The suffocating silence of the grand ballroom stretches until the air feels thick enough to shatter. Don Lucchesi’s ancient, wrinkled hands tremble slightly where they rest flat on the mahogany table, his scowl deepening until his eyes are practically buried beneath his heavy brow.
"Your wife?" Lucchesi spits, the word rattling around his throat like dry bones. "You think a ring changes what she holds in her hands, Marchetti? That ledger belongs to the Commission. Her father stole thirty years of our infrastructure, and you expect us to let a baker’s daughter sit on our secrets just because she’s in your bed?"
To my right, Silvio, the underboss of the Western sectors, lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. He leans forward, his tailored silk suit stretching over his heavy frame. "He’s playing us, Lucchesi. Dante doesn't want a wife. He wants the keys to our routing numbers. If we let the Marchetti family absorb the Romano book, the North Avenue pier will control the flow of every dollar in the state."
I can feel the eyes of every shooter in the room shifting toward us, their hands dropping subtly lower toward their waistbands. My fingers dig so hard into the leather cover of the ledger that my nails threaten to puncture the binding. I am half a pace behind Dante’s shoulder, completely enveloped in his shadow, but the target on my chest feels larger than ever.
Dante doesn't flinch. He doesn't even shift his stance. He remains a dark, unyielding monolith at the foot of the table, his hand locked around my waist with a possessive, crushing force that anchors me to the floorboards.
A low, terrifyingly calm purr begins to rattle deep inside his chest.
"The book isn't leaving my estate, Silvio," Dante rumbles, his gravelly baritone dropping a register, cutting through the murmurs of the underbosses like a razor-sharp blade. The tiny pale scar through his left eyebrow shifts as his jaw sets into a handsome, unyielding sheet of marble. "And neither is the Donna. I didn't come here to negotiate a treaty. I came here to state a term."
He steps forward, pulling me with him, forcing the entire table to look at the unified front we present. The crystal chandeliers above vibrate slightly with the sheer volume of his voice.
"The Romano ledger is closed to the public," Dante whispers, his amber eyes burning with a fierce, unchecked dominance that leaves the room entirely breathless. "The names, the numbers, the judges—they stay within my perimeter. If one of you tries to reach for her, or the book, I won't just close your transport lines. I’ll burn the Western sectors until there isn't a single brick left standing."
Lucchesi stares at him, his ancient chest heaving as he calculates the cost of a full-scale war against the Marchetti enforcers. He looks from Dante’s flat, lethal gaze down to my white apron, still visibly tucked beneath my winter coat, and finally to the gold wedding band already glinting heavily on Dante’s finger.
"You're playing a dangerous game, boy," Lucchesi barks softly, his voice losing its sting, replaced by a cold, calculating resignation.
"I'm not playing," Dante promises, his dark purr settling into the corners of the room. He tightens his grip on my waist, pivoting us both toward the grand exit without waiting for a dismissal. "Leo, clear the path. The Donna is going home.”