Yours On The Dotted Line

“Father, why are we here?” I ask for what feels like the millionth time.

We’re sitting at a long table on a raised dais in a massive banquet hall. At least 300 people are here—more than some of my friends’ weddings.

And on the other side of my father, sharing our table, is Don Rafel Luciano—the head of the Italian mafia in this part of the city.

Our family owns a well-off, though relatively small, publishing house in New York: Rothschild’s Reads. My great-grandfather started it when he came to America, and it’s been a point of pride that we’ve never let the mafia get its fingers into our business. Not once. Not ever.

So why the hell are we sitting here at a banquet, sharing a stage with them?

“I told you, Quinn. We’re doing what’s best for the company—and for the family. This is about a merger,” Father snaps. He’s been like this a lot lately, and I don’t understand why.

He used to be kind. Caring. A great dad.

And now he wants to merge with the Lucianos? This is beyond reckless. It’s dangerous.

“Seriously, Father? How can you think this is a good idea?” my brother Stefan hisses.

“I’m doing what is necessary for our family, and that’s all you need to know,” Father says, finality in every syllable.

I’m about to push back again when Don Luciano stands and takes the microphone from his assistant. The man is tall, commanding, and every inch the mob boss—but when he glances my way, there’s a strange softness in his eyes. The kind of tenderness I never expected from a career criminal.

He speaks with a trace of an Italian accent, giving every word an almost theatrical weight. “I want to thank you all for coming tonight, to witness the joining of two great families in our community—the Lucianos and the Rothschilds. This union will make both families even greater for generations to come. I, for one, cannot wait to see future generations running through the halls of my home.”

There’s polite laughter from the crowd, with loud cheers from the Luciano side.

But the wording catches me off guard. Future generations in his home?

That seems... unlikely. Dante Luciano is the city’s most notorious playboy. The man’s a tabloid regular, always photographed with at least one different woman. He’s known for dramatic public scenes and a trail of broken hearts.

Marriage? That doesn’t exactly scream Dante Luciano.

So what the hell is Don Luciano talking about?

“With the merging of the Lucianos and the Rothschilds,” the Don continues, “nothing can stop this city from prospering. And so, I’d like to acknowledge the two people who will make all of this possible. Where is my son?”

He smiles—warm, expectant—but the smile falters quickly when Dante doesn’t appear.

The Don turns back to his assistant, murmuring something low and furious. I can’t make out the words, but the assistant scrambles to speak into his headset.

A moment later, there’s movement in the back. A small commotion. Security escorts Dante into the room.

And wow.

There’s no denying that Dante Luciano is hot. God-like might be more accurate. He’s tall, with tousled black hair, an olive complexion, and a swimmer’s build. His presence hits like a wave—undeniable, commanding.

He’s also rocking the “just been fucked” look—hair messy, top two buttons undone, confidence oozing from every step.

I don’t realize how accurate that description is until I spot the waitress trailing behind him. She’s got the same flushed cheeks, same dazed look. And I know she didn’t look like that when her shift started.

Who the hell sneaks off to screw a waitress during one of the most important events in their family’s history?

Dante Luciano, that’s who.

The Don is furious—his face flushed, his grip on the mic tight enough to snap it in half. I would not want to be in Dante’s shoes right now.

But Dante? He doesn’t even flinch.

“Padre!” he calls brightly, practically bouncing up the stairs to the dais.

The Don forces a smile, but the grip he places on Dante’s shoulder is brutal. I wouldn’t be surprised if it leaves a bruise.

Dante’s smile stays fixed, but I notice a slight wobble in his knees.

The Don lifts the mic again, voice smooth but hard-edged. “As I was saying, let us celebrate the ones who will bring our families together. Please raise your glasses to the Rothschild family.”

My father stands, pulling me up with him by the elbow. Stefan rises too, though Father nudges me slightly ahead of them.

“Please join me,” Don Luciano announces, “in congratulating the newly engaged couple—Dante Luciano and Quinn Rothschild!”

The room erupts in applause and raised glasses.

I whip my head toward my father, begging him silently to stop this insanity.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.

What the actual fuck is happening?