The scent of fresh espresso and caramelized sugar drifts up from the ground floor, a rich contrast to the sharp, metallic tang of the lake breeze filtering through the open balcony doors.
Two weeks have passed since the Commission broke at the High-Rise Club. Two weeks since the name Romano was completely scrubbed from the city’s ledgers, replaced by the heavy, immutable ink of the Marchetti house.
I stand in front of the floor-length mirror in the master suite, adjusting the cuffs of a tailored midnight-blue silk blouse. On the vanity behind me sits the morning edition of the Chicago Tribune. The headline reads: Local Industrial Foundry Transformed into Luxury North Avenue Artisanal Hub. There is no mention of the three bodies pulled from the river last Tuesday. There is no mention of Don Lucchesi’s sudden, quiet retirement to a medical villa in Switzerland.
The city prints what Dante allows it to print.
A heavy, familiar weight settles around my waist as a pair of massive, scarred hands slide over my hips from behind. Dante presses his chest against my back, his chin nuzzling the crook of my neck. He has already abandoned his morning tie, the top two buttons of his white shirt undone, revealing the rugged collarbone and the dark ink peaking out from beneath his collar.
"You're lingering, Gianna," his deep baritone rumbles against my skin, his rough morning rasp sending a delicious, familiar shiver straight down my spine.
"The grand opening is in two hours, Dante," I whisper, leaning my head back against his shoulder, my hands resting over his forearms. "The trucks from the docks are delivering the first shipment of imported Sicilian almonds, and Leo said the security detail at the front intersection intercepted two delivery vans with incorrect manifest numbers."
"They were handled," Dante murmurs, his amber eyes locking onto mine in the mirror's reflection. The tiny pale scar through his left eyebrow shifts as a dark, predatory smile touches his lips. "A minor accounting error from one of the lesser families trying to test the new perimeter. They won't make the mistake a second time."
He turns me around in his embrace, his large hands sliding up to cup my jaw, his thumbs pressing firmly against my cheekbones to tilt my face up. The intensity in his gaze hasn't faded; if anything, the absolute control of the city has only made his fire burn hotter, more concentrated.
"You built the kitchen, little baker," he whispers, his voice dropping into that razor-sharp purr that completely commands my chest. "My men guard the glass. Your only responsibility today is to stand at the doors and show this city exactly who owns the ground they walk on."
He reaches down, his fingers locking with mine, lifting my left hand between us. The square-cut diamond catches the brilliant morning sunlight, throwing sharp, dazzling fractures of light across the dark velvet walls of our bedroom.
"The car is waiting downstairs," Dante says, his jaw tightening into a handsome, unyielding line of pure possession. "Let’s go open your empire.”