Claimed By The Don

**DANTE**

"You're sure it's them?"

Marco's voice cut through the smoke in his office. I stared at the photographs spread across his desk. Vittorio Santoro. Nico Santoro. And a younger one I didn't recognize.

"The Santoros requested the meeting themselves. Sofia's casino, two hours." I kept my voice steady even though my hands wanted to shake. Five years I'd waited for this. Five years of learning, planning, becoming someone my family wouldn't recognize.

"And you're going to sit there and talk peace with the men who killed your family?" Marco lit a cigar, watching me carefully. He'd found me half-dead from grief and stupidity five years ago, turned me into something useful. I owed him everything, but that didn't mean he owned my choices.

"I'm going to gather information. See what they want."

"Information." He said it like he didn't believe me. "Dante, I took you in because you were smart. Don't make me regret that by doing something stupid tonight."

I met his eyes. "My father was working toward peace when they burned him alive. Seventeen people, Marco. My mother, my sisters, everyone. You want me to just forget that?"

"I want you to be strategic. Revenge without planning is just suicide." He stood up, adjusting his suit jacket. "Tommy goes with you. And you follow Sofia's rules. No weapons in the negotiation room, no violence on her floor."

"I know the rules."

"Knowing them and following them are different things." He moved toward the door, then stopped. "The Santoros have been weakening. Vittorio's getting old, his operations are slowing. We're close to making our move, but we're not there yet. Don't ruin years of work because you can't control yourself for one night."

After he left, I picked up a photograph of the younger Santoro. Alessandro, according to our intelligence. Twenty-six, rarely seen at family operations. There were notes about art galleries and exhibitions. An artist in a crime family. It would've been funny if his last name wasn't Santoro.

I tucked my sister's rosary into my pocket. She'd been fourteen. Still believed in guardian angels and happy endings. The fire had taken that innocence and burned it into ash along with everything else.

Tommy drove us to the casino in silence. He knew better than to make jokes tonight. We'd been friends since Marco brought me in, and he'd seen me at my worst. Knew what this meeting meant.

Sofia's casino glittered effortlessly. Neutral ground where the rules actually meant something because Sofia Ricci didn't tolerate disrespect. She'd built her empire on being the only person both sides could trust, and she protected that reputation viciously.

She met us at the private elevator, dressed in black that probably cost more than most people made in a month. "Dante. Tommy. The Santoros are already upstairs. You understand my rules?"

"No weapons in the room. No violence on your floor." I recited it back to her.

"Good. Because whatever you're thinking about doing, don't. This peace talk benefits everyone, including Marco." She pressed the elevator button. "I'm not losing my neutrality because you can't handle your grief."

The elevator rose smoothly. Tommy shifted beside me. "Are you really going to keep it together in there?"

"I have to."

"That's not an answer."

The doors opened before I could respond.

The room was set up like an old gentleman's club, all dark wood and leather chairs. Vittorio Santoro sat at the head of the table like he owned it. Maybe he thought he did. Gray streaked his dark hair but he still looked solid and dangerous. His oldest son Nico stood behind him with arms crossed, the kind of man who enjoyed violence for its own sake.

And then the younger one, Alessandro, sat at his father's right. He looked completely wrong for this setting. Paint stained his fingers, actual paint in blues and reds that he hadn't bothered to wash off. His face was too open, like he hadn't learned yet how to hide what he felt. When he looked up at us entering, something flickered in his dark eyes that I couldn't read.

"Marco sends his regards," I said, taking the seat across from Vittorio. Tommy positioned himself by the door. "He's listening to your proposal."

"Straight to business. Good." Vittorio smiled without warmth. "The territorial disputes are expensive for both our families. The police are actually being pressured to do their jobs. Bad for everyone's profits."

"So you want peace. After starting a war five years ago."

"A war your father started when he hijacked our shipment," Vittorio said easily, like the lie was truth just because he said it.

My father had been moving toward alliance talks when he died. I knew that. But sitting across from the man who'd given the order to burn my family alive, hearing him lie about it so casually, made violence sing in my veins.

"My father's dead. Can't ask him now." I gritted my teeth. "What exactly are you proposing?"

"A formal alliance. Shared territories, shared profits. An end to the bleeding on both sides."

"And what makes you think Marco would trust a Santoro after everything?"

Vittorio leaned back in his chair. "Because I'm dying. Cancer. Six months if I'm lucky. I don't want my legacy to be endless war. I want my sons to inherit something stable, something that'll last."

Alessandro's face went pale. He stared at his father like this was the first he'd heard about the cancer. Nico's expression didn't change at all. Either he already knew or he didn't care.

"We'd need guarantees," I said, playing the part Marco expected. "Security measures, financial audits, ways to verify both sides are holding up their end."

"Of course. Sofia's offered to mediate the details." Vittorio gestured broadly. "This is about building something better than what we inherited."

I almost laughed at that. He'd inherited a criminal empire and expanded it by murdering anyone in his way, including innocent people. My sisters had inherited nothing but early graves.

Alessandro reached for his water glass, and that's when I saw it. The ring on his hand caught the light. Gold with the Santoro family crest in detailed enamel. The same crest that had been on shell casings found in the ashes of my home. The same symbol that haunted every nightmare I'd had for five years.

Something snapped inside me.

I was moving before thought caught up to action. My chair crashed backward as I lunged across the table. Alessandro's eyes went wide but he didn't fight back, didn't even try to defend himself as I grabbed him and slammed him against the wall. My hand found his throat.

"Dante!" Tommy shouted.

Nico was pulling his weapon despite Sofia's rules. Vittorio was on his feet. But all I could see was that crest, that symbol, pressed against the throat of a Santoro who looked at me with exhausted, accepting eyes like he'd been waiting for this.

"You think you can just sit there?" I snarled in his face. "Wear that ring like it doesn't mean anything? Like it's not soaked in my family's blood?"

"Dante, let him go!" Tommy had his hands on my shoulders, trying to pull me back.

Alessandro didn't struggle. Didn't speak. Just looked at me with something that might've been understanding, and that made me angrier.

Sofia's voice cut through the chaos, cold and sharp. "Everyone stops right now or I'll have you all shot where you stand."

Marco appeared in the doorway, and the disappointment in his face made me finally loosen my grip. Alessandro slumped against the wall, gasping.

"Meeting's over," Sofia announced. "Get out of my casino. All of you."

I let Tommy pull me toward the door, but I couldn't stop looking back at Alessandro. At the red marks on his throat from my hands. At the way he touched them gently, like he'd expected worse.

Vittorio's voice followed us into the hallway. "Tell Marco I'll be in touch with a different proposal. One that might interest him more."

We were in the elevator when Tommy finally spoke. "You just ruined everything."

"I know."

"Marco's going to kill you."

"I know."

My phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number. I opened it and froze.

“There's another way to end this war. Interested? - SR”

Sofia. She had another play already.

"What is it?" Tommy asked.

I stared at the message, at the possibility it represented, and wondered what I'd just set in motion.

"I think," I said slowly, "things are about to get much worse.”