The mirror in the North Wing didn't lie, but it felt like it was showing a stranger. Elena Lombardi stared at her reflection, her breath hitching in the silence of the room. The black silk gown Dante had provided clung to her skin like a second skin—a funeral shroud turned into armor. It was elegant, with a plunging neckline and a slit that reached mid-thigh, designed to distract and intimidate. Around her neck, the silver lion pendant sat heavy, a cold reminder of the crown she had lost and the vengeance she now craved.
"A Lombardi doesn't tremble," she whispered to herself, watching the way her pulse hammered at the hollow of her throat.
A sharp, rhythmic knock startled her. The door swung open without waiting for her invitation. Dante Moretti stood there, leaning against the frame. He looked like death personified—polished, lethal, and devastatingly handsome. He wore a charcoal three-piece suit, the fabric stretched across his broad shoulders. No tie. The top two buttons of his black shirt were undone, revealing a glimpse of the ink on his collarbone.
His eyes, those storms of gray, swept over her. For a fleeting second, the coldness in them faltered, replaced by a dark, predatory hunger that made Elena's skin prickle. Then, the mask returned.
"The Commission is waiting," Dante said, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. He walked toward her, each footfall heavy on the hardwood floor. He stopped directly behind her, their eyes meeting in the mirror. "Tonight, you are not a girl. You are a ghost coming back to haunt the men who think they won. If you falter, if you show a single tear, they will smell the blood in the water and tear you apart. Do you understand?"
Elena nodded, her voice steady. "I grew up at my father's dinner table, Dante. I know how to talk to monsters."
"Good," Dante murmured. He reached out, his large, calloused hand moving slowly toward her neck. He adjusted the silver pendant, his knuckles brushing against her skin. The contact felt like a brand. "Because tonight, I am the only monster you need to trust."
The Vineyards of Betrayal
The meeting of the Commission was held in the bowels of an ancient winery on the outskirts of Milan. The air here was thick with the scent of fermenting grapes and old damp stone, but tonight, it was overridden by the smell of gun oil and expensive cigars.
The estate was a fortress. Dozens of armed men from various factions stood like statues in the shadows, their eyes scanning every vehicle that passed through the iron gates. When Dante's black Bentley armored sedan pulled up, the atmosphere shifted. Men gripped their weapons tighter. The tension was a physical weight, pressing down on the car.
Dante stepped out first, his presence commanding the space instantly. He reached back and offered his hand to Elena. As she took it, she realized his palm was warm, his grip iron-strong. He didn't just lead her; he tethered her to him.
"Stay close," he hissed in her ear as they walked toward the heavy oak doors. "In that room, you are mine. My shadow. My property. If anyone touches you, I will paint the walls with their brains, but only if you play your part."
They entered the chamber. It was a cavernous cellar illuminated by flickering torches and a single, grand chandelier. At the center was a massive mahogany table. Twelve chairs were arranged around it. One was conspicuously empty—the seat belonging to the Lombardi family.
At the head of the table sat Silvio Valenti. He was a man of sixty, with silver hair slicked back and a smile that never reached his eyes—eyes that looked like a shark's.
"Dante Moretti," Silvio greeted, his voice echoing. "And the miraculous Elena Lombardi. We heard your villa became your pyre. It seems the rumors of your death were... exaggerated."
Dante didn't wait for an invitation. He pulled the Lombardi chair back for Elena. "Sit," he commanded.
Elena sat, her back straight as a spear. She stared directly at Silvio, the man she suspected had ordered her father's execution.
Dante didn't sit. He stood behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders. It was a gesture of protection, but also a clear message to the room: She is under the Raven's wing.
"Silvio," Dante said, his voice dangerously smooth. "I'm here to ensure the Lombardi interests are represented. And to remind this council that an empty chair doesn't mean a vacant territory."
Silvio chuckled, a dry, raspy sound. "Represented by you, Dante? Since when does the Moretti wolf guard the Lombardi lamb? Under the laws of the Commission, a daughter cannot inherit a seat if she cannot defend it. Without her father, Elena is just a girl with a famous name and a target on her back."
Elena felt the rage bubbling up, a hot, searing flame in her chest. She looked at Silvio, her voice cutting through the room like a blade. "I am not here to inherit a seat, Silvio. I am here to hold it until the men who murdered my father are hanging from the rafters of this winery."
The room went silent. The other Dons exchanged uneasy glances. Silvio's smile twitched.
"Brave words for a girl whose house is ash," Silvio sneered. "But brave words don't pay for the shipments at the docks. We are dividing the Lombardi territories tonight. It's for the stability of the city."
"Touch one crate at the docks," Dante interrupted, his voice dropping to a register that made the hair on Elena's neck stand up, "and I will consider it a declaration of war against the Moretti family. Elena Lombardi is under my Omerta of protection. Her lands are my lands. Her enemies are my enemies."
Silvio leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "You would risk a civil war for a girl? Why, Dante? Is she that good in bed, or have you finally lost your mind?"
Dante's grip on Elena's shoulders tightened for a split second. A terrifying, silent fury radiated from him. "I'm doing it, Silvio, because I know about the Black Swan files. I know who was in that square three years ago. And I know who is currently trying to hide the evidence by killing everyone with the name Lombardi."
The color drained from Silvio's face. For the first time, the shark looked like it had seen a harpoon.
The Price of Silence
The meeting ended in a stalemate of cold glares and whispered threats. As Dante and Elena walked back to the car, the air felt electric, as if a thunderstorm were about to break over Milan.
Inside the Bentley, the glass partition was raised, leaving them in a private, leather-scented cocoon. Elena was shaking. Now that the adrenaline was fading, the reality of what she had done—what they had done—was hitting her.
"You used me," she whispered, turning to Dante. He was leaning back, staring out the window at the passing city lights. "You didn't take me there to protect me. You took me there to show Silvio you have the leverage. You used my father's death to rattle him."
Dante turned his head slowly. In the dim light of the cabin, his eyes looked like molten lead. "I took you there to survive, Elena. If they think you're a weak girl hiding in a hole, they'll find you and kill you. If they think you're my consort, they have to go through me first. And nobody wants to go through me."
"And the files? Do you actually have them?"
Dante reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver lighter. He flicked it open, the flame illuminating the hard lines of his face. "Not yet. But Silvio thinks I do. Fear is a much better weapon than the truth, Piccola. It makes men move. It makes them make mistakes."
Elena looked at him, truly looked at him. She saw the man who had knelt in the chapel, the man who grieved for a family lost to the same shadows they were currently fighting. "Is this about the chapel, Dante? The family you lost... did Silvio have something to do with it?"
Dante's hand froze. He snapped the lighter shut, plunging the car back into darkness. He moved suddenly, closing the space between them. He pinned her against the leather seat, his arm braced beside her head. The scent of him—smoke, rain, and power—swamped her senses.
"Do not ever mention that place again," he growled, his face inches from hers. "You are here to give me the Lombardi files and look pretty while I burn Silvio's world to the ground. You are not my confessor. You are not my friend."
"Then why do you look at me like that?" Elena challenged, her breath hitching as his gaze dropped to her lips.
"Like what?"
"Like you want to destroy me and save me at the same time."
Dante's eyes darkened, a storm of conflict raging within him. For a moment, Elena thought he would kiss her—a kiss that felt like it would be a collision of hate and desire. His thumb brushed her lower lip, a rough, possessive gesture.
"Maybe I do," he whispered. "But remember this, Elena Lombardi: in our world, the people we love are the ones who get us killed. If you want to stay alive, don't look for the man behind the monster. There's nothing left there but ash."
He pulled away, cold and distant once more. The rest of the drive was silent, the only sound the tires humming against the wet pavement. Elena realized then that the war for Milan had only just begun, and the most dangerous battlefield wasn't the Commission—it was the heart of the man sitting beside her.