Dante didn’t ask. His men stormed to my door in the morning, black cars lined up on the curb, like sentinels, engines idling, their tinted windows reflecting the pale light of dawn.  It was less a neighborhood than a war zone, ready to ignite, as he was living with his old father, and the street outside his house looked much different.  My father’s guards bristled: the weapons shifted at their sides, but people did not intervene to stop them. Not when Dante Romano stepped out of the lead car, shoulders squared, coat draped over him like armor.  His presence sliced through the air like a blade, hitting a knife into the throat. So he didn’t wait for permission to go inside. Didn’t knock, didn’t ask, didn’t even glance at men who ought to have set him back.  Walking through the threshold of my house, the black shoes on his feet never seemed to make a noise against the marble floors, the sharp, cold, confident gaze of his own.  “You’re coming with me,” he said.  No preamble. No expl
 Last Updated : 2025-10-22
Last Updated : 2025-10-22