered, speaking for the first time. "He cleared out his accounts three days ago. He didn't use the airports. He’s gone."
"He has safe houses," Enzo argued. "We tear apart every property registered to his name."
"Already done," Luca said from the wall. "They’re empty. The man took the money and vanished."
A heavy silence settled over the table. The logistics of a street war were simple. Finding a coward with ten million dollars in cash and a three-day head start was a logistical nightmare.
Before I could issue the order to start tearing apart Rossi’s known associates, the heavy oak doors of the dining room swung open.
I expected Fridge. I expected a guard with an update on the perimeter.
Instead, Sienna walked into the room.
Every man at the table froze.
She wasn't wearing the white silk dress anymore. She was wearing a pair of soft gray sweatpants and a black cashmere sweater that was at least two sizes too big for her. Her dark hair was piled on top of her head in a messy knot, and she was entirely barefoot.
In a room full of hardened killers in tailored suits, she looked incredibly small.
But her spine was forged from absolute steel.
She didn't look at Enzo. She didn't look at Sal. She walked straight past the most dangerous men in New York, her bare feet silent on the hardwood, and stopped directly at my right side.
She placed a small, worn leather notebook on the table in front of me.
"If you are looking for my father," Sienna said, her voice clear and completely steady, "you are looking in the wrong places."
Enzo let out a harsh, incredulous breath. "Who let the girl in?"
I didn't look at Enzo. I kept my eyes entirely on Sienna. "Address my wife with respect, Enzo, or I will remove your tongue and feed it to the dogs."
The threat hung in the air, violent and absolute. Enzo snapped his mouth shut, his face paling slightly.
I looked down at the leather notebook. "What is this, Sienna?"
"It’s his private ledger," she replied, tapping her index finger against the worn cover. "He kept it in a loose floorboard under his desk at the restaurant in Little Italy. I stole it three years ago."
I tilted my head, genuinely surprised. "Why did you steal your father’s ledger?"
"Because he forgot my nineteenth birthday," she said, her tone dry as dust. "I wanted to see how much money he was wasting on his mistresses while ignoring his children. Turns out, it was a lot."
Luca let out a sharp, genuine laugh from the back of the room, quickly disguising it as a cough when I shot him a glare.
I looked back at Sienna. The sheer, unadulterated audacity of this woman was staggering. She had barricaded herself in a room terrified for her life an hour ago, and now she was interrupting a mafia war council to deliver tactical intelligence out of pure spite.
"The properties registered in his name are decoys," Sienna continued, turning to face the table, completely ignoring the stunned expressions of my Capos.
"He holds his real assets through shell companies registered to his second mistress, a woman named Valerie.
She lives in a gated community in the Catskills. The address is on page forty-two."
Marco leaned forward, pushing his glasses up his nose, looking at the notebook like it was a holy relic. "Are you sure he would go there?"
"He has a climate-controlled wine cellar and a panic room built into the basement of that house," Sienna said. "My father is a coward, but he is a coward who likes his comforts. He wouldn't run to a motel. He ran to Valerie’s."
I opened the notebook. The pages were filled with messy, handwritten codes, dates, and offshore account numbers. It was a roadmap to Antonio Rossi’s entire illicit empire.
I looked up at my wife.
Her brown eyes met mine. The panic from this morning was gone, replaced by a cold, calculating determination that mirrored my own. She wasn't just surviving the mafia. She was actively participating in it.
A dark, heavy wave of pure arousal hit me straight in the chest.
It took everything I had not to pull her into my lap right in front of my men.
"Luca," I said, closing the notebook and sliding it across the table toward Marco.
"Boss." Luca stepped forward.
"Take a strike team to the Catskills. Find the house. If Rossi is there, bring him to the warehouse in Brooklyn alive. If the Petrovs are already there... leave them in the wine cellar."
"With pleasure," Luca grinned, grabbing the notebook.
I stood up, the legs of my chair scraping against the floor. "The meeting is over. Hit the distribution centers tonight. I want the Russians blind and bleeding by morning."
The Capos stood in unison, offering their respects before filing out of the room. Enzo kept his eyes strictly on the floor as he passed Sienna, clearly unwilling to test my threat regarding his tongue.
When the heavy doors clicked shut, leaving just the two of us in the massive dining room, the silence rushed back in.
Sienna stood her ground for exactly three seconds before her shoulders dropped. The adrenaline faded, leaving her looking exhausted and far too fragile for the world she had just inserted herself into.
I stepped closer, invading her space until the scent of her skin—vanilla and something uniquely sharp—filled my lungs.
"Do you have a death wish, mia sposa?" I asked softly, looking down at her. "Walking barefoot into a room full of Capos is a dangerous game."
"I have a survival wish," she corrected, tilting her head back to look at me. "Sitting in a bedroom waiting for men to decide my fate didn't work out well for me the first time. I’m not doing it again."
I reached out, wrapping my hand around the back of her neck. My fingers slid into the messy knot of her hair, the soft strands wrapping around my skin. I didn't pull her closer, but I held her firmly in place, forcing her to acknowledge the physical reality of my presence.
She let out a small, shaky breath, her hands coming up to rest against my chest, right over the leather straps of my holster.
"You gave us your father," I murmured, my thumb tracing the sensitive skin just below her ear. "You know what I am going to do to him when Luca brings him back."
"I know," she whispered. Her eyes searched mine, looking for a reason to flinch, a reason to pull away. She didn't find one. "He gave Clara to the Russians. He left us to die. He isn't my father anymore."
"No," I agreed, my voice dropping to a rough rasp. "He isn't."
I leaned down, closing the remaining distance between us. I didn't kiss her mouth. I pressed my lips to the soft skin just below her jaw, feeling the frantic, wild flutter of her pulse against my mouth. She tasted like salt and defiance.
Sienna made a soft sound in the back of her throat, her fingers curling into the crisp fabric of my shirt.
"You are a Morretti now," I whispered against her skin, the words a brand as much as a promise. "And I protect what is mine."
I pulled back just enough to see her eyes. They were dark, dilated, and completely captivated.
The war with the Petrovs was going to be bloody. The streets of New York were going to burn. But looking at the woman standing in my dining room, armed with nothing but a stolen ledger and an unbreakable spine, I knew one thing for certain.
I had already won the best prize.