Chapter Thirty-One

Dante

Eight pairs of somber eyes turn to me as I step into the dim conference room. The dim light casts shadows, matching the uneasy atmosphere.

Everyone knows I'm usually one of the last to walk into meetings, a conscious choice because those first few minutes of chin-wagging and dancing around the main point drive me up the wall. But today, Nico glances pointedly at the clock. I'm only three minutes late but he's in a mood. Everyone is, and understandably so.

Pietro's usual seat sits hauntingly empty, a cruel reminder of his death. Orlando's seat is also conspicuously empty. Which means I haven't missed much. The party will only start when the man gets here.

"Apologies, brothers," I mutter, making my way around the long pine conference table.

I clap Enzo on the shoulder as I pass. His face is drawn, perpetual exhaustion etched into his features—the price of fathering sextuplets.

As I take my seat opposite Father, I catch Sal's eye. A silent understanding passes between us. Apart from Nico and Father, he's the only other person here who knows that Addy is alive.

I hold Father's gaze longer than necessary, searching for any crack in his stony fa?ade. My earlier display in the kitchen was meant to rattle him, to see if his reaction would reveal what he stubbornly refuses to admit—that Addy is my half-sister.

But he gives nothing away, only looking back at me steadily. The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken tensions and unanswered questions.

Finally, Nico's voice cuts through the quiet. "Salvatore, you have something?"

Sal leans forward, his eyes briefly meeting mine before addressing the room. " Sì , Don Nico. We found the bomber. He's a DC-based ghost who goes by the name Owen Novak. He has no fingerprints or dental records and never leaves a trace."

I exchange a meaningful glance with Nico. Ghosts are the apex predators of our world—assassins so skilled they're practically myth. Whoever ordered the hit is clever enough to use one.

"Yet you smoked him out in less than twelve hours. Impressive, Salvatore," Nico marvels in approval.

When Sal only grins in response, I mutter, "Well, don't be shy now, tell us how you did it, you evil genius. Finding a ghost's identity should be next to impossible."

Sal shrugs off our admiration. "I have a contact. Goes by the name Bonnie. She charges an arm and a leg, but she's an absolute magician. Told me who and where he was within minutes."

"She?" Nico leans forward, intrigued. "That's . . . extraordinary. She one of your Harvard buddies?"

Sal shifts uncomfortably in his seat, a slight flush creeping up his neck. "Nah, I don't think she even finished high school, Signore ." He's a little miffed that this mystery girl has stolen his thunder.

I can't resist rubbing the salt in. "Well, fuck. You think maybe she could come work for us full-time?"

Sal shoots me a withering glare, but duty compels him to respond to his underboss. "I believe she works exclusively for the head of the Five Families of New York," he bites out. "She only did this as a personal favor."

Wow. Nico's New York best friend is a lucky S.O.B.

"Shame," I say, patting Sal's back. "Anyway, we've still got you. It's better than nothing."

"Fuck you," he fake-sneezes, and I struggle to keep a straight face.

The room's somber mood tempers my usual inclination for jokes, though. I clear my throat and get back to business. "So when can we pick this motherfucker up? I'd like to see just how many traces he doesn't leave while he's being flayed alive."

Sal begins to respond, "I can arrange—" but he's cut short as the double doors burst open.

Orlando De Luca storms in, his imposing frame filling the doorway. His ever-present toothpick twitches as his jaw clenches, pale green eyes blazing with fury.

The room falls silent, the sudden tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. I notice the flicker of unease that crosses Nico's face.

This will be bad.

Excitement thrums in my veins as I feel the reassuring weight of the guns in my side and ankle holsters. I can already hear the splinters and cracks forming in our enterprise—sides being taken between those loyal to Orlando and the old ways, and those aligned with Nico and me, who are trying to bring the Outfit into newer climes.

"What the hell is this?" Orlando demands, throwing a handful of photos onto the table and scattering them across the polished wood.

I catch glimpses of myself with Addy. One shows us leaving the club, her body plastered to my side. Another captures me carrying her. Her arms are wound tightly around me, and her face is buried in my neck.

An inexplicable warmth pumps through my veins. Seeing Addy draped around me stirs something in me. I like it. A lot. But I keep my expression neutral as I meet Orlando's gaze.

"I don't see how that's any of your business," I say coolly.

Orlando's eyes narrow, his voice dripping with venom. "It becomes my business when you're publicly cavorting with some mystery woman while you've left your vows to me unfulfilled. Who the hell is she, Dante? One of your little whores?"

I clench my jaw, suppressing the urge to bash his face in. Around the table, I notice the other men shifting uncomfortably, their eyes darting between Orlando and me.

"I suggest you watch your tongue, Orlando," I warn, my voice low and dangerous.

But he only grows bolder, leaning across the table until his face is inches from mine. "She's the same Irish woman from two years ago, isn't she? What, you're bored of starting wars, so you've moved on to setting fire to your own house? Grow the fuck up!"

The room goes deadly quiet. My entire body goes still, save for my right hand, which twitches involuntarily. I stare into Orlando's pale blue eyes, imagining the tidy red hole that will soon appear between them.

As a rule, we don't shed blood inside this room. Orlando knows that, which is probably why his mouth is running a mile a minute. But fuck it, there's a first time for everything.

Just as I move to blow out the man's brains, I catch my father's meaningful one-eyed glare. It's a look he created especially for me and one I've learned the hard way to heed over the years.

With great effort, I lean back in my seat and issue Orlando a low warning instead. "You're treading on thin ice, De Luca."

Orlando's eyes dart belligerently around the room, his rage unabated. "Where is the woman, Dante? I demand to know where you're hiding her."

His intensity is puzzling. Why is he so disturbed by me being with another woman? True, I should be putting a ring on his daughter, but faithfulness isn't generally something an old-school mafioso like Orlando would expect out of an arranged marriage.

Before I can respond, Nico interjects, his voice calm and authoritative. "The woman in the photos is dead. She was in the car that exploded last night."

The change in Orlando is instantaneous and unsettling. His face goes sheet-pale, and a violent tremor runs through his body. "I was told it was Potenzo . . . that died in the blast."

Watching the play of emotion on De Luca's face is confusing. So I do what I do best: poke the bear.

"She and Pietro were in the car," I say flippantly, ignoring the warning looks from both Nico and my father. "Not that it's any of your business, but I needed to make room for a few more whores in my car, so I made her ride with Pietro instead. Anyway, yes, she's dead, too."

You could hear a pin drop in the silence that follows. Tension radiates from every man present as their eyes dart between Orlando and me, waiting for the inevitable explosion.

"I see." Orlando's voice is tight with an unnamed emotion. He turns, takes a couple of steps back, then suddenly whirls to face me again. "And what's this I hear about you breaking off your betrothal to my daughter? Is that true?"

I meet his gaze with insolence, my voice even. "I'm afraid so, Orlando. I admit I may have put the cart before the horse and should have told you first. But the bottom line is that the horse is now hitched to the cart, and both are being kicked out. The wedding is off."

Orlando watches me with an unreadable expression, then suddenly hacks his throat and spits on the floor, his face twisted with disgust. The room collectively inhales, shocked at this blatant show of disrespect.

"You are a dishonorable little bitch, Dante Vitelli," he snarls. "If it wasn't for your father sitting in this room, I'd gut you where you sit."

He turns to face Nico, his contempt palpable. "And you are not worth the seat you're on for not reining him in, boy."

With that, Orlando yanks off his signet ring and throws it at Nico before storming off.

"De Luca!" Nico barks, his rage barely controlled. But Orlando doesn't stop. His shoulders are hunched, and his fists are clenched as he disappears through the doorway. The heavy door slams behind him, echoing in the stunned silence.

The room is frozen in disbelief. As Nico's Underboss, I should have already put a bullet in Orlando's head the moment he threw his ring at his Capo. But I'm rooted to the spot, partly due to the shock of what just transpired and partly because of the way Father has been glaring at me throughout this entire exchange.

My mind races. Orlando De Luca is a seasoned Capo, known for his cold, calculated demeanor. He rarely shows emotion, let alone loses control like this. There's something odd about his reaction, something that doesn't quite add up.

As the implications sink in, I realize Orlando has just signed his own death warrant. In a twisted way, I'm almost relieved. His singular action of openly dishonoring his Don means there will be even fewer sympathetic to his cause. We might be able to avoid a civil war after all.

Without being told, the top enforcers, Giorgio and Enzo, rise from their seats. Their hands simultaneously reach for their Glocks as they start to follow Orlando.

Suddenly, my father's voice cracks like a whip, stopping them mid-stride. "Sit down, Enzo. You too, Giorgio."

We all turn to my father, stunned. His stern expression and the authority radiating from him transport us back to when he was the Don. It's wildly inappropriate, given that his Don is sitting beside him.

I can almost hear the gears turning in everyone's heads, trying to make sense of this unprecedented situation.

Nico nods curtly, his jaw clenched, giving Giorgio and Enzo leave to follow Father's command, despite the clear undermining of his own authority. Then he stands to his full height and faces off with Father, his voice tight with rage.

"You forget your place, Vito."

"No, I don't," Father replies calmly, his eyes meeting Nico's gaze unflinchingly. "As Consigliere, it's my duty to advise you. And in this case, I would let Orlando go."

"Let him go?" Nico nudges the signet ring on the table. "So, I broke my word about giving him a Vitelli heir, yes, but De Luca has just earned himself an execution with that display."

I glance around, noting the anticipation on the faces of my fellow mafiosi. Giorgio's brow is furrowed, his eyes darting between Nico and my father. Enzo's hand still hovers near his holster, awaiting final orders.

Father looks at every man in the room, then announces, "Do you all think that was the rage of a disappointed Capo?"

He pauses, letting his words settle. "That was the anguish of a grieving father. A man who has lost something far more precious than a marriage deal. He's lost a daughter he was never allowed to love."

My pulse pounds in my ears as I watch comprehension dawn on each face around the table. Nico's jaw goes slack, and Sal's eyes widen, his gaze snapping to mine.

Orlando De Luca is Addy's real father. And he must have known for some time now that she survived.

Nico sinks back into his chair, the weight of this revelation clear in the slump of his shoulders. Another heavy silence descends upon the room as we all process this bombshell.

"Well, fuck me," a humorless chuckle escapes my lips as the irony hits me.

Looks like Orlando De Luca is still going to be my father-in-law one way or another.

Enzo clears his throat, his brow furrowed in concern. "So, what do we do now? Both Benjamin O'Shea and Orlando De Luca believe their daughter has been killed on our turf. And both are now our enemies."

After a long moment, Nico leans forward, his deep blue eyes scanning the room. "Do the Irish know it's De Luca?"

Father shakes his head. "Why do you think the war went on for that long? They wanted us to give up the man Naomi was sleeping with, but Orlando has always been smart. He kept his affair very well hidden till this day."

Nico digests this information, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he thinks. Finally, he speaks. "We let De Luca grieve for now."

Nico turns to me. "And when the time is right, Dante, you will pay him a visit. Let him know we're in on his secret. He'll crawl back into the fold if he values the rest of his family. Then we can decide his consequences."

" Sì , Don," I murmur in acknowledgment.

But Nico's not done. "Also, I want Owen Novak tied up, trussed, and ready to talk in three days." He shoots me a weighted look. "Again, you're doing the honors, Dante."

"Certo," I nod, a grim smile on my lips. I made the mess. I'm more than happy to clean it up.

Turning to Sal, I feel a spark of excitement despite the gravity of the situation. "Fancy a New York bounty hunt, Sal?"

Sal's eyes light up. "Always."

"Great," Nico says, standing. He squares his shoulders, once again the Don. "That will be all, gentlemen."

With that, he leaves the room, effectively dismissing us. As the other Capos file out, I remain seated, my thoughts churning.

The game has changed again—but the players haven't, and Addy is still right in the middle of it all.