Page 119 of The Wrong Mafia Bride
Instead, all I feel is this strange, settling certainty. Like I am finally walking in the right direction after years of going the wrong way.
My driver—Antonio, who has worked for the family since before I was born—keeps glancing at me in the rearview mirror. He knows where we are going. Probably knows why. The entire organization has been buzzing since Patrick's death, since word got out that I acted without Giovanni's authorization.
"You want me to wait, boss?" he asks when we pull up to the gates.
The wordbosscatches in my chest. How many more times will people call me that?
"No," I tell him. "I will find my own way home."
If I still have a home to go to after this.
The Salvatore compound looks exactly as it always has—imposing stone and iron, guards at every entrance, the weight of legacy pressing down on everything. I have walked through these gates a thousand times. Ten thousand. But today feels different.
Today feels like the last time.
I nod to the guards as I pass. They nod back, their faces carefully neutral. They know something is happening. They can sense the shift in the air.
How many of them will I lose after today? How many will stay loyal to Giovanni instead of following me into whatever uncertain future I am walking toward?
It does not matter. What matters is Rosalina. Gabriel. Luca. The baby growing inside my wife. The family I am choosing instead of the one I was born into.
Giovanni's office is on the third floor. I have been summoned here countless times—for discipline, for lectures, for endless performance reviews disguised as father-son conversations. The ritual is familiar enough that I could navigate it blindfolded.
Up the grand staircase. Left at my grandfather's portrait—the man staring down at me with those same cold eyes my father inherited, judging me, finding me wanting. Third door on the right.
My hand is steady when I knock.
"Enter."
I take a breath. This is it. This is the moment everything changes.
I open the door and step into my father's domain one last time.The old Dante would have stood here waiting, desperate for approval.
The office is exactly as I remember—dark wood and leather, heavy curtains blocking most of the natural light, everything positioned to remind you that the man behind that desk holds power over your life. He is standing at the window, back to me, hands clasped behind him in that pose he favors when he wants you to wait. To stew. To understand that your time is his to command.
I close the door with a soft click that seems too loud in the silence.
He does not turn. Does not acknowledge my presence. The power play is obvious, almost crude. Ten years ago it would have worked. I would have stood here sweating, waiting for permission to speak, desperate for approval.
But that Dante is gone. That Dante died the moment Rosalina stood up to this man and defended me in front of his entire family. The moment I realized I did not have to keep being the son he wanted me to be.
I can be myself. I can choose my own path. And if that means walking away from everything he built, then so be it.
"Sit," he commands, still not turning.
"I would rather stand."
Now he turns, and I see the flash of surprise in his eyes before he locks it down behind his usual mask of disapproval. His jaw is tight, a muscle ticking beneath the skin. His hands are clenchedbehind his back hard enough that I can see the tension in his shoulders.
"That was not a request, Dante."
"And neither was my response." I keep the desk between us—a physical barrier that feels more symbolic than protective. "You wanted to see me. I am here. Say what you need to say."
I watch something shift in his expression. Confusion, maybe. Or the first stirring of anger. He is not used to this version of me. The one who does not immediately defer. The one who is not afraid of his disapproval.
He moves to his desk, bracing his hands on the surface, leaning forward like he is about to interrogate a suspect. "You eliminated Patrick Murphy without my authorization."
Straight to it, then. No pretense of concern for my wellbeing. No questions about whether I am okay after killing a man. Just the accusation that I dared to act independently.
