Chapter 2

Dante Moretti POV:

Elena released a sigh, the sound exaggerated and theatrical. She drifted over to the head of the table, coming to a stop beside my chair. She placed a perfectly manicured hand on my shoulder.

The weight of it settled there, heavy as a shackle.

"Don't be dramatic, Dante," she chided. "We are trying to be civilized here. Julian is family. He is my God-brother. You need to treat him with respect."

"God-brother," I repeated, the word tasting like ash on my tongue. "Is that the title we're hiding behind now?"

"He has potential," Elena insisted, her fingers digging into the fabric of my suit jacket. "He just needs an opportunity. You've been holding him back. You sent him to the docks to count crates like a common soldier."

"I sent him to the docks because he botched three shipments in a single month," I said, my eyes fixed on a burn mark marring the mahogany table. "He bled two hundred grand in product because he was too busy gambling in the back room to check the manifest."

"That was sabotage!" Julian shouted.

He slammed his open palm against the table again. "You set me up, Dante! You knew I was talented, and you were jealous. You were afraid I'd outshine you."

I slowly turned my head to look at him. The sheer magnitude of his delusion was almost impressive.

"Talent?" I asked, my voice low.

"Your only talent is spending money you didn't earn and disrespecting men you couldn't beat in a fair fight."

"See?" Julian pointed a shaking finger at me, looking for validation. "He's a tyrant, Elena! He bullies everyone. That's why the men hate him. That's why they want a change."

The mercenaries standing guard behind him nodded in agreement. They didn't know me. They didn't know the blood-soaked history of the Chicago Outfit. They saw a man in a bespoke suit and mistook me for a banker. They didn't see the blood that had permanently stained my hands.

"These men don't hate me," I said, scanning the room with a cold sweep.

"They don't know me. They are hired guns. They have no Omertà. They have no code."

"The code is dead!" Elena snapped.

She pulled her hand away, retreating to stand beside Julian again. "This is a business, Dante. A corporation. And I am the CEO. I hold the majority shares. I have the board's support."

She truly believed it. She believed that the Mafia was just another company listed on the New York Stock Exchange. She thought she could fire a Don like a mid-level manager caught stealing office supplies.

I remembered the night I found her in that diner. She had been on her hands and knees, scraping gum off the underside of a table. She had looked so fragile then, so desperate for a way out.

I gave her the world. I gave her power, status, protection.

And in return, it had rotted her soul from the inside out.

"You're not a CEO, Elena," I said softly. "And this isn't a board meeting. This is a tribunal. But you're not the judge."

I reached for the stack of resignation letters Julian had thrown onto the table. I picked them up, feeling the weight of the paper.

"You think these scraps of paper matter?" I asked.

"They prove you have no support," Elena said, crossing her arms over her chest. "Sign the transfer papers, Dante. Go into retirement. We'll give you a stipend. You can live in the villa in Tuscany. Just... go away."

I looked at the letters one last time.

Then, with a flick of my wrist, I tossed them into the air.

The papers fluttered down like dirty snow, covering the burn mark Julian had made.

"I'm not going to Tuscany," I said.

"And I'm not signing anything until I hear the truth."

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table, my hands clasped together.

"Tell me, Elena. How long has your 'God-brother' been warming my side of the bed?"