chapter 5

Chapter 5: The Council’s Judgment

​The grand dining hall felt more like a courtroom.

​Twelve men sat around a table of polished obsidian. They were the "Old Guard"—the capos who had built the Moretti empire on bone and betrayal. They didn't look like businessmen. They looked like vultures waiting for a carcass.

​Dante walked in first. He didn't look at them. He took his seat at the head of the table, his presence turning the room ice-cold.

​I followed, the gold serpent necklace heavy against my skin. I had swapped my ruined purple dress for a sharp, black silk gown that felt like armor.

​"So," a man with a scarred face and a thick Russian accent spat. "This is the five-million-dollar girl. She looks like a glass doll, Dante. We needed an alliance, not a decoration."

​Dante didn't move. He didn't blink. He just tapped his fingers once on the table.

​"Don Moretti hears your concerns, Mikhail," Lorenzo said from behind the throne. "But he doesn't pay for decorations. He pays for weapons."

​"A weapon?" Mikhail laughed, and the other men joined in. "She’s a girl from a disgraced family. Her father is a coward. What could she possibly offer the Council?"

​I stepped forward, my heels clicking sharply against the stone. "I can offer you the one thing your guns can't buy, Mikhail. The truth."

​The laughter died. Mikhail narrowed his eyes. "The girl speaks? I thought you were part of the Don's silent vow."

​"I am the Don’s voice," I said, my voice steady. "And right now, his voice is telling you that you’re being robbed."

​The room erupted. Men slammed their fists on the table.

​"Explain yourself!" Mikhail roared.

​I grabbed a stack of ledgers from the center of the table and threw them open. I didn't need a calculator. I saw the patterns in the numbers like they were glowing.

​"Your shipping routes for the last three months," I said, pointing to a column of figures. "You’ve lost twelve percent of your profit to 'unforeseen' customs seizures. But it wasn't customs."

​"We have the reports—" another capo started.

​"The reports are faked," I interrupted. "Look at the time stamps. Seizures happened at 4:00 AM on Tuesdays. The Port Authority doesn't run inspections on Tuesday mornings. They’re under maintenance."

​I leaned over the table, looking Mikhail directly in the eye.

​"Someone in this room is rerouting the trucks to a private warehouse in the North End. At five million dollars a month, I’d say I’ve already paid for myself. Wouldn't you?"

​Dante leaned back in his chair, his eyes tracking me with a dark, satisfied intensity. He looked like a king watching his favorite executioner work.

​"Lies!" Mikhail stood up, his hand reaching for the holster under his jacket. "She’s making up numbers to save her neck!"

​Clack.

​The sound of Dante’s lighter hitting the table was louder than a gunshot.

​Mikhail froze. Dante didn't even look at him. He just raised a hand and gestured toward me.

​Go on.

​"Check the GPS logs for truck 409," I said. "If I'm lying, kill me now. If I'm right, Mikhail, perhaps we should check your private accounts."

​The silence in the room was suffocating. Lorenzo signaled to a tech in the corner. Ten seconds later, a map flashed on the wall screen.

​A red dot—Truck 409—was parked exactly where I said it would be. In Mikhail’s territory.

​"Mikhail," Lorenzo’s voice was like a blade. "Do you have an explanation for the Don?"

​Mikhail’s face went from red to ghostly white. "It’s a mistake! She’s a witch! She’s playing with the data!"

​Dante stood up.

​He didn't need to speak. The way he adjusted his cufflinks told the Council everything they needed to know. He walked over to Mikhail, who was now trembling.

​Dante reached out and patted Mikhail’s cheek—a "kiss of death" gesture that made the man gasp.

​Dante then looked at me. He held out his hand.

​I took it. His grip was firm, possessive, and warm. He pulled me toward the door, leaving the Council to deal with the traitor in their midst.

​"Wait!" Mikhail screamed as the guards moved in on him. "Dante! You're letting a woman run your empire? You've gone soft!"

​Dante stopped at the door. He turned his head slightly.

​He didn't speak to Mikhail. He looked at me.

​"Tell him," Dante’s eyes commanded.

​I looked at Mikhail, a cold smile touching my lips. "The Don isn't soft, Mikhail. He’s just finally found someone who can hear what he’s thinking. And right now, he’s thinking you should have stayed in the car."

​We walked out as the sounds of a struggle began behind the closed doors.

​We reached the elevator in silence. The moment the doors closed, Dante pinned me against the glass wall.

​His hands were on either side of my head. He was breathing hard, the adrenaline of the betrayal still surging through him.

​"Did I do well?" I whispered, my heart racing. "Did the 'decoration' earn her keep?"

​Dante didn't answer with a note. He didn't use Lorenzo.

​He leaned down, his lips brushing against mine.

​"Perfect," he rasped.

​The word was a vibration against my mouth. It was the first time I’d heard him speak since the car, and it sounded like velvet and gravel.

​He kissed me then. It wasn't the cold claim from before. It was a dark, desperate hunger. He tasted like expensive scotch and victory.

​I should have fought him. I should have pushed him away. But as his hands tangled in my hair, I realized the terrifying truth.

​I wasn't just his strategist.

​I was his drug. And he was never going to let me go.

​The elevator reached the penthouse with a soft ding.

​Dante pulled away just an inch, his eyes dark with obsession. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, leather-bound book. He pressed it into my hand.

​"What is this?"

​He didn't speak. He just pointed to the cover.

​It was a ledger. But not a Mafia one. It was a list of every person who had ever hurt me, starting with my father.

​And every single name had a red line through it.

​"You... you killed them?" I whispered.

​Dante nodded once.

​He wasn't just my husband. He was my scorched-earth protector.

​"Why?"

​He leaned in, his lips ghosting over mine one last time.

​"Mine," he mouthed.