The iron stairs leading down to the underground boardroom are steep, narrow, and smell of damp concrete and old cigars. Dante’s hand is a solid weight on my lower back, guiding me down into the belly of the shipping docks. With every step, the low murmur of gravelly voices grows louder, bouncing off the reinforced walls like the hum of a hornet's nest.
This isn’t a boardroom for corporate executives. It is a bunker buried beneath the riverbed.
Dante shoves the heavy steel door open. The conversation inside stops instantly.
A thick cloud of gray cigar smoke hangs beneath the low concrete ceiling, turning the harsh fluorescent lights into a yellow haze. Around a massive, scarred oak table sit eight men. These are the Marchetti captains—the neighborhood bosses who control everything from the gambling dens on the West Side to the extortion rings at the railyards. They look like old boxers, their faces lined with scars, their heavy jackets unbuttoned to reveal the dark leather of their holsters.
Dante doesn't look at them. He keeps his arm firmly around my waist, his long strides forcing me to keep pace as he walks straight to the head of the table.
"Sit," he commands softly, pulling out the heavy leather captain's chair at the head of the table.
I swallow the lump of dry terror in my throat and sit down. The cream cashmere of my sweater looks blindingly clean against the dark, stained wood of the table. I rest my hands flat on the surface, the thick diamond wedding band catching the harsh light.
Dante doesn't sit. He stands right behind my chair, his massive frame towering over me like a shadow, his hands resting casually on the back of my seat. His black suit jacket is buttoned now, hiding his weapon, but the cold aura of absolute authority radiating off him is sharper than any blade.
The men at the table exchange tense, dark looks. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, until the oldest captain at the far end—a man named Bruno with a broken nose and hands the size of dinner plates—slams his glass of whiskey onto the wood.
"We heard the estate was hit, Dante," Bruno grunts, his eyes scanning the plaster dust still clinging to Dante's hair before dropping down to stare at me with open suspicion. "We heard the Romano girl ran, and you brought a stray to the altar to save face. Now the Lucchesi are choking our supply lines at the north pier because they think we’re weak."
He stands up, his heavy chair scraping loudly against the concrete floor. He points a thick, scarred finger straight at my face.
"We didn't swear loyalty to a baker," Bruno sneers, his voice rising. "We swore loyalty to the Marchetti syndicate. If your new wife is a fake, the treaty is dead, and we’re bleeding out for a lie."
The room temperature drops to zero in a single heartbeat.
Dante doesn't yell. He doesn't draw his gun. But the stillness that settles over his body is far more terrifying than an explosion. He slowly takes his hands off the back of my chair, his amber eyes narrowing into two lethal slits as he stares across the smoke-filled room.
"Say that again, Bruno," Dante whispers. The words are a low, razor-sharp purr that cuts through the hum of the ventilation system.
Bruno opens his mouth to speak, but the look in Dante’s eyes freezes the air in the old man's throat. The bravado drains from the captain's face, leaving his skin a pale, sickly gray. He realizes, a second too late, that he hasn't challenged a weak Don. He has poked a sleeping dragon.
Dante takes a slow step around my chair, his leather shoes clicking softly on the concrete.
"Apologize to the Don's wife," Dante says, his voice a flat, dead line of pure execution, "or leave this room in a bag.”