Chapter Nine #2
"We are merely observing the board, Lorenzo," Valentina said smoothly, unbothered by Enzo’s deduction. "The pieces are in motion. What you decide to do with yours is up to you. But I suggest you decide quickly. Tomorrow night approaches."
***
By the time the sun dipped below the horizon on Friday evening, the air in the grand foyer of the Falco estate was thick enough to cut with a combat knife.
Raphael Dante stepped through the front doors exactly at seven o’clock.
He looked impeccable. He wore a sharply tailored, midnight-blue suit, no tie, his dark curls styled.
He carried a single, unassuming bouquet of white lilies, and he exuded the kind of quiet, steady confidence that had made him a Capo at such a young age.
He was going to need every ounce of that confidence.
Because waiting for him in the foyer was not just his date. It was the entire, sprawling, hierarchy of the Falco and Zanetti families.
Salvatore Falco and Andre Zanetti stood shoulder-to-shoulder near the base of the grand staircase, looking like two ancient warlords evaluating a potential sacrifice.
Marco and Enzo flanked the doorways, their arms crossed, identical expressions of ruthless scrutiny on their faces.
Ana and Valentina sat on a velvet settee near the mirrors, whispering to each other behind their teacups.
And lingering in the deep shadows near the archway leading to the library, barely visible but projecting an aura of suffocating tension, was Lorenzo.
Dante paused in the center of the marble floor, taking in the firing squad. To his immense credit, he didn't flinch. He offered a polite, deeply respectful nod to the room at large. "Good evening, Don Falco. Boss Zanetti. Everyone."
Before anyone could return the greeting, the sound of a door clicking open at the top of the stairs drew all eyes upward.
Roselia stood on the landing.
Down in the shadows, Renzo physically stopped breathing.
She wore a dark emerald-green jumpsuit, tailored to her tall, athletic frame.
The silk draped elegantly over her shoulders, but the cut allowed for total, unrestricted movement.
Her dark hair was swept up into a loose, sophisticated knot, leaving the long, elegant line of her neck exposed.
She looked breathtaking, powerful, and untouchable.
And she looked absolutely furious.
As she descended the marble stairs, Roselia’s eyes swept over the crowded foyer. "What is this?" she demanded, her voice tight with embarrassment and annoyance. "Is there a syndicate summit I was unaware of? Why are all of you standing here like gargoyles?"
"We are merely wishing you a pleasant evening, stella mia," Salvatore boomed, offering her a wide, innocent smile that fooled absolutely no one.
Before Dante could step forward to hand her the lilies, a charcoal-colored shadow separated itself from the wall.
Bruno.
The Cane Corso stalked slowly across the marble floor, his shoulders rolling with every step. He stopped directly in front of Dante. The foyer went dead silent. Dante held his ground, keeping his hands visible and still, allowing the beast to work.
Bruno stepped closer, pressing his wet nose against the fabric of Dante’s trousers. He took a long, deep inhalation, assessing the scent of the man, the adrenaline, the intent. The dog circled the Capo once, a slow, deliberate revolution.
Then, Bruno huffed—a short, dismissive burst of air from his broad chest. He turned his back on Dante, trotted over to Roselia, and sat heavily on her boots, leaning his weight against her legs.
He had passed the inspection.
Marco let out a loud, genuine laugh. "Well, there you have it, Dante. You have survived the first circle of hell."
Dante let out a breath he had clearly been holding, offering a charming, slightly relieved smile as he handed Roselia the flowers. "You look stunning, Roselia."
Roselia took the lilies, her flush returning with a vengeance. "Thank you. Let us leave before they demand to check the tire pressure on your vehicle."
"Not so fast," Andre’s deep voice rumbled. The Capo stepped into Dante’s path. "You have a reservation at Il Comandante?"
"Yes, sir," Dante replied smoothly. "A corner table. Quiet. Private."
"Good," Salvatore added, stepping up next to Andre. "And you will take the western coastal road back? The eastern route has been prone to paparazzi lately."
"Western route, yes, Don Salvatore."
"And if anyone looks at her for longer than three seconds," Marco chimed in from the doorway, "you will remove their eyes, correct?"
"I would imagine Roselia would remove them herself before I had the chance," Dante answered, looking directly at the beautiful woman beside him with unclouded reverence. "But I will gladly hold her coat while she does."
Roselia pinched the bridge of her nose. "I am going to shoot all of you. Dante, walk toward the door."
As Dante placed a gentle, respectful hand on the small of Roselia’s back to guide her out, Renzo stood immobilized in the shadows.
He was shattering. He watched another man touch her.
He watched another man look at her the way she deserved to be looked at.
His blood was roaring in his ears, a deafening tide of possessiveness and agony.
He wanted to step out of the dark, grab Dante by the lapels, and throw him through the front doors.
But he didn't. He couldn't.
As the oak doors closed behind the couple, sealing them out into the night, the silence in the foyer crashed back in.
Slowly, deliberately, every single member of the Falco and Zanetti families turned their heads. From the settee to the stairs, to the doorways, their eyes all locked onto the shadows where Renzo was standing.
They were waiting. They were watching the Don of the Falcons bleed in silence, waiting to see what the most powerful man in Europe would do now that he had finally realized he was a beggar.
Renzo met their stares. His jaw was clenched so tightly his teeth ached. He didn't offer a defense, an excuse, or an order. He simply turned, his footsteps and solitary against the marble, and walked back into the suffocating darkness of his empty study.