CHAPTER 5
The words hung in the air. Dante's expression didn't change, but something behind his eyes sharpened. A predator catching an unexpected scent.
"Your daughter," he repeated. Flat. Testing the shape of it.
"Isabelle." Franco said her name like he was clearing something unpleasant from his throat. "She's twenty-six. Works in finance uptown. Ashford Capital, very prestigious. She's—" He paused, searching for the right word. "Available."
Dante leaned back in his chair. The movement was slow, deliberate, the kind of casual that cost more than Franco's entire wardrobe. "You're offering me your daughter as payment."
"I'm offering her as... collateral. Insurance. A guarantee of good faith."
"You're offering me a human being instead of money."
"When you say it like that, it sounds sordid."
"That's because it is sordid. It's also insulting."
Franco blinked. "Insulting?"
His lips tugged up in a sinister smirk. "Don't insult me. I asked for payment, not a charity case wrapped in a wedding dress."
His voice was a cold drawl that would make anyone still in fright. The words didn't just land—they slithered. They coiled around the room like smoke, seeping into every corner, every shadow. Marco shifted his weight by the stairs. Even he looked uncomfortable, and he'd once broken a man's arm for sneezing too loud.
Franco, however, did not freeze. He did not stammer or pale or clutch his chest in mortal terror. Instead, he laughed. A genuine, surprised bark of amusement that echoed off the stone walls and made Marco's eyebrow twitch.
"Charity case!" Franco clapped his hands together. "Oh, that's wonderful. That's really wonderful. You think I'm doing you a favor? Dante—Mr. Vitale—I'm not offering you charity. I'm offering you an asset. There's a difference. A significant one, as you might say."
Dante's smirk didn't waver, but something flickered in his gaze. Curiosity, perhaps. Or the first stirrings of genuine interest. "Explain."
"Gladly." Franco settled back into his chair, crossing one leg over the other with the easy confidence of a man who'd just found his footing. "Isabelle isn't some simpering little thing waiting for a prince. She's sharp. Educated. Employed at one of the most prestigious financial firms in the city. She spends her days buried in spreadsheets and quarterly projections. Do you know what that means?"
"I'm sure you'll tell me."
"It means she understands money. She understands systems. She understands how to move things around without anyone noticing." Franco leaned forward, his eyes glittering. "You're a businessman, Mr. Vitale. A very successful one. But even successful businessmen need people who can make numbers dance. My daughter can make numbers dance. She can also make them disappear."
Dante studied him for a long moment. The candlelight caught the edge of his jaw, the hollow beneath his cheekbones. He looked like a Renaissance painting of an archangel. The kind that smites first and asks questions never.
"You're selling me your daughter's accounting skills."
"I'm selling you my daughter. Her accounting skills are a bonus feature. Like heated seats."
"And if I don't want a wife?"
"Then don't think of her as a wife." Franco waved his hand dismissively. "Think of her as a long-term investment with marital benefits. She can access accounts. Sign documents. Move through financial circles that would raise eyebrows if you tried to enter them yourself. A wife with a legitimate finance career is a walking, talking money laundering operation. And she wouldn't even know she's doing it."
Dante's smirk had faded into something more contemplative. He picked up his wine glass, swirled it once, and took a slow sip. "You've thought about this."
"I've had time. Six weeks of ignored communications, remember? Gives a man space to brainstorm."
"And you're comfortable with this." It wasn't a question. It was an observation, cold and clinical. "You're comfortable selling your daughter to a criminal. To be used. Controlled. Married against her will."
Franco's smile was a knife wrapped in silk. "I'm comfortable settling my debts. The method is incidental."
"The method is your daughter."
"The method is a resource I happen to possess." Franco shrugged, a gesture so casual it was almost obscene. "Isabelle and I were never meant to be family. Her mother died giving birth to her—tragic, very sad, I wept for weeks—and the girl has been bad luck ever since. She's a storm cloud in sensible heels. My wife Elena understood this. She tried to discipline the girl, give her some structure, but some people are just born with tragedy in their blood."
Dante set down his glass. "You blame your daughter for her mother's death."
"I don't blame her. Blame would imply I think about her enough to form an opinion." Franco examined his fingernails. "She was asked to leave the family home at eighteen. Best for everyone. Elena's nerves couldn't handle the tension, and the boys needed stability. My sons. Proper children. Heirs. You should meet them sometime. Matteo wants to be an architect. Very talented."
"You kicked her out at eighteen."
"She was given an opportunity to find her own path. And she did. That finance job, the apartment in Brooklyn, the ridiculous earrings—she landed on her feet. She's resilient, my Isabelle. I'll give her that much. Resilience is a marketable quality in a wife, don't you think?"
Dante rose from his chair. The movement was fluid, unhurried. He walked to the wine rack along the far wall and studied the bottles with the same detached interest he might give a spreadsheet.
"Let me summarize," he said, his back to Franco. "You have a daughter. You haven't spoken to her in years. You kicked her out as a teenager. You consider her a source of bad luck because her mother died in childbirth—a thing she had exactly zero control over. You've allowed your second wife to, by your own admission, 'discipline' her in ways you're conspicuously vague about. And now you want to trade her to me, a man you barely know, to settle a gambling debt you incurred because you tried to bribe a health inspector with spoiled meat."
"You forgot the part about the flamingos," Franco said, gesturing at his tie. "But otherwise, yes. That's the broad outline."
Dante turned. For the first time, something genuine flickered in those slate-grey eyes. It might have been disgust. It might have been admiration. With Dante, the two were often indistinguishable.
"You're a monster, Franco."
"I prefer 'pragmatist.'"
"You're a pragmatist who just sold his daughter to a stranger in a wine cellar."
"And you're a stranger in a wine cellar who's considering the offer." Franco spread his hands. "What does that make you?"
The silence stretched. Marco shifted by the stairs. Somewhere in the cellar, a candle guttered and died, sending a thin ribbon of smoke toward the ceiling.
Then Dante laughed.