Dante doesn’t flinch. He doesn't look back at the bed where I sit wrapped in gray silk, but I see the way his broad shoulders square beneath the dark fabric of his robe, his entire body turning to stone.
"Let him call them," Dante says, his voice a flat, dead line of pure ice that cuts through the morning quiet. "The Commission hasn't ruled against a Marchetti in thirty years. Old man Lucchesi is barking because his pocketbook is bleeding."
"It's not just the north pier, Dante," Leo counters, lowering his voice until it’s a gravelly whisper that barely carries into the room. "The Romano ledger... the one Gianna’s father tried to use as a bargaining chip? It didn't just have gate codes. It had the names of the dirty judges on the Commission’s payroll. Lucchesi has the ledger, and he's using it to pressure the other families. They think if you take over the Romano territory, you'll control the courts, too."
The air in the master suite turns instantly fragile.
I pull the silk sheets tighter against my skin, the diamond wedding band on my finger suddenly feeling like a lead weight. My father’s ghost is still in this room, still pulling the strings of the city from whatever hole he’s hiding in. He didn't just trade me to save his skin; he left a trail of gunpowder that could blow up the entire syndicate.
Dante turns his head slightly, his amber eyes cutting over his shoulder to lock onto mine. The tiny pale scar through his left eyebrow twitches, his jaw setting with a dark, simmering intensity.
"Go to the study, Leo. Call Marco and tell him to double the guards at the 4th Street sector," Dante commands, his gaze never leaving my face. "We aren't waiting for a summons. We dictate the terms."
"Understood," Leo grunts. The heavy click of his boots echoes down the hallway as he retreats.
Dante closes the heavy double doors, the latch clearing with a soft, final click. He walks back toward the bed, his movements fluid and unhurried, but the relaxed warmth from the dawn is entirely gone. He stops at the edge of the mattress, towering over me, his hands resting loosely on his hips.
"Your father was sloppy, Gianna," he murmurs, his baritone dropping into that low, dangerous purr. "He kept records of things that should have been burned twenty years ago. Now the Lucchesi family thinks they can use his cowardice to put a leash on me."
"He always kept a backup," I whisper, looking up at him, my knuckles turning white as I grip the silk sheet. "In the bakery, he had a safe behind the old flour bins. He used to say a businessman never trusts his memory."
A sharp, predatory look of dark amusement cuts through Dante's grim features. He leans down, his large, warm hand catching the nape of my neck, his thumb pressing firmly against my jaw to tilt my chin upward. His breath is hot and heavy against my lips.
"The safe behind the flour bins," he repeats, his amber eyes burning with a sudden, lethal focus. "Is it still there?"
"Unless he moved it when he ran," I breathe, my heart hammering against my ribs. "But he didn't have time. He left everything behind."
Dante presses his lips against mine—a short, fierce kiss that tastes of promise and impending war. He pulls back, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw with a heavy, possessive pressure.
"Get dressed, little baker," he commands softly, his voice a razor-sharp line of pure authority. "We’re going to your kitchen.”