The grand opening of the North Avenue foundry is not an event; it is a coronation.
By ten o’clock in the morning, the cobblestone courtyard outside the massive steel-and-brick structure is packed with the city’s elite. Politicians in tailored wool coats mingle with high-society critics, their laughter sharp and fragile against the heavy backdrop of the industrial pier. But beneath the glitz of the crowd, the true architecture of the city is on display.
Every black car idling along the boulevard belongs to the Marchetti fleet. Every doorman, every valet, and every server walking the floor wears a subtle silver pin on their lapel—the quiet emblem of Dante’s absolute oversight.
I stand on the mezzanine overlooking the main floor, my hands resting on the cold iron railing. Below, the massive brick ovens are glowing, casting a warm, amber heat into the air that smells of toasted almonds, rich yeast, and sweet vanilla sugar. It is the exact scent of my childhood dreams, magnified into a sprawling, multi-million-dollar reality.
"They're terrified of you," a voice says from behind.
I turn to see Leo stepping up to the railing, a crystal glass of sparkling water in his hand. His compression wrap is gone, his suit fitting flawlessly across his broad shoulders once more. He nods toward the crowd below, where a prominent city councilman is currently shaking hands with one of our security captains, his smile tight and strained.
"They aren't looking at the pastries, Gianna," Leo adds, his tone carrying a rare, genuine respect. "They’re looking at the woman who made the Marchetti house untouchable. Without that ledger, half the men in this room would be drafting indictments instead of buying cannoli."
"And the other half?" I ask quietly.
"The other half are wondering what happens if they fall behind on their forty percent," a deep, gravelly baritone rumbles from the shadows of the mezzanine stairs.
Dante steps into the light, his massive frame clad in a flawless black tuxedo that accentuates the brutal, elegant lines of his body. The crowd below doesn't see him yet, but the moment he approaches the railing, a subtle shift ripples through the room. People stop talking. Necks tilt upward. The atmosphere grows heavy, pressurized by his mere presence.
Leo bows his head slightly and slips back down the stairs, leaving the perimeter entirely to us.
Dante doesn't look at the crowd. He steps up directly behind me, his large, warm hand settling firmly at the small of my back, pushing me gently against the iron railing. His heat hits me like a physical wave, cutting through the crisp air of the high ceiling.
"The Lucchesi underboss just arrived," Dante murmurs against the shell of my ear, his breath hot, his razor-sharp purr vibrating straight down my spine. "He brought a vintage espresso machine from the 1920s as an opening gift. It’s currently being scanned for explosives in the loading bay."
"A peaceful tribute?" I ask, turning my head to look up at him.
The tiny pale scar through his left eyebrow twitches as his amber eyes burn down into mine, heavy-lidded and intensely possessive. He reaches out, his long, calloused fingers catching a stray dark curl of my hair, winding it slowly around his index finger before tucking it behind my ear. His thumb lingers on my jaw, tilting my face up until my lips are inches from his.
"There is no peace in this city, Gianna," he whispers, his jaw tightening into a handsome, unyielding sheet of marble. "There is only submission. And right now, they are submitting to you."
He slides his hand down to my left wrist, his fingers wrapping around the thin bone like a permanent cuff. He lifts my hand, his thumb rubbing a slow, crushing circle against the square-cut diamond that glints brilliantly under the industrial chandeliers.
"The doors are opening," Dante commands softly, his eyes locking onto my parted lips with a fierce, unchecked satisfaction. "Walk down those stairs with me, little baker. Let them see the face of the empire they belong to.”