The heavy oak doors of the estate’s private study groan as Dante shoves them open, his massive frame instantly cutting through the thick cloud of cigar smoke inside.
Three men sit around the mahogany conference table, their expressions hardening into masks of disciplined respect the moment the Don enters. These are the Western sector underbosses—men who have controlled the grain and distribution lines of Illinois for two decades through sheer, bloody intimidation. But as Dante steps into the room, none of them look at him.
Their eyes drop instantly to me.
I walk beside him, my ivory silk blouse contrasting sharply with the dark, heavy wool of my winter coat. My left hand rests casually over the folder in my arms, ensuring the dazzling, square-cut diamond on my finger catches the glare of the overhead chandelier.
"Marchetti," the oldest underboss, a scarred veteran named Silvio, says, his gravelly voice tight. "We’ve been waiting. The manifests for the North Avenue pier are ready for your signature."
"You aren't waiting for my signature, Silvio," Dante rumbles, his deep baritone dropping into that low, flat register of pure execution. He doesn't sit down. He stands at the head of the table, a dark monolith of absolute power, and pulls me directly into his side. "You're waiting for hers."
The room drops to zero degrees. Silvio’s jaw tightens, his eyes darting from Dante’s unblinking amber glare to the folder in my hands.
"With all due respect, Don Marchetti," Silvio begins, his knuckles whitening against the table, "the Western lines have always answered directly to the head of the Commission. Giving control of the distribution hub to a—"
"To my wife," Dante interrupts, his voice a razor-sharp purr that completely cuts the oxygen out of the room. The tiny pale scar through his left eyebrow twitches, his jaw setting into a rigid sheet of marble. "The Romano ledger didn't just give me the names of your bought judges, Silvio. It gave me the exact routing numbers for your offshore accounts in Nassau. If my wife doesn't clear your trucks by noon, those funds are frozen by the federal government by one."
I step forward, placing the folder flat on the mahogany table with a calm, deliberate click. I meet Silvio’s gaze, my voice steady, carrying the weight of the empire I now co-sign.
"The new manifest requires a forty percent tribute on all grain entering the North Avenue perimeter," I state clearly, looking down at the older men. "Sign the registry, or the pier stays locked, and your trucks rot on the highway."
Silvio stares at the documents, his face turning a sickly, defeated shade of gray. Realizing the old guard has no leverage left, he slowly reaches into his jacket, pulls out a heavy silver pen, and scratches his signature onto the parchment.
A dark, predatory satisfaction settles into Dante's features. He doesn't offer a handshake to seal the deal. He simply catches the nape of my neck in his large, warm hand, his thumb pressing firmly into my skin to claim his victory.
"The meeting is over," Dante commands softly, turning his back on the underbosses without a second thought. He guides me out of the room and back into the quiet hallway, his grip tightening around my waist, pulling me flush against his hard torso.
"You handled them beautifully, little baker," he whispers against the shell of my ear, his hot breath sending a delicious, familiar shiver straight down my spine. "The West has fallen. The entire map is ours.”