CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Life in the upper echelons of the Fazzari empire continued on in the way it always did—dictated by the relentless, grinding machinery of power, loyalty, and calculated violence.
In the sleek, soundproofed boardrooms on the third floor of the Fazzari tower, Dante remained every bit the ruthless, merciless mafia don the underworld knew him to be.
He was a man carved from stone, operating with a stoic, unforgiving precision that left no room for error.
When a lieutenant from the Calabrian faction attempted to renegotiate a shipping route by withholding a shipment of arms, Dante did not raise his voice.
He stared across the polished mahogany table, his pale green eyes dead and cold, and issued a singular, devastating command that stripped the man of his territory, his ships, and his title in a matter of minutes. He was ruthless.
But his hardened demeanor softened noticeably, unmistakably, whenever his wife was anywhere near his orbit. By this point, that softening had become something of an open secret throughout the family and extending far into the dark corners of the global syndicate.
Dante could be in the middle of dismantling a rival boss’s entire livelihood, the air in the room thick with palpable dread, and his encrypted phone would vibrate on the table.
He would glance down at the illuminated screen.
If the faintest, most microscopic shadow of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, the suffocating tension in the boardroom would instantly evaporate.
Everyone around him knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that the message was from Cassia.
If they were attending a rare, necessary social function to maintain appearances, and Dante’s gaze drifted across the crowded ballroom, suddenly losing its lethal edge to visibly beautifully gentle—there was no question who he was looking at.
It had become, without question, the worst-kept secret in the entire mafia world.
And ironically, that exact devotion made people fearful in a very particular, unprecedented way.
Everyone who orbited the Fazzari family had witnessed the sheer staggering depth of the Don's love for his wife. They understood, with a cold, certainty, that if anyone ever dared to harm a single hair on Cassia’s head, Dante wouldn’t be weakened by grief the way he once had been.
He wouldn't just retaliate. He wouldn't negotiate.
He would level the ground, and he would burn everything to ashes without a single second of hesitation.
The older men in the syndicate all remembered what Dante had done after losing Flora.
They remembered how he had burned through all of Europe in a blind, suffocating haze of grief and rage, painting the streets red until he emerged from that devastation as the strongest, most feared Don the continent had ever seen.
But everyone understood, without needing to be told directly, that this time would be different, and infinitely more catastrophic.
Flora had been his innocent sanctuary, but Cassia was his very soul.
If anything, ever happened to her, the violence wouldn't be contained to Europe alone.
The entire world would face the full, unmitigated weight of his wrath.
Because of this universally understood reality, Cassia had become effectively untouchable within that world.
But it wasn’t just because she was the Don’s wife.
It wasn't because she needed protecting like some fragile, ornamental figure requiring rescue.
She was untouchable because she had already proven, time and time again, that she could hold her own without anyone's help.
The respect Dante's men showed her—from the heavily armed guards in the lobby to Zoran himself—was never performative, and it was never obligatory.
It was fiercely earned. It was rooted in the clear, undeniable recognition that she was every bit their equal.
She was a highly skilled trauma surgeon who could save their lives with her eyes closed, and a formidable warrior in her own right who had neutralized assassins on the street.
She was nothing like the simpering, status-obsessed socialites who typically orbited men of Dante's position purely for the wealth, the glamour, and the appearances.
Cassia Fazzari paid for her own coffee, worked eighty-hour shifts, and looked at the deadliest men in Europe with unimpressed boredom. They revered her for it.
***
Life continued forward in its usual, newly established rhythm within the penthouse and Cassia’s brilliantly analytical mind began to pick up on subtle, undeniable shifts in her own biology.
She was a physician. She knew the human body intimately, and she certainly knew her own well enough to recognize the early symptoms almost immediately.
The sudden crushing waves of fatigue that she had initially blamed on back-to-back surgical rotations.
The faint, metallic sensitivity to smells that made her normally beloved dark roast espresso turn her stomach.
The missed cycle that her pragmatic brain had tried to write off as stress.
It was a Tuesday evening. The rain was drumming a steady, soothing rhythm against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the tenth floor. The penthouse was silent.
Cassia had just stepped out of her scrubs and pulled on a soft pair of sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt. She was walking across the hardwood floor toward the kitchen to pour herself a glass of water when the nausea hit.
It didn't build slowly. It struck her with the sudden, violent force of a physical blow. The room spun wildly, her stomach lurching with such aggressive intensity that the glass slipped from her fingers, shattering against the marble counter.
Cassia didn't even have time to curse. She clapped a hand over her mouth, sprinting across the living room and slamming through the door of the master bathroom. She dropped to her knees on the cold, immaculate marble tiles, slumping heavily over the toilet just as her stomach violently rebelled.
The oak door of the penthouse clicked open a moment later.
Dante stepped into the foyer, shrugging off his suit jacket. "Cassia, I apologize for being late, Zoran refused to stop talking about—"
He stopped. The apartment was too quiet, save for the sound of the rain and a faint, harsh sound echoing from the master suite.
Dante dropped his jacket on the floor. He crossed the living room in three massive strides, his heart spiking with a sudden, icy jolt of adrenaline. He rounded the corner of the bedroom and saw the bathroom door ajar.
He burst into the bathroom and found her slumped over the porcelain, her knuckles white where she gripped the edge, visibly pale and unwell.
"Cassia!" Dante exclaimed, his voice dropping into a register of instantaneous, overwhelming panic.
He dropped to his knees right beside her on the marble floor, disregarding his tailored trousers.
His large hands immediately went to her back, hovering, terrified to hurt her, before he gently pulled her auburn hair away from her face, gathering it at the nape of her neck.
"Cassia, what is wrong? Are you hurt?" Dante demanded, his pale green eyes wide with raw terror, rapidly scanning her for any sign of a wound. "I'm calling the medical wing. Arcuri needs to come up here right now—"
Cassia let out a ragged, exhausted breath, resting her forehead against her forearm. She closed her eyes, waiting for the spinning in her head to stop.
"Dante," Cassia croaked, her voice weak but laced with its usual, stubborn edge. "Do not call Dr. Arcuri. Stop shouting. My head is pounding."
"You are violently ill," Dante argued, his chest heaving, his free hand rubbing frantic, soothing circles into her back.
The sheer sight of her in pain short-circuited his every logical faculty.
He was desperate to fix it, desperate to take it away.
"What do you need? Tell me what to do. I’ll get you water. Should I carry you to the bed?"
Cassia took a long, slow breath, letting the cool air of the bathroom fill her lungs until the violent rolling in her stomach finally began to subside. She pushed herself back slightly, leaning her weight against the cool marble wall, pulling her knees up to her chest.
She looked at her husband. He was kneeling on the floor, the most powerful man on the continent looking, helpless, waiting for her command.
"I need a moment to steady myself," Cassia murmured softly, reaching out to rest her hand over his. His skin was warm, his pulse racing beneath her fingertips. "Just give me a second."
Dante went perfectly still, holding his breath, watching her face with anxious, agonizing concern. He didn't move a muscle, serving as a solid, unmoving anchor in the center of the room while she caught her breath.
After a long minute, the color slowly began to return to Cassia’s cheeks. She let out a long, shuddering sigh, her pale blue eyes meeting his.
"I do not need a doctor, Dante," Cassia explained, her voice remarkably calm, though her fingers tightened slightly around his hand. "I already understand what is happening."
Dante frowned, his brow furrowing in deep confusion. "You understand what is happening? Have you caught a virus at the hospital?"
"No," Cassia said quietly. She looked at him, the weight of the universe suddenly pressing into the small, tiled space of their bathroom. "Dante... I strongly suspect that I am pregnant."
The words hung in the air, echoing softly against the marble walls.
Dante froze. He stopped breathing. For a span of five agonizing seconds, he stared at her, his mind struggling to process the sheer magnitude of the syllables she had just spoken. The panic in his icy green eyes shattered, instantly replaced by a blinding, overwhelming shock.
"Pregnant," Dante repeated, the word slipping from his lips like a prayer he didn't know he was allowed to say.