Chapter 4 Gabriel
Gabriel
The Italians pick places like this because they love food and they love power, and nothing says both like the oldest, most expensive restaurant in the city sitting in the middle of their territory.
Luxury makes a perfect disguise. Respectability’s a shield.
Their code, hierarchy, and tradition cut deeper in a room like this.
Built to make men feel watched. Built to make them behave.
Even the ceiling feels like a threat, like the room’s holding its breath to see who flinches before the deal’s even sealed.
I arrive fifteen minutes early, not out of politeness, but because being early is an advantage.
The restaurant is closed to the public tonight, yet the sign outside still glows like the place isn’t hiding anything.
Inside, the lighting is low and warm, but the warmth is staged.
Curtains drawn. No open windows. No easy sight lines.
The air smells like expensive wine, polished wood, and money.
They call it neutral ground. That is a lie.
Neutral just means everyone is armed and pretending they are not.
Kansas City was not mine, not completely, but every major route through the Midwest touches something I control, and that means this city still tastes like my blood when I breathe it in.
My boots are quiet on the floor, too quiet, because the carpet is thick and the drapes are heavy and the room is built to swallow sound.
it’s so quiet you can hear a man breathing.
The staff move with fake smiles and tense bodies, fear tucked behind manners like a napkin folded just right.
Juan walks beside me. Luca follows two steps back.
I don’t need Luca, but I use him. Italians like hearing their own language.
It makes them think they’ve got the upper hand, makes them slip up.
A hostess stands near the entrance like she is part of the decor, her smile is practiced.
Her eyes are scared. Like she knows what happens if she stops performing.
Her hands are folded in front of her like she is posing for the part, but her fingers keep twitching, giving her away.
“The private room, sir,” she says softly.
I don’t answer. I just walk. The farther down the hallway we go, the smell gets heavier, thick enough to taste. Wine. Old wood. Cold air sliding under my clothes, raising little bumps on my skin.
At the end is a door, and two men stand there in expensive suits with sharp haircuts and hands that have killed people.
Their wrists are bare. No watches. Time doesn’t matter to men like this unless it’s running out.
Their shoes are too expensive for honest work.
Their faces are blank, like they’ve practiced it.
Their eyes don’t bother pretending. They’re the only honest part of them.
They scan me and they don’t look away first. They want me to notice they control the staff, the hallway, the air. I notice. I still don’t respect them. One of them opens the door and steps aside like he is doing me a favor.
Inside is a long table of dark wood, heavy and polished until it reflects the light like water.
The room is private, but it’s not intimate.
It was built for quick decisions and violence hinted at with a smile.
Cassio Amato sits at the head, and he doesn’t stand when I enter.
He doesn’t even pretend. That tells me everything I need to know.
He doesn’t show respect because he expects it.
Two advisors sit beside him. Italian. Sharp.
Controlled in a way that makes my jaw tighten, because part of me wants to test that control.
To do something small and stupid, just to see if they flinch.
Cassio’s gaze moves over me like I am an item being inspected.
It doesn’t bother me. I do the same. He’s not as old as I expected.
Not young. Just younger than the kind of man who usually leads empires.
Which means he learned young. And he learned the hard way.
His eyes are still, the kind of stillness that comes from making peace with violence and calling it duty so you can sleep at night.
He gestures to the chair across from him. “Gabriel Gonzalez,” he says in English, his voice even, no accent, no warmth, just a warning delivered with manners.
“Cassio Amato,” I answer, as I sit. The leather is cold under my palms when I touch the armrest, smooth, like it has never held a man who knew he might be sitting in a coffin very soon.
Juan takes the seat behind me to the side.
Luca takes the spot behind me, but on the other side.
Cassio’s men don’t sit. They stay standing near the wall.
Cassio folds his hands on the table like he is about to host a charity dinner instead of a treaty that decides who lives. “Thank you for coming,” he says.
I tilt my head. “You asked.”
His mouth tightens in amusement, like he likes that I am not bowing, like he thinks he will make me anyway.
He slides a folder toward me, of course he does.
Folders. Always folders. I don’t touch it right away.
I let the silence stretch because silence makes it uncomfortable, and discomfort makes men show who they are.
Cassio doesn’t move. He holds my stare like a man used to getting his way.
Good. I like a man who thinks he is a king. It makes it sweeter when he realizes he is not.
I open the folder. The paper smells like ink and toner. Terms stacked neatly, paragraphs, bullet points, ceasefire, shared intel, territory lines, shipment routes, timeline, penalty clause. Then the last line.
Marriage.
I look up. Cassio’s doesn’t blink. He is waiting to see if I flinch. I don’t . I tap the line once with my fingertip. “You want your sister married to me,” I say.
Cassio’s gaze sharpens by a fraction. “She is the guarantee this wont fall apart,” he replies.
Guarantee. Not a person. A guarantee. I almost smile because he speaks my language, he just pretends it’s nicer when he says it. “And you think a wedding stops the Bratva,” I say.
Cassio’s voice stays flat. “A wedding gives consequences.”
I lean back slightly and the chair creaks once, soft, the sound feeling like a warning in this room. “Consequences already exist,” I say.
Cassio’s eyes narrow. “Not enough.”
One of his men speaks then, quietly and carefully. The kind of careful that says he practiced it. Because in this room, one wrong word costs you.
“The Bratva hit your routes five times this month.” I look at him and I don’t ask how he knows because the Alliance always knows. They don’t win with strength alone. They win with information, with eyes everywhere, with men who whisper the right names into the right ears.
Cassio continues, “Mikhail is testing you, trying to make you snap.” I stay calm, but inside my blood boils because he’s right.
Mikhail wants me to snap in public, so he can tell his people I am emotional.
The Italians want the opposite. They want me boxed in.
Easy to handle. Cassio speaks again, emotionless. “A treaty benefits both of us.”
“And your sister is the price,” I answer.
Cassio’s eyes go colder. “She’s a guarantee.”
I tilt my head. “Tell me something, Cassio.” He waits.
I speak slowly. “If she dies, what happens?” The room changes, tension tightening like wire.
Cassio’s jaw flexes once, a muscle jumping under his skin like a temper trying not to show itself.
Then he says it. “If she dies, the cartel dies with her.”
That’s not a threat. It’s a promise. My chest loosens by a fraction, because that is what I like to hear. Consequences. Real ones. I nod once. “Good.”
Cassio slides another paper from inside the folder.
A profile, single page, name, age, bloodline, basic history, with a photo clipped to the corner.
Savannah Amato. I stare at the photo and my stomach drops into this weird quiet.
Like my body just went on alert. She looks too still, the kind of stillness that’s not natural, the kind learned through pain, lessons, and punishments.
Her eyes are empty. Beautiful, yes, but not soft.
She looks like she knows power matters, and men can be cruel.
Which means she will not break easily. It means she will survive.
And it means if she does break, it will be quiet and on the inside, the kind of break that turns into obedience.
And obedience is useful. Until it’s not.
I look back up at Cassio. “You’re giving me a woman who already knows how to suffer,” I say.
Cassio doesn’t deny it. One of his men speaks again, careful.
“She will be respectful.” I almost laugh.
Respectful. Like that is the concern. Like respect stops bullets.
Like respect stops war. Like respect stops men from taking what they want.
I close the folder. My hands don’t shake. My mind is chaotic. This is not just a decision, it’s a trap with a quiet threat underneath.
If I refuse, the Bratva keeps taking my routes and laughing while they do it.
If I accept, my own men will smell vulnerability and try to tear me apart from the inside.
And the Alliance knows it. They know exactly what they are asking.
They are not asking for friendship. They’re asking for a promise they can enforce, public and permanent.
I walk to the window anyway even though it’s covered, habit and instinct, a predator checking for blind spots even when there are none.
When I turn back to the table, I tap the folder once with my knuckles.
it’s a quiet sound, but the men feel it.
They all do, because they know it means a decision is coming.
“Set the meeting,” I say.
Cassio’s eyes narrow. “Meeting.”
I don’t blink. “To meet her.”
His mouth tightens, like he doesn’t like that I am demanding contact before the noose is tightened. “Tomorrow,” he says. Tomorrow, already, short rope, short fuse, short time for traitors to move. I nod once. “Good.” Cassio studies me like he is searching for a weakness. “You’re too agreeable.”
I smile then, small and not kind. “don’t confuse agreeable with easy.”
Cassio watches me for a long moment, then pushes the folder forward again.
“Sign,” he says. I don’t sign yet, not because I am hesitant, but because I want him to watch me choose it.
I take the pen, heavier than it needs to be, fancy and smooth.
The metal is cool against my fingers, and the ink smells faintly sharp, like something permanent.
I hold it over the page, then speak softly. “One more thing.”
Cassio’s eyes sharpen. “What.”
I look at him, direct and cold. “I will not be humiliated by any man. If they challenge this marriage, I will kill them.” Cassio’s mouth tightens like he understands. “Then kill them,” he says, no judgment, just acceptance, because he’s the same kind of man.
I nod, and then I sign. The ink is black, the line is clean. The consequence are not. Cassio signs immediately after, two kings signing a treaty made out of paper and blood. He closes the folder and says, almost casually, “You will meet her tomorrow.”
I pause. “And if she refuses.”
Cassio’s gaze doesn’t flicker. “She won’t.” He says it like refusal is not real, like women don’t get choices in our world. He is right, and I hate that he is right, not because I care about fairness, but because refusal creates chaos, and chaos creates weakness, and weakness gets people killed.
I stand. Juan stands with me. Luca follows. Cassio doesn’t stand because he doesn’t need to. He already got what he came for. I look down at him one last time. “You should warn her,” I say quietly.
Cassio’s eyes narrow. “Warn her of what.”
I lean in slightly. “Warn her that my world is not gentle.”
Cassio’s voice is cold. “Neither is ours.”
True. I turn to leave and the hallway feels warmer than the room I just left, but not safer. Nothing is safer now. The treaty is signed. The bride is coming. Somewhere, Mikhail will hear about this and smile because monsters love weddings. Weddings are easy to ruin.
Tomorrow I meet Savannah Amato. And I decide what she is to me.