The Gallery Acquisition

DANTE’S PERSPECTIVE

Galleria di Luce

Florence

Five goddamn months of back and forth. Of pretty lies. Of delays dressed up as negotiations. All so this greasy bastard could convince himself he still held the reins.

I let him.

Because real power isn’t loud. It waits. Builds. Then tightens when they least expect it.

I walked into Rossetti’s gallery like I already owned the fucking place.

Didn’t greet him.

Didn’t sit.

Just stared at him where he lounged behind his desk, trying too hard to look relaxed. The kind of relaxed only men who think they’ve won dare to pretend.

“Lucchese,” he drawled, sipping something amber. “Back so soon?”

“Let’s skip the foreplay,” I said. “You’ve had my offer for a week.”

He smiled, spreading his hands like a man with time to waste. “It’s generous. But the gallery has… history. Clients. Influence.”

“And rot,” I snapped. “The floorboards are bleeding mold, your curator’s a drunk, and your top-selling piece hasn’t been insured in six months.”

He blinked. Just once.

I stepped closer.

“You want to play value? Fine. But let’s not pretend I didn’t do my homework while you were jerking your cock over ‘better buyers.’”

His jaw tightened. “I’ve had Milan call. Paris. Even a Swiss collector.”

“You’ve had ghosts,” I said flatly. “No one touches this gallery because they know I’m circling it. And they’re not suicidal.”

Enzo stepped forward, laying down a fresh folder. Contracts. Final offer. Clean.

“Ten percent over market,” he said. “Plus a featured exhibition in your name and a cut of opening week’s sales.”

Rossetti glanced at the papers, then leaned back with a smug chuckle.

“I want a seat on the board,” he said. “Permanent. And twenty percent of your quarterly.”

I didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Just gave a slow, cruel smile. “No.”

He raised a brow. “Excuse me?”

I walked around his desk, slow, circling. The air shifted. The tension grew teeth.

“I let you stall,” I said, voice calm. “I gave you rope. Watched you tie your little knots. But you forgot who was holding the other end.”

He turned in his chair, keeping me in sight. A sheen of sweat had started to form near his temple.

“You think I’m desperate,” I continued. “You think the location makes you untouchable.”

He didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

I stopped behind him, hands in my pockets.

“Let me tell you how this ends, Rossetti. You’re going to take seven percent, not fifteen. You’ll get a plaque on the wall, no board seat, no say. And you’ll walk away next quarter with your pride intact.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“You try to drag this another week,” I added, voice dropping to a near-whisper, “and the next offer won’t come from me. It’ll come from men who don’t knock. And they won’t care what the walls are painted with.”

He froze.

The silence stretched.

Then, finally... finally, he nodded. Just once. Tight. Almost imperceptible.

“Done,” he rasped.

I leaned forward, lips near his ear.

“You should’ve taken the first offer.”

Then I walked out.

No handshake.

No goodbye.

Just the sound of my shoes echoing through the gilded halls, because this gallery was mine now.

And Rossetti?

He was just another fool who thought he could outlast a Lucchese.

En Route to the Lucchese Main Office

The gallery deal was done, but the taste in my mouth was still bitter.

Rossetti folded the way they all do, when they realize too late they’ve been playing in a shark tank.

But the high didn’t last.

My phone buzzed.

Malcolm: She picked the one near Via Sant'Angelo. On the edge of District Twelve. Quiet spot. Property secured.

My thumb hovered over the screen.

District Twelve. The fucking border.

Lucchese territory… but close. Too close to Moretti’s stretch.

I clenched my jaw, staring out the window. The city passed in a blur. Enzo drove in silence, knowing better than to interrupt.

“Detour,” I said suddenly.

He glanced in the mirror. “Where to, boss?”

“Via Sant'Angelo. She picked that location for the bookstore.”

Enzo didn’t ask who she was. He knew.

The car turned sharply, tires humming against pavement.

I tapped my finger on the door handle.

She really picked that spot?

Not the one with the sea view. Not the one two streets from Florence’s museum row. She picked the edge.

Like she wanted quiet so badly, she didn’t care about the risk.

That irritated me.

Because it meant I had to care.

“Once we’re there,” I said, eyes still on the road, “do a full sweep. I want to know who’s hanging around the area. Residents. Shopkeepers. Anyone connected to Moretti.”

Enzo nodded. “Think they’ll try something?”

“I don’t give a fuck what they think.” My tone cut sharp. “This isn’t about war. It’s about control.”

And Catalina, she was mine to control.

Even if she didn’t know it.

Even if she thought she was just opening a bookstore to read in peace.

She didn’t get to walk into contested territory without a Lucchese shadow on her back.

I pulled my cigarette case from my jacket, lit one, and exhaled smoke out the cracked window.

“She said she wanted it quiet,” I muttered to myself.

So that’s what I’d give her.

Peace carved out by blood and held in place by men with guns.

If she wanted a place to sit and read, she’d get it, without realizing what it cost.

The car rolled to a stop at the corner of Via Sant’Angelo. I stepped out, scanned the street.

Too open. Too many alleys. Too many places to hide.

I took a long drag of the cigarette.

Enzo waited by the door. “We reinforce the street?”

“We buy the whole block,” I said. “Quietly. Through shell names. Every business, every lease. No one so much as breathes without me knowing.”

He nodded, already dialing.

And I stood there, looking at the narrow storefront she chose.

Not much.

Small windows. Worn bricks. Not the kind of place a Don’s wife should want.

But she chose it.

And now, it was Lucchese ground.

Marked. Owned. Protected.

She didn’t need to know how close the wolves were.

She only needed to keep smiling.