The word bag hangs in the heavy, smoke-filled air of the bunker like a noose.
Bruno stays frozen, his thick, scarred finger still half-pointed in my direction, but his hand is trembling now. The tough neighborhood boss looks down at the table, then up at Dante’s face, searching for a bluff that isn't there. Dante’s silver pistol is still tucked inside his jacket, but his right hand is resting loosely on his belt, inches from the fabric. The sheer, suffocating gravity of his presence forces every other captain in the room to lean back, putting distance between themselves and the man marked for death.
"I’m waiting, Bruno," Dante says. His voice hasn't risen. It is still that low, gravelly vibration, a dark purr that vibrates right through the wood of the table and into the palms of my hands.
"I... I meant no disrespect to the Donna," Bruno finally mutters. He lowers his hand, his knuckles turning a mottled white as he grips the edge of the table. He drops back into his heavy leather chair, his eyes fixed firmly on his whiskey glass. "The rumors from the docks have everyone on edge, Don Marchetti. I spoke out of turn."
"You did," Dante says simply.
He slams his hand on the table, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
The heavy glass bottles and porcelain ashtrays jump an inch into the air, rattling violently against the old oak. Bruno instantly sits back down, pale, his broad shoulders shrinking into his jacket. The message is received, clear and absolute. The hierarchy of the Marchetti syndicate hasn't shifted by a millimeter.
Dante walks back to my chair. He doesn't sit, but he places his large, warm hand flat against my shoulder. The heat of his palm bleeds through the cream cashmere of my sweater, a steady, possessive weight that tells the entire room I am under his personal protection. I force my breathing to remain slow and even, my fingers interlaced on the dark wood, showing them the diamond ring that binds me to their king.
"My wife is a Romano by blood, but she is a Marchetti by law," Dante announces, his amber eyes sweeping over the remaining seven captains. "The treaty stands. The north pier belongs to us. And anyone who questions her place at this table questions mine."
The captains nod in rapid, silent succession. The suspicion in their eyes is replaced by a tense, submissive respect. They might not know my name is Gianna, but they know that touching me means triggering a war they won't survive.
"Now," Dante says, his grip on my shoulder tightening by a fraction of an inch as he leans forward. "Let’s talk about the Lucchesi boat. Enzo says they've targeted the northern warehouse where our main shipments arrive."
The captain next to Bruno, a younger man with sharp features named Marco, pushes a thick paper map across the table. It shows the jagged grid of the Chicago riverfront, a red marker circling a massive structure right on the water's edge.
"They're moving fast, boss," Marco says, his voice tight. "They know we’re distracted by the wedding. They have men on the water right now, waiting for the high tide to unload a shipment of contraband that will compromise our perimeter entirely. If that boat docks, we lose the northern sector before morning."
Dante stares down at the red circle on the map. The tiny pale scar through his left eyebrow twitches, his jaw setting into a rigid, unyielding sheet of marble. He doesn't look at his captains; he looks down at the dark curls of my hair falling over my shoulder.
"We aren't losing anything," Dante murmurs, his voice dropping into that deadly, razor-sharp register. He turns to me, his amber eyes burning with a sudden, dark intensity that leaves me breathless. "We're going there tonight.”