The first true winter frost has begun to trace delicate, crystalline patterns along the edges of the master suite windows, but the heat inside the room is suffocating.
I don't realize I’m staring at my own reflection until Dante’s shadow swallows the glass.
He stands behind me, a dark, looming monolith against the pale morning light. His hands are empty, but the lethal aura of the Don clings to him like a second skin. He watches me through the mirror, his amber eyes tracking the slow, deliberate way I button a fresh, ivory silk blouse—the color of bleached flour, a quiet nod to the life I left behind in the dust of 4th Street.
"The Western sector underbosses are waiting in the study," Dante rumbles, his deep baritone vibrating through the floorboards and straight into the soles of my feet. "They brought the physical registries for the grain silos. They want to verify the transport logistics before the first fleet of trucks leaves the pier."
"They don't want to verify logistics, Dante," I whisper, turning around to face him, my hands resting against the sharp, tailored lines of his dark waistcoat. "They want to see if the rumors are true. They want to see if a Romano is actually sitting at the ledger."
A low, predatory purr rattles in Dante's chest. He doesn't deny it. Instead, his large, calloused hands slide up my ribcage, his thumbs pressing firmly into the soft skin beneath my jaw, tilting my face up until I am entirely captive beneath his gaze. The tiny pale scar through his left eyebrow twitches, his jaw setting into a hard, unyielding line of pure possession.
"Let them look," he murmurs, his hot breath brushing my lips, sending a violent, familiar shiver straight down my spine. "Let them see the woman who commands the fire. If a single one of them looks at you with anything less than absolute terror, Leo will have their fingers in a box before breakfast."
He pulls me closer, his grip tightening until the square-cut diamond on my left hand presses hard against his chest, a brilliant, unbreakable brand between us.
"You aren't a secret anymore, Gianna," Dante whispers, his voice dropping into that razor-sharp register of absolute authority that always makes my pulse scramble. "You are the law of this city. Put on your coat. It’s time to show the West what happens when they cross our perimeter.”