Page 121 of The Wrong Mafia Bride
His expression shifts through several emotions in quick succession—shock, fury, something that might be hurt buried underneath it all—before settling on cold calculation. The mask slides back into place, locking away anything resembling feeling.
"You are done justifying your choices." His voice is flat, emotionless, and somehow that is worse than the anger.
"Yes."
"Because you believe you know better than I do how to run this organization."
"No." I shake my head slowly, deliberately. "Because I do not want to run this organization anymore."
The words hang in the air between us like a physical thing, heavy and irrevocable.
I watch my father process them, see the color drain from his face and then flood back in an angry flush. He takes a step back, his hand shooting out to grip the edge of his desk like he needs the support to stay upright. His knuckles go white with pressure.
"Explain," he says, and his voice is dangerously quiet, vibrating with barely controlled rage.
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, in my fingertips, in every nerve ending. This is it. This is the moment everything changes. The moment I stop being Giovanni Salvatore's son and start being just Dante. Just myself.
"I am grateful for everything you taught me," I say, and I mean it despite everything. Despite the criticism and the impossible standards and the constant feeling that I was never quite enough. "The discipline, the strategy, the understanding of power and loyalty. You raised me to lead, and I appreciate that. But the cost of that leadership—the sacrifices required, the constant performance, the need to prioritize the organization over everything else—I am not willing to pay it anymore."
"You are walking away." Not a question. An accusation. The words come out strangled, like he is choking on them.
"I am choosing a different path," I correct, and my voice is steady even though my hands are shaking. I clasp them behind my back so he cannot see. "I have a wife who loves me. A baby on the way. Friends who would die for me and I for them. I have built something real, Papa. Something that does not require me to prove myself every day or sacrifice my humanity to maintain it. And I am not giving that up. Not for the Salvatore name. Not for legacy. Not even for you."
Giovanni moves around the desk now, closing the distance between us with slow, deliberate steps. He is taller than me—not by much, maybe an inch—but he has always known how to use his presence as a weapon. How to loom. How to intimidate with nothing more than proximity and the weight of his authority.
For a moment I think he might actually hit me. His face is flushed with anger, a vein pulsing in his temple. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides, trembling with the effort of restraint.
"You ungrateful—" He stops himself, breathing hard through his nose. His chest rises and falls with the force of it. "I raised you to be a Don. To lead this family into the future. And you are throwing it away for a girl you have known for three months?"
The dismissiveness in his voice—the way he reduces Rosalina toa girl, like she is nothing, like what we have is meaningless—ignites something hot and protective in my chest.
"I am choosing my family over your empire," I say quietly, but there is steel in my voice now. "And if you cannot understand that, then maybe you never understood me at all."
"I understand perfectly." His voice drops to ice, all the heat draining away into something colder and more final. All emotion locks away behind the mask he wears so well, the one I have seen him use on enemies and allies alike. "You are weak. Just as I always suspected. You have too much of your mother in you—too much feeling, too much sentiment. You were never going to be strong enough for this life."
The words hit like physical blows, each one carefully aimed at the softest parts of me. The parts I have spent my whole life trying to harden, trying to hide, trying to prove wrong.
Too much of your mother in you.
The old Dante would have flinched. Would have felt that barb sink deep and twist. Would have spent the next week, the next month, the next year trying to prove it wrong.
But standing here now, with the memory of Rosalina's hand in mine and the knowledge that I am building something better than what my father built, the insult just feels... empty. Hollow. Like he is swinging at someone who is no longer standing where he expects.
"You are probably right," I say, and I see confusion flicker across his face. "I am too much like my mother. And you know what? I am grateful for that. Because she taught me that strength is not just about power and control. It is about protecting the people you love. About making sacrifices that matter. About building something worth defending instead of just something worth fearing."
I take a step toward him, closing the distance he tried to create, and I see his eyes widen slightly. For the first time in my life, my father looks uncertain.
"You taught me how to lead through intimidation. She taught me how to lead through love. You taught me that power is everything. She taught me that people are everything. And I would rather have what she gave me than spend another day trying to live up to your version of strength."
I turn toward the door, done with this conversation, done with this performance, done with trying to be someone I was never meant to be.
"If you walk out that door," Giovanni says, and his voice cracks—just slightly, just for a moment—before he gets it under control again, "you are no longer my heir. No longer next in line to lead this organization. You will be on your own."
I pause, my hand on the doorknob. The metal is cool under my palm, solid and real. I can feel my pulse in my fingertips where they curve around it.
"I know," I say without turning around.
"The money stops. The protection stops. The Salvatore name will not shield you anymore."
