Chapter 26 #2
His face flushes with anger, color rising in his cheeks.
I can see him fighting for control, fighting to maintain that icy composure he wears like armor.
"And what about the organization? What about your responsibilities as the future Don?
What about the Frank Lucas deal you were supposed to close? "
There it is. The Frank Lucas deal. I have been waiting for him to bring it up.
I take a breath, steadying myself. This is where it always goes wrong. This is where he picks apart my decisions, finds them wanting, makes me feel like a child playing at being a man.
But not today. Today I am not going to let him make me feel small.
"The Frank Lucas deal was never going to close," I say bluntly, watching his jaw tighten.
"Not on the terms you wanted. Lucas wants full control of Harlem with our protection but none of our oversight.
He wants to import heroin without interference and pay us a percentage that barely covers our operational costs.
It is a bad deal, and I told you that from the beginning. "
"And yet you failed to negotiate better terms." His voice is sharp, cutting, designed to wound. Designed to make me defensive.
I refuse to take the bait.
"Because better terms do not exist." I straighten, standing at my full height, looking him in the eye.
"Lucas is not interested in partnership.
He wants us to provide muscle and legitimacy while he builds his own empire.
Taking that deal would make us look weak, would set a precedent that any independent operator can dictate terms to the Salvatore family.
I walked away because walking away was the smart move. "
I watch him process this, see the way his jaw works as he grinds his teeth. He knows I am right. He has to know. But admitting it would mean admitting I made the correct call, and Giovanni Salvatore does not admit his son might know better than him about anything.
That would require seeing me as an equal. And in his eyes, I will never be his equal. I will always be the disappointment. The son who is too soft, too emotional, too much like my mother.
"You walked away because you were too soft to close it," he says finally, and there is contempt dripping from every word.
There it is. The accusation that has followed me my entire life. Too soft. Too emotional. Too much like your mother.
Something in my chest goes tight, then releases. Not with hurt, but with understanding. He will never change. He will never see me the way I need him to see me. And I am done waiting for it.
"I walked away because I was smart enough to recognize a trap.
" I take a step toward the desk, closing the distance between us.
"You taught me that, actually. Years ago, when I was fourteen and you were explaining why we did not do business with the Russians.
You said any deal where the other party holds all the power is not a deal worth making.
You said a smart leader knows when to walk away.
That was your wisdom, Papa. I was following it. "
I watch the words land, see the exact instant he realizes he cannot refute the logic without contradicting his own teachings. His expression hardens further, his face going stone-cold in that way that used to terrify me as a child.
But I am not a child anymore. And I am not afraid of him.
Not anymore.
"The Irish situation—"
"Was handled," I interrupt, and his eyes flash with fury at being cut off.
"Patrick Murphy was a threat to the alliance, to Erin O'Connor, and to Rosalina.
He murdered Seamus O'Connor and staged a coup that would have destabilized our entire relationship with the Irish.
Callahan now leads the Irish organization with our backing, and the alliance is stronger than it has ever been.
I achieved the objective you wanted—peace with the Irish—I just did it my way instead of yours. "
"Your way," Giovanni says quietly, and the softness of his tone is somehow more dangerous than his anger, more cutting than his contempt, "involved compromising this family's reputation.
Attacking the Irish compound without authorization.
Operating outside the chain of command. Making decisions that should have been mine to make. "
"You are right," I say, and he blinks—just once, just a flicker of surprise before he controls it.
"I did all of those things. I made command decisions without consulting you.
I prioritized my wife's safety over organizational protocol.
I acted independently because the situation demanded it and because waiting for your approval would have gotten people killed. "
"I chose to save lives over following procedure. I chose protecting the people I love over protecting your ego. And I would make the same choice again. Every single time."
"And you think that justifies—"
"I think," I say, cutting him off again, my voice rising for the first time, "that I am done justifying my choices to you."
The silence that follows is absolute, suffocating. I can hear my own heartbeat in my ears, can feel the pulse of blood through my veins. Giovanni stares at me like he has never seen me before, like I am a stranger wearing his son's face.
His expression shifts through several emotions in quick succession—shock, fury, something that might be hurt buried underneath it all—before settling on cold calculation. The mask slides back into place, locking away anything resembling feeling.
"You are done justifying your choices." His voice is flat, emotionless, and somehow that is worse than the anger.
"Yes."
"Because you believe you know better than I do how to run this organization."
"No." I shake my head slowly, deliberately. "Because I do not want to run this organization anymore."
The words hang in the air between us like a physical thing, heavy and irrevocable.
I watch my father process them, see the color drain from his face and then flood back in an angry flush. He takes a step back, his hand shooting out to grip the edge of his desk like he needs the support to stay upright. His knuckles go white with pressure.
"Explain," he says, and his voice is dangerously quiet, vibrating with barely controlled rage.
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, in my fingertips, in every nerve ending. This is it. This is the moment everything changes. The moment I stop being Giovanni Salvatore's son and start being just Dante. Just myself.
"I am grateful for everything you taught me," I say, and I mean it despite everything.
Despite the criticism and the impossible standards and the constant feeling that I was never quite enough.
"The discipline, the strategy, the understanding of power and loyalty.
You raised me to lead, and I appreciate that.
But the cost of that leadership—the sacrifices required, the constant performance, the need to prioritize the organization over everything else—I am not willing to pay it anymore. "
"You are walking away." Not a question. An accusation. The words come out strangled, like he is choking on them.
"I am choosing a different path," I correct, and my voice is steady even though my hands are shaking.
I clasp them behind my back so he cannot see.
"I have a wife who loves me. A baby on the way.
Friends who would die for me and I for them.
I have built something real, Papa. Something that does not require me to prove myself every day or sacrifice my humanity to maintain it.
And I am not giving that up. Not for the Salvatore name. Not for legacy. Not even for you."
Giovanni moves around the desk now, closing the distance between us with slow, deliberate steps.
He is taller than me—not by much, maybe an inch—but he has always known how to use his presence as a weapon.
How to loom. How to intimidate with nothing more than proximity and the weight of his authority.
For a moment I think he might actually hit me. His face is flushed with anger, a vein pulsing in his temple. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides, trembling with the effort of restraint.
"You ungrateful—" He stops himself, breathing hard through his nose. His chest rises and falls with the force of it. "I raised you to be a Don. To lead this family into the future. And you are throwing it away for a girl you have known for three months?"
The dismissiveness in his voice—the way he reduces Rosalina to a girl, like she is nothing, like what we have is meaningless—ignites something hot and protective in my chest.
"I am choosing my family over your empire," I say quietly, but there is steel in my voice now. "And if you cannot understand that, then maybe you never understood me at all."
"I understand perfectly." His voice drops to ice, all the heat draining away into something colder and more final.
All emotion locks away behind the mask he wears so well, the one I have seen him use on enemies and allies alike.
"You are weak. Just as I always suspected.
You have too much of your mother in you—too much feeling, too much sentiment.
You were never going to be strong enough for this life. "
The words hit like physical blows, each one carefully aimed at the softest parts of me. The parts I have spent my whole life trying to harden, trying to hide, trying to prove wrong.
Too much of your mother in you.
The old Dante would have flinched. Would have felt that barb sink deep and twist. Would have spent the next week, the next month, the next year trying to prove it wrong.
But standing here now, with the memory of Rosalina's hand in mine and the knowledge that I am building something better than what my father built, the insult just feels... empty. Hollow. Like he is swinging at someone who is no longer standing where he expects.