Scene 1: The Tactical Setup
Dante walked into the East Wing exactly one hour before the agreed-upon video call time, his face a mask of controlled fury. He was dressed in a pristine white silk shirt, open at the collar, emphasizing the raw, intimidating bulk of his tattooed chest—a blatant, physical challenge intended to dominate Elara's controlled space.
Elara was ready for him. She had moved her command post from the heirloom mahogany desk to a simple, glass-topped modern table set against the wall, forcing Dante to stand over her or sit awkwardly.
"The assets of Cerberus are frozen, wife," Dante stated, his voice tight with menace, proving he already knew about her attack. "You have crippled my logistics network. That is an act of war."
"It is an act of fiscal hygiene," Elara corrected, not looking up from the monitor displaying the confirmation of the freeze. "Your network was unstable. I merely expedited its necessary restructuring. Now, about the call."
Dante leaned on the table, his arms blocking the light, his heavy presence meant to suffocate her. "The call will take place in the main drawing-room. It is wired for maximum security, and the acoustics are controlled. You will join me there in thirty minutes."
He was trying to force her onto his territory—a room familiar to him, where he held the psychological edge.
"No," Elara countered simply, finally meeting his gaze, her emerald eyes cold and unwavering. "The call will take place here. In my command center. I need the ability to monitor his environment in real-time on this secure terminal. This is my leverage, Dante. It operates on my terms."
The refusal, delivered with such calm finality, was a deeper humiliation than the financial freeze. Dante fought the primal urge to seize the table and flip it. He needed the sight of his son more than he needed this small victory.
"Fine," he bit out, the word tasting like ash. "But if this is a trick, if the boy is not real, I will dismantle you from the inside out, Elara."
Scene 2: The Final Demand
The tension in the room coiled tighter as Elara's technicians prepared the connection. Dante stood back, pacing the length of the room, his physical restlessness a direct contrast to Elara's ice-cold composure.
"I have one final condition before the call begins," Elara stated, turning her chair to face him fully. "It concerns your lawyer."
Dante stopped pacing. "What about him?"
"I am aware of a document you had prepared three years ago—a comprehensive dossier on the Ferraro network's weaknesses, intended for a rival faction, The Serpent," Elara said, throwing the exact, chilling name of his old enemy into the air. "It was meant to be executed the day you finalized my 'death.' I want that original document. The hard drive it was stored on, and all physical copies, delivered to me before the connection is established."
This was true blackmail. That document was the key to eliminating his internal enemies, but it was also irrefutable proof of his original, cold-blooded intent to destroy her family.
Dante's face hardened, all rage replaced by pure, calculating menace. "You know too much, Elara. That knowledge alone could cost you your life."
"My life is collateral, Dante. My son's safety is not," Elara countered, her voice dangerously low. "That dossier represents an ongoing threat to my family, which means it is an ongoing threat to our son. Give me the document. Let me neutralize that line of attack. Or the connection stays dark."
Scene 3: The Cost of Paternal Hope
Dante stared at her. He saw the cold, brutal intelligence in her eyes. She wasn't guessing; she knew the exact vulnerability. He had no time to recover the asset freeze; he couldn't afford to lose the call. The possibility of seeing his son was a burning agony.
With a visible, wrenching effort, Dante pulled out his secure communication device and issued a low, succinct command to his operative. "Retrieve the Ferraro Dossier, all copies. Deliver it to the East Wing now."
It was a total, humiliating surrender. He had exchanged years of political security for thirty minutes of a video feed.
Five minutes later, a nervous aide placed a sealed, lead-lined briefcase on the table beside Elara. She opened it, verified the original hard drive, and the thick, signed paper dossier with a quick, forensic scan of the contents. Only then did she nod to her technician.
"Connect," Elara ordered.
Scene 4: The First Glimpse
The screen flickered to life. The image was perfectly clear: a simple, clean playroom bathed in warm, natural light. And then, standing right in the center, was the boy.
Leo.
He was a slender, serious child with a shock of dark, untidy hair. He looked exactly like the photograph, but infinitely more real. He was holding a small, silver-plated car, analyzing its wheels with intense concentration. When he looked up at the camera, his eyes—Dante's golden, unnerving eyes—met the screen.
Dante let out a raw, involuntary sound, a choking gasp that was part of his Alpha nature and part of a man realizing five years of his life had been stolen. He instinctively reached for the screen, his massive, tattooed hand hovering just above the image, desperate to touch the child he didn't know.
Elara watched Dante, not the screen. She saw the rage melt into agonizing vulnerability, the Mafia Boss replaced by the stunned, terrified father. Her vengeance was complete.
Leo smiled shyly, a tiny, genuine crack in his serious composure. "Hello?" he asked, his voice small and clear.
Dante swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. He could command armies, but he couldn't speak to his own son.
"He is waiting, husband," Elara prompted, her voice still cool, but carrying a sharp edge of command. "Speak to your heir."
Dante sank slowly into the chair, gripping the arms, his gaze locked on the small face that was a living, breathing testament to his past and his greatest weakness. The war had stopped, momentarily, for this single, agonizing moment of a father meeting his son.