The silence in the penthouse is absolute, broken only by the faint, distant hum of the city fifty floors below. The four other Don sitting at the table look anywhere but at Lucchesi. They look at the blood on the leather book. They look at the heavy, dark barrel of Leo’s weapon. They look at me—the baker's daughter who accidentally handed the keys of the city to a monster.
Don Lucchesi’s hands tremble against the gold head of his cane. His knuckles are white, his chest heaving as he looks up at Dante.
"You can't do this, Marchetti," Lucchesi breathes, his voice cracking, stripping away the last of his carefully cultivated dignity. "The Commission was built on balance. If you take forty percent, you starve our families. You'll trigger a bloodbath on the streets."
"The bloodbath already happened," Dante says, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that doesn't hold a single ounce of mercy. "You just haven't cleaned up your half of it yet."
He doesn't give them a chance to vote. He doesn't look for a show of hands.
Dante turns his back on the richest men in Chicago, completely disregarding the threat of their hidden weapons. He keeps his large hand locked around my wrist, his grip a burning, permanent brand as he pulls me toward the double glass doors. Leo falls into step behind us, walking backward for three paces with his submachine gun raised, ensuring no one dares to draw steel before the doors click shut.
We step into the private express elevator, and the heavy brass doors slide closed with a smooth, pressurized hush, plunging us into a quiet sanctuary of mirrored glass and dark mahogany.
The moment the elevator begins its rapid descent, the terrifying aura of the Don drops by a fraction of an inch. Dante doesn't release my wrist. Instead, he pulls me forward until my chest hits the firm, charcoal wool of his vest. He places both hands on my waist, his thumbs digging into the fabric of my trousers, anchoring me against him as the gravity of the descent presses down on us.
"You're quiet, Gianna," he murmurs, his amber eyes searching my face. The white flour dust is still caught in the dark waves of his hair, a strange, domestic contrast to the dried crimson on his cuffs.
"I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop," I whisper, my hands resting against his chest, feeling the steady, heavy thud of his heart. "You just threatened the entire city council of the underworld. They won't just sit there and let you take forty percent."
"They will," Dante says, his jaw tightening into a rigid, handsome line. He leans down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear, his breath hot and fierce. "Because they know I have the ledger, and they know I have the stomach to use it. But more importantly, they know what I am protecting now."
He pulls back slightly, his gaze dropping to my left hand. He lifts it between us, his large, calloused fingers tracing the square-cut diamond that glints under the elevator's soft lighting.
"My father spent thirty years trying to buy peace with the Romano family," Dante whispers, his voice dropping into that dark, razor-sharp purr that always makes my pulse scramble. "He thought a treaty was written in ink on a piece of parchment. He was wrong. A treaty is written in blood, and it's sealed in a bedroom."
The elevator chimes softly, a golden light flashing above the door as we hit the sub-basement garage.
The doors slide open to reveal three armored Marchetti SUVs idling in the dark, their headlights cutting through the damp concrete shadows. A dozen heavily armed guards stand at attention, their expressions grim and ready for war.
Dante doesn't look at them. He keeps his eyes locked onto mine, his thumb pressing hard against my chin, tilting my face up until our breaths mingle in the cold air of the garage.
"The bakery on 4th Street is gone, Gianna," he says, a dark, possessive promise settling into the amber flecks of his eyes. "But tomorrow, the new kitchen opens. You’ll bake your bread, you’ll wear my ring, and you’ll sit at the head of my table.