Giovanni vs. Fabrizio
The De Santis Mansion was way more quiet than the Valentinis' estate, but it was only on the surface. Tension rattled like a snake about to strike under the expensive rug and golden chandeliers.
In the study, Giovanni De Santis, slammed his phone against the oak desk so hard the screen spiderwebbed into glass shrapnel. His face was flushed red, veins bulging on his temples.
"What the fuck is this bullsh*t?!"
He roared, chest heaving. "She's marrying Dante. Dante fucking Valentini?! That bastard. He doesn't even know how to smile."
The phone, cracked and now useless, slid gently across the polished wood. Cigarette smoke coiled in the air; it was his father's doing.
Don Fabrizio De Santis sat back in his leather chair, legs crossed, a crystal glass of whiskey lazily turning in his hand. He didn't flinch at his son's fury, he almost looked too amused. He was calm, maybe too calm for the moment.
"Answer me, father! Why the fuck did you let this happen? Brittany Callus was mine. Mine! My fiancée. You promised me her hand. And now she's walking down the aisle with a Valentini bastard? You're just gonna sit there sipping whiskey like it's nothing?" Giovanni asked pointing a trembling finger at his father, like a soldier accusing the general for treason.
Fabrizio took a slow sip, smacked his lips and exhaled softly.
"Alessandro is no fool, Giovanni. He's playing his cards better than you ever could. He's feeding off the scraps of the Callus family, and making a meal of it. Brittany was never yours. She was a pawn. A pawn that's now on Valentini's board." he said, voice as cold as ice.
"Pawn? Don't give me that chess bullshit, old man. I don't care if she's a pawn, a queen, or a fucking whore—they gave her to me! She was mine. And now you're letting Alessandro spit in our faces." Giovanni said, his face got pale with rage, as he slammed his hand on the desk and leaned in.
The Don's eyes straightened, this time piercing through the smoke. "You speak like a child. Ownership? 'Mine'? That's the language of amateurs. Alessandro has already checkmated you without even moving a piece. And you… you're here throwing tantrums like a schoolboy who lost his toy."
Giovanni's fist curled, knuckles whitening. "Don't patronize me, father. If you had any balls left, you'd be doing something about this insult."
That hit a nerve. Federico's smile disappeared. His glass clanked against the desk as he set it down with care.
"You dare question my balls, ragazzo?" His voice dropped lower, harsher. "I've been in this game longer than you've been alive. I've buried men stronger than you for less than what you just said. Watch your tongue before I cut it out and feed it to the dogs."
The tension in the room cracked like thunder. Giovanni's chest rose and fell as he stared at his father, fury matched only by fear.
But he didn't back down. Not entirely. His voice lowered, bitter, venomous.
"So what? We just bend over and let Alessandro fuck us dry? Is that what the mighty Don De Santis does now—wait his turn to lick up whatever crumbs the Valentinis leave behind?"
Federico leaned forward now, smoke curling from his nostrils like a dragon.
"You think this is about crumbs? No, boy. This is about survival. About patience. Alessandro is securing himself with this marriage. He binds the Valentinis and the Callus together. That is his move. We watch. We wait. And when the time is right, we strike. Until then, you shut your fucking mouth."
Giovanni mocked, rebellious. "I don't give a fuck about waiting. I'm not your little soldier, father. I'm not gonna sit here jerking off while Dante Valentini sticks his cock into the woman who was supposed to be mine."
Federico's eyes narrowed. "Then what do you suggest, Giovanni? You think you're smarter than me? Stronger than me? Fine. Tell me. What's your brilliant plan?"
Giovanni's jaw worked. His hands clenched the edge of the desk so tight his veins bulged. Then, through gritted teeth, he spat,
"We go to the wedding. And we take her. Right there in front of everyone. If the Valentinis want war, let's give them war."
The silence that followed was heavy, dangerous. Even the grandfather clock in the corner seemed to stop ticking.
Finally, Federico smirked again. A cruel, chilling smirk.
"Ah… finally. Some balls. I was wondering when you'd find them."
He leaned back in his chair, picked up his whiskey again, and toasted his son.
"So that's it, eh? We'll attend the wedding. And we'll take your bride with us. Happy now, Giovanni?"
Giovanni's lips curved into a dark grin, savage and cocky.
"More than happy. I'll be fucking ecstatic."
Federico chuckled, deep and low. Then, softly,
"Just remember, boy… when you poke the Valentinis, don't cry when they bleed all over you."
Lace, Lipstick, and Filth
The Callus sisters were a nightmare wrapped in satin.
The dressmakers had been dragged in from Milan, Florence, even Paris — the kind of names brides usually weep for, but right now? They were pale, sweating, muttering prayers in three languages, because the Callus girls weren't brides, they were annoying wolves in silk cages.
The room smelled of perfume and champagne as Ivory gowns spilled across chairs, corsets lay half-undone, the mirrors were clouding up from too much drama. The air itself was vulgar.
Belle stood in front of the mirror, clutching her bodice like it was strangling her ribs. "I swear to God, if this corset squeezes any tighter, my tits are going to pop out and slap the priest mid-sermon."
Bianca cackled, sipping her champagne straight from the bottle, not even pretending to be civilized. "Sweetheart, that's the only way the priest is going to stay awake. You think anyone's paying attention to Dante? That man's personality is dryer than my pussy in Sunday mass."
The seamstress holding the corset actually choked, muttering "Madonna santa…" under her breath.
Brittany, the eldest, rolled her eyes as she adjusted the lace sleeve around her arm. "You two are disgusting. You're walking into a Valentini church tomorrow, not a strip club."
Bianca leaned over with a smirk. "Bitch, the Valentinis are the strip club. You seen Matteo's eyes? That man undresses every room before he even walks in."
Belle laughed so hard her champagne nearly spilled down her gown. "Facts. And Luciano—fuck me—he doesn't even need to open his mouth. He's already planning how to bend me over a pew."
The youngest seamstress dropped her pins in horror.
"Don't you dare ruin that fabric!" Brittany snapped at the girl, eyes sharp as a whip. Then, turning back to her sisters, she hissed, "Keep talking like this, and Alessandro himself will slit your tongues before the vows."
Bianca licked her teeth, grinning. "Alessandro can try. But I bet even he won't stop Matteo from rearranging my insides on the altar."
"Jesus Christ, Bianca," Belle groaned, tugging at her corset again. "Could you at least wait till the wedding night before talking about getting your back blown out?"
"Oh, baby girl," Bianca smirked. "I ain't waiting till shit. I'm making that man prove himself tonight. If he can't fuck me like he owns me, he doesn't deserve me tomorrow."
The seamstresses' eyes went wide. One of them dropped her measuring tape.
"Pick it up!" Brittany barked, her tone sharp enough to slice silk. "Don't just stand there like a scared mouse."
"Si, Signorina…" the seamstress stumbled, scrambling.
Brittany sighed, pinching her temples. She was always the one holding their chaos together. "God help us. The Valentinis wanted wives, not porn stars."
Belle smirked, leaning in close. "Sweetheart, to the Valentinis, that's the same thing."
The room erupted in filthy laughter.
Little Tits
The gowns were breathtaking — satin, lace, pearls — but on these women, they looked more like weapons. The Callus sisters weren't blushing virgins; they were predators in wedding gowns.
"Bianca, stop drinking!" Brittany cracked, jerking the bottle away.
"Why?" Bianca teased, licking the rim before letting it go. "Scared I'll flash my tits in front of Matteo tomorrow?"
Belle snorted. "Girl, that man hopes you do. I heard Valentini brothers get off on public humiliation. Bet he'll fuck you harder if everyone's watching."
"Belle!" Brittany gasped, scandalized.
Belle just shrugged, smiling wickedly in the mirror. "What? You think Luciano's any better? That man told me he wanted me bent over his car before he even kissed me. He said, and I quote, 'Why waste time with lips when I can have your throat?'"
The seamstress actually dropped her scissors this time.
"Dio mio," the woman muttered, face pale.
"Dio mio, indeed," Bianca laughed, grabbing the champagne back. "And you, Brit? Don't act holy. Dante might look like the fucking Grim Reaper, but you can't tell me you don't dream about him choking you with his rosary beads."
Brittany froze, her cheeks flushing despite herself.
"Oh-ho-ho!" Belle howled. "Look at her face! Bitch is blushing!"
"I am NOT—!" Brittany snapped, but Bianca was already doubled over with laughter.
"You dirty little saint," Bianca crowed. "Dante's gonna rail the 'virtue' right out of you. Bet you'll be begging him to confess your sins by midnight."
Brittany threw a pillow at her. "Shut your filthy mouth before I sew it shut!"
The seamstresses bent as the pillow missed and knocked a figure over. Satin bent to the floor like a corpse.
One of the designers groaned in despair. "Porca miseria…"
"Fix it!" Bianca growled, tossing the bottle to Belle. "And bring us more champagne while you're at it. We're not done."