Chapter 2
DANTE
“I appreciate your candor, Dante,” Seamus says, his hand closing around mine with a firmness that borders on indulgent. His palm is broad and warm, the skin rough with age and old work, the grip deliberate rather than friendly.
“It is a pleasure, Mister Seamus,” I reply, inclining my head.
He doesn’t let go right away. His thumb presses once into the back of my knuckles, a subtle increase in pressure meant to remind me who invited whom into this room. A test, dressed up as courtesy. I would do the same if I were handing my daughter to another man like a piece of contested ground.
The difference is, I would never make that trade.
Seamus O’Connor smells faintly of expensive cologne and cigar smoke, the kind that lingers in wool coats and old offices.
His hair has gone steel-grey at the temples, his face carved with lines that weren’t earned gently.
His eyes are sharp and measuring beneath the genial expression—eyes that have watched men beg, watched men die, and learned to smile through both.
He steps closer, turning the handshake into something almost like an embrace. His arm comes around my shoulder, his voice dropping low enough that only I can hear it.
“You understand the arrangement is conditional,” he says, the words edged with a quiet promise of violence. “You respect my daughter. You care for her. You keep her safe.”
The pressure of his hand increases, just enough to be noticed. Just enough to be intentional.
I don’t react. I don’t shift. I let the moment pass through me untouched. Intimidation is a language I learned before I could shave.
“Of course,” I say evenly.
“Good,” he replies, pulling back at once, the threat evaporating behind a broad, public smile. His voice lifts, warm and almost jovial. “Then as long as my daughter smiles, your heart will keep beating.”
A statement. Not a joke.
“You are a good father, Mister Seamus,” I say, withdrawing my hand from his grasp.
He nods once, pleased. “It is one of my small joys, Dante. You’ll understand when you’re a father.”
I run my tongue slowly across my teeth and return the nod, because the future of two syndicates rests on me bedding his daughter and producing peace where there has only been blood.
It’s a truth I don’t bother voicing. It would be crude, and Seamus prides himself on being a gentleman before he is a gangster.
I don’t share that luxury. And he knows it.
“Mister Seamus,” Luca bellows, his easy smile and warm voice cutting through my rising tension. “Thank you for meeting with us on such short notice. I trust you’ll be celebrating the nuptials.”
“There will be endless Guinness,” Seamus replies, a smile stretching across his mouth that feels practiced rather than genuine, the skin around his eyes crinkling anyway.
“Perfect,” Luca says, already stepping forward. He pulls Seamus into an enthusiastic hug. “Dante’s mother has been talking about it endlessly. She’s very excited to have a daughter.”
Seamus nods, but his attention shifts back to me, his gaze lingering just long enough for a question to pass through it—whether he feels the same about gaining a son. I already know the answer.
“You have a good evening, Dante,” he says, tipping his chin toward the dramatic golden doors across the hall.
I’m about to call out the disrespect in his dismissal when Gabriel slides up beside me, his hand settling on my shoulder.
He’s wearing that familiar smirk, the one balanced somewhere between friendliness and violence.
He slipped out of the meeting almost thirty minutes ago.
I don’t want to know what trouble he found in that time, but it can’t be anything that would jeopardize the future marriage between Erin O’Connor and me.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Mister Seamus,” Gabriel says, nodding his head into a modest bow, and I follow, before turning towards the doors.
“See you next week,” Seamus calls out after us, as we make our way out of the O'Connor estate.
Once we're outside, it feels like we can breathe again.
“That fucker is intense,” Luca groans, rubbing his hand across the nape of his neck.
“I am marrying his daughter,” I counter, unbuttoning my cuffs and rolling up my sleeves. “He has a right to intensity.”
“Yes, the perfect Irish Princess,” Luca snorts. “Good luck with that.”
“I doubt she is perfect,” Gabriel adds, keeping up with me as I race down the grand, marble stairs.
“I know she is,” I mutter under my breath and I am sure they don’t hear me.
I’ve heard enough about her to know the version of her that’s been carefully prepared for this life—red-haired, beautiful, polite, well-mannered, a little dramatic, and raised from birth to be a mafia wife.
Perfect on paper. And it already sounds like a suffocatingly boring existence for both of us, endured solely to hold together an alliance that will likely shatter the moment one of us gains control of Harlem again.
“Hey, we’re leaving,” Gabriel alerts the valet boy, who nods rushing in the direction of where he parks the cars.
“That meeting was pointless,” Luca murmurs as he slips his hands into his front pockets and rocks on the heel of his feet.
“Save it for the car,” I murmur under my breath.
The soft sound of crying carries across the driveway, just barely audible over the night air.
My eyes sweep the extravagant space—the stone fountain murmuring at the center, polished cobblestone gleaming under the lights, everything manicured and excessive.
Nothing like our main estate in Brooklyn.
But I don’t stop searching for the light whimpers until they land on the opening to gardens across the driveway. A gorgeous girl sitting on a bench just in view.
She’s dressed in a dark green blouse cut low at the chest, a narrow collar framing her throat, the fabric tucked neatly into skin-tight bell-bottom jeans that cling to her hips like they were sewn on.
A handful of flower necklaces hang loose around her neck, soft and careless, brushing bare skin every time she shifts.
Her hair tumbles in thick, light-brown ringlets that catch the light like dark gold, framing her shoulders in soft spirals.
A faint frizz breaks their polish, hinting that her fingers have worried through the curls one too many times, leaving them imperfect in a way that feels lived-in rather than unkempt.
She’s crying, and I can’t take my eyes off of her. I just watch the way her shoulders hitch when she inhales, enough that she swipes at her cheeks with the heel of her palm like she’s angry at herself. It shouldn’t be striking, but it is.
She looks up like she feels my attention on her.
Hazel eyes—bright, sharp, startled—lock onto mine.
For a suspended second, everything narrows to that look. Wet lashes clumped together. Cheeks flushed pink. Lips parted like she wasn’t prepared to be seen, like I’ve caught her in the middle of something private and unguarded.
“Dante,” Gabriel barks, sharp enough to break her spell. “Come on.”
I turn to see Gabriel suddenly there, standing at the driver’s side, his presence snapping me back into my body. I smirk despite myself—annoyed more than amused—because I hadn’t even registered the car rolling up behind me. I don’t like missing things. Not like that.
But my gaze slides past him anyway, pulled back toward the gardens.
She’s gone.
The space she occupied is empty now, hedges standing still and indifferent, the gravel path washed in light with no sign she was ever there at all.
I straighten, irritation settling in my chest—not at her, but at myself. Curiosity is a liability. And yet I find myself wondering who she is, why she was crying in a place like this, and why the image of her feels lodged somewhere it shouldn’t be.
“What are you looking at?” Gabriel says, his gaze following my own, and a part of me wants to jump in front of his eyeline, because I don’t want him to see her so vulnerable. A part of me feels like her vulnerability was just for me.
“Nothing,” I say, clearing my throat as I slip into the passenger side of the car. “Let’s go.”
The leather seat creaks under my weight. The door shuts with a solid thud. Gabriel pulls away from the curb smoothly, hands steady on the wheel, eyes already forward.
In the back seat, Luca chuckles quietly into the phone pressed to his ear, one elbow braced on the seatback as he leans forward between us. “You better be waiting for me when I get home,” he says, voice low and amused. His green eyes flick to me, and he winks at the scowl on my face.
“Get off the phone, Luca,” I groan.
He grins wider, teeth flashing, then pulls the phone away from his ear. “I’ll call you later,” he says, cheerful and unapologetic, before ending the call. He leans forward even more, his palms gripping the backs of our seats. “You’re tense.”
“Sit back,” I reply.
He does neither. Instead, he tilts his head, studying me. “Marriage already getting to you?”
Gabriel snorts quietly from the driver’s seat but keeps his eyes on the road.
Luca laughs. “Ah. That’s a yes.” He makes an exaggerated pout. “You have one more week of freedom, no one told you to go prematurely celibate.”
“It’s disrespectful to be fucking every girl east of the Hudson after your wedding invites go out,” I mumble as I run a hand down my face, thumb pressing briefly into my jaw.
“Bullshit,” Luca sucks his teeth as he pats my chest twice. “You are Dante Salvatore. Prince to the Italian Mafia of New York. You can have a mistress.”
I glance out the window, jaw tight. “No, I cannot.”
“Gabe--”
“Shut up, Luca,” Gabriel spits out, looking in both of his side mirrors before taking an illegal u-turn. “You know if Dante didn’t agree, you would be the one marrying the O'Connor girl, right?”
“Vaffanculo non succederà mai,” Luca snaps back, and from the rearview mirror I can see his eyes hardening.