Chapter 26
DANTE
The call comes three days after Patrick's death.
I am in the kitchen making breakfast when the phone rings.
The noise that has been building since Luca put a bullet in Patrick Murphy and called me from the docks to tell me it was done.
". Since I chose my wife over my father's authority.
Since I realized I have been walking toward this confrontation my entire life.
My father's voice is cold when I answer. "My office. One hour."
The line goes dead. He does not need to explain. We have been circling this conversation for months, maybe years.
I stand there with the phone in my hand for a long moment, staring at nothing.
An hour. Sixty minutes to prepare myself for what is coming.
Sixty minutes to steel myself against the inevitable criticism, the disappointed sighs, the carefully constructed arguments about why I am not good enough, smart enough, strong enough to lead.
Except this time, I am not going to defend myself.
This time, I am going to tell him the truth.
The realization settles over me like a weight and a relief at the same time. I am done. Done trying to prove myself. Done bending myself into shapes that do not fit. Done prioritizing his approval over my own happiness.
I am done being his son in the way he wants me to be.
Gabriel looks up from his newspaper, his gray eyes sharp and assessing. "Giovanni?"
"He wants to see me." I turn off the stove, abandoning the eggs that are starting to brown at the edges. My hands are steady, which surprises me. I expected them to shake. "About Patrick. Or the Frank Lucas deal I never closed. Maybe both."
"You want us to come?" Gabriel asks, already folding his newspaper with that precise, military efficiency he brings to everything.
For a moment I consider it. Having Gabriel and Luca at my back would make this easier. My father respects strength in numbers, respects the united front we present. But this is not about strength in numbers.
This is about me finally standing on my own two feet and saying no.
"No. This is something I need to handle alone." I can feel the weight of the decision settling in my chest. "This conversation has been coming for a long time. It needs to be just him and me."
Rosalina appears in the doorway, and my heart does that thing it always does when I see her—that catch, that skip, that sudden certainty that everything else is just noise.
She is wearing one of my t-shirts, her golden bronze hair pulled into a messy bun, her hand resting on her stomach where our child is growing.
"Handle what alone?" Her voice is careful, but I can see the fear in her hazel eyes.
"My father wants to see me."
She crosses the kitchen in three quick steps, her hands framing my face. "What are you going to say to him?"
I cover her hands with mine, breathing in her scent—vanilla and warmth and home. "The truth. That I am done trying to be the son he wants me to be. That I am building my own family now."
"You are talking about leaving the mafia," Gabriel says quietly.
I look at him, at Luca who has appeared in the doorway. "If that means choosing the people I love over the organization, then yes."
The words feel lighter than I expected. Not heavy with dread, but almost liberating.
I have been carrying this decision around for weeks now, maybe longer.
Ever since Rosalina stood up to my father at that dinner.
Ever since I realized there were people in this world who would defend me without expecting anything in return.
"We are with you," Luca says, his expression fierce and loyal. "Whatever you decide. Whatever happens."
"All of us," Rosalina adds, her fingers tightening against my face.
I pull her against my chest, feeling her heartbeat against mine. Three months ago I was preparing to marry a woman I had never met to secure an alliance I did not believe in. Now I have a wife I would die for, a baby on the way, and a family that chose me.
My father can take away my position. He can disown me. He can strip me of the Salvatore name.
But he cannot take this. He cannot take them.
The drive to the compound takes forty-five minutes, and I spend every one of them thinking about what I am about to do.
I am about to walk away from everything. The legacy my grandfather built. The empire my father has spent his life maintaining. The future I have been groomed for since before I could walk.
And I am not afraid.
That is the part that surprises me most. I expected fear. Expected doubt. Expected some part of me to balk at throwing away everything I was raised to value.
Instead, all I feel is this strange, settling certainty. Like I am finally walking in the right direction after years of going the wrong way.
My driver—Antonio, who has worked for the family since before I was born—keeps glancing at me in the rearview mirror. He knows where we are going. Probably knows why. The entire organization has been buzzing since Patrick's death, since word got out that I acted without Giovanni's authorization.
"You want me to wait, boss?" he asks when we pull up to the gates.
The word boss catches in my chest. How many more times will people call me that?
"No," I tell him. "I will find my own way home."
If I still have a home to go to after this.
The Salvatore compound looks exactly as it always has—imposing stone and iron, guards at every entrance, the weight of legacy pressing down on everything. I have walked through these gates a thousand times. Ten thousand. But today feels different.
Today feels like the last time.
I nod to the guards as I pass. They nod back, their faces carefully neutral. They know something is happening. They can sense the shift in the air.
How many of them will I lose after today? How many will stay loyal to Giovanni instead of following me into whatever uncertain future I am walking toward?
It does not matter. What matters is Rosalina. Gabriel. Luca. The baby growing inside my wife. The family I am choosing instead of the one I was born into.
Giovanni's office is on the third floor. I have been summoned here countless times—for discipline, for lectures, for endless performance reviews disguised as father-son conversations. The ritual is familiar enough that I could navigate it blindfolded.
Up the grand staircase. Left at my grandfather's portrait—the man staring down at me with those same cold eyes my father inherited, judging me, finding me wanting. Third door on the right.
My hand is steady when I knock.
"Enter."
I take a breath. This is it. This is the moment everything changes.
I open the door and step into my father's domain one last time.The old Dante would have stood here waiting, desperate for approval.
The office is exactly as I remember—dark wood and leather, heavy curtains blocking most of the natural light, everything positioned to remind you that the man behind that desk holds power over your life.
He is standing at the window, back to me, hands clasped behind him in that pose he favors when he wants you to wait.
To stew. To understand that your time is his to command.
I close the door with a soft click that seems too loud in the silence.
He does not turn. Does not acknowledge my presence. The power play is obvious, almost crude. Ten years ago it would have worked. I would have stood here sweating, waiting for permission to speak, desperate for approval.
But that Dante is gone. That Dante died the moment Rosalina stood up to this man and defended me in front of his entire family. The moment I realized I did not have to keep being the son he wanted me to be.
I can be myself. I can choose my own path. And if that means walking away from everything he built, then so be it.
"Sit," he commands, still not turning.
"I would rather stand."
Now he turns, and I see the flash of surprise in his eyes before he locks it down behind his usual mask of disapproval. His jaw is tight, a muscle ticking beneath the skin. His hands are clenched behind his back hard enough that I can see the tension in his shoulders.
"That was not a request, Dante."
"And neither was my response." I keep the desk between us—a physical barrier that feels more symbolic than protective. "You wanted to see me. I am here. Say what you need to say."
I watch something shift in his expression. Confusion, maybe. Or the first stirring of anger. He is not used to this version of me. The one who does not immediately defer. The one who is not afraid of his disapproval.
He moves to his desk, bracing his hands on the surface, leaning forward like he is about to interrogate a suspect. "You eliminated Patrick Murphy without my authorization."
Straight to it, then. No pretense of concern for my wellbeing. No questions about whether I am okay after killing a man. Just the accusation that I dared to act independently.
I should have expected nothing less.
"Patrick Murphy threatened my wife and killed two people I cared about." I keep my voice level, even as my pulse pounds in my ears. "He staged a coup against the Irish leadership and put our alliance at risk. I did what was necessary to protect my family and secure our position."
"Your family," Giovanni repeats, and there is venom in the way he says it. Like the word itself offends him. "You mean the substitute bride who disrespected me at my own dinner table? The girl who stood up in front of my entire family and called me a tyrant?"
The dismissiveness in his voice—the way he reduces Rosalina to the substitute bride, like she is nothing more than a placeholder, a mistake—ignites something hot and protective in my chest.
"I mean my wife." I lean forward, matching his posture, refusing to be intimidated. "Rosalina. The woman carrying my child. The person I would burn the world down to protect. Yes, Papa. That is exactly who I mean."