Chapter 8 Gabriel
Gabriel
She signs the papers like she knows this changes everything, and not in a good way. I watch her trembling fingers, the way she hides it, the way she lifts her chin like pride can keep the hurt away. The pen glides too easy. The ink is too black.
Savannah doesn’t beg. Doesn’t plead. Doesn’t look at Cassio like he might remember he has a soul. That tells me everything. Either she’s trained, or she learned early that begging is just another way to bleed.
Cassio closes the folder like he just finished a business deal, because he did. His face is blank.His eyes stay on me like he’s waiting for the obvious thing, anger, hunger, a cartel king losing patience. I don’t. Not in rooms like this. Emotion is a doorway, and men push through it.
Savannah sits with her hands folded, too still, like movement costs, like breathing too loud is a mistake. The chair is too big for her and she makes herself smaller anyway. That kind of stillness is learned. Practiced. Earned.
Cassio speaks. “She leaves tomorrow.”
I nod once. “I know.”
Cassio’s jaw tightens. “She will have an Alliance escort.”
“She can have escort,” I say. “She stays beside me.”
Cassio’s eyes flash. “You don’t get to…”
I lift my hand slightly. Not a threat. A stop sign. Cassio goes quiet.
The room shifts. Italian men don’t like being silenced. Their shoulders tense. Their eyes sharpen. But Cassio lets it happen, which means he wants the treaty more than he wants his pride.
Good. Predictable men are easier to steer.
I look back at Savannah. She’s watching me now. Not openly. Carefully. Like she’s learning the rules before she decides if breaking them is worth it. I respect it. A woman who pays attention stays alive longer.
“Do you understand what happens now?” I ask.
She doesn’t look away. Her voice holds steady, but I hear the tightness under it, the controlled breath, the restraint that never loosens. “I go with you.” Not I want to. Not I’m ready. Just the facts.
Good. Facts are safer than hope. Hope makes people stupid.
Cassio cuts in. “You will protect her.”
Savannah flinches at the word protect like it doesn’t mean what it should. Interesting.
I look at Cassio. “You already told me what happens if she dies.”
Cassio’s eyes turn cold. “Yes.”
I nod once. “Then trust the consequences you wrote.”
Cassio leans forward slightly. “Consequences don’t stop men like yours.”
He’s right. My men don’t fear paper. They fear me. And right now, some of them are already whispering, already angry, already calling a treaty weakness because stupid men mistake marriage for softness.
I stand. The meeting ends when I decide it ends. Juan moves with me. Luca follows. My men fall in silent.
* * *
We walk out and the night hits my face, cold, sharp, real. The city smells like exhaust, wet pavement, and smoke that never fully leaves, like something is always burning just out of sight. The SUV door opens. I slide in. Juan sits beside me. Luca across.
We don’t speak until we’re moving. The tires hum. The road vibration climbs my spine. Lights streak across the glass like the night can’t sit still.
Juan watches me. I can feel his question like a hand on the back of my neck. “You told her to tell you if someone touches her,” he says quietly.
“Yes.”
“Do you think she will?”
I don’t answer fast, because the truth is simple. No. Women like her don’t talk. They learned silence is safer than truth. Learned telling makes it worse. Learned being believed is a luxury.
And if she doesn’t talk, my house becomes a place where things happen in the dark. That’s not acceptable. Not because I care about comfort. Because I care about control. If my men touch my wife without permission, it’s not desire. It’s a challenge. And I don’t let challenges live.
My phone buzzes. One message. Short. Disrespect disguised as concern.
We hear you’re bringing an Italian.
The screen glow cuts across my knuckles. I stare at it, then I type back.
Yes.
No explanation. A second message hits immediately.
This will split the men.
I delete it. Turn the phone off.
Juan studies me. “They’re scared.”
“They’re greedy,” I answer.
Luca clears his throat. “Cassio’s people will test this too.”
I glance at him. “I’m not worried about Cassio’s people.”
“Because they’re disciplined,” Luca says.
I shake my head. “Because Cassio will cut them down himself if they embarrass him.”
Luca nods like he hates that he agrees.
Juan’s voice stays low. “So you’re worried about ours.”
I don’t answer, because it’s not worry. It’s certainty. I know my world. My world eats weakness. It eats women. It eats anything soft.
Savannah isn’t soft. She just looks like someone who has been forced to be quiet. Quiet is not softness. Quiet is a warning.
We arrive at the compound. The gates open and the hinges groan. Guards nod as we pass. A few men watch the SUV like they’re trying to read the future through tinted glass.
I walk inside. The air is cool and dry. The lights are bright enough to show everything, which means nothing hides unless I allow it.
Home.
* * *
I go straight to my office. Maps. Routes. Names. Faces. I tap the intercom. “Bring them in.”
A moment later, the men enter, the names Juan gave me. They stand in a line, trying to look respectful, trying to look innocent. Their eyes give them away. Their bodies give them away too. Too stiff. Too alert. Too ready to pretend this is loyalty and not panic.
They think I’m distracted. They think weddings make men soft. They think wrong.
I study them, slowly, then I speak. “You’ve been talking.”
One shifts. “Jefe…”
I lift my hand and he shuts up.
Good.
I step closer. I don’t raise my voice. I don’t need to. “Tomorrow,” I say, “you will meet my wife.”
Their faces stay neutral. Their eyes don’t. I see it, interest, hunger, a curiosity that turns into entitlement if you don’t crush it early. I let it live for a few seconds.
Then I kill it.
“If any of you speaks to her without permission,” I say, “you lose your tongue.”
Their breathing changes.
Good. Fear makes men honest.
One swallows hard. “We would never disrespect you.”
I stare at him, step closer, close enough that he smells me, close enough that he understands I meant it. “You don’t disrespect me with words,” I tell him softly. “You disrespect me by thinking you can.”
His eyes drop. Finally.
Smart.
I step back. “You will stand at distance. You will not corner her. You will not make jokes. You will not test her. You will not touch her.”
I pause, then I give them the part they need most. “You will not touch what is mine.”
Silence. Quick nods. Fear nods. Not loyalty.
I’m fine with fear.
Fear lasts.
I dismiss them with a flick of my hand. They leave fast.
Juan watches me from the corner. “You’re making it worse,” he says quietly.
I turn my head. “I’m making it clear.”
“They’ll hate her more.”
I walk back to my desk and rest my hands on it. I speak without looking at him. “Let them hate her. Hatred is loud. Loud men are easy to find.”
Juan doesn’t argue, because he knows I’m right.
I stare at the map again, at the routes the Bratva keeps hitting, at the places Mikhail keeps pushing like he’s trying to force me into a choice, war or humiliation. I don’t like being forced. I don’t like being cornered.
And tomorrow, Savannah Amato walks into my world as my wife. A target.
I pick up my phone. One contact. Cassio. A direct line.
I don’t call. I just stare at the name, then I set the phone down, because tomorrow will speak for itself. Tomorrow will show whether she is a weapon or a weakness.
And either way, I will make the world obey the outcome.
Tomorrow, Savannah arrives, and my house will either accept her, or bleed for refusing.