DANTE'S POV
Naples, Italy
The private jet touched down in Naples just after midnight. Dante hadn't slept the entire flight. He sat upright, motionless, watching the darkened coastline of the city through the oval window as if expecting it to speak to him.
The air here tasted like old iron and ash, heavy with history. It was a scent he hadn't breathed since his father's funeral—and now it welcomed him like a ghost reaching out from a grave.
The streets were nearly silent, lit only by scattered streetlights and the occasional flicker of a passing car. His driver didn't speak. He knew better. In this family, silence wasn't just a courtesy—it was survival.
The iron gates of the Falcone estate creaked open. The villa stood tall and pale in the moonlight, a grand white fortress surrounded by perfectly trimmed hedges and statues of stone saints who had long since stopped listening.
Inside, framed by the glow of the entryway chandelier, stood his mother—Donatella Falcone. Regal. Cold. Beautiful in a way that could freeze oceans. She didn't smile. She never did unless there was something to gain.
Donatella was elegance and menace wrapped in silk. She could gut a man with a glance and have the blood cleaned before dessert.
Tonight, she looked like she'd already buried ten men before breakfast and was preparing to do it all over again.
She didn't greet him with a hug. She didn't need to.
"Is it true?" she asked, her voice flat, like she was inquiring about a broken contract. "You and that boy... Emilio?"
The name felt fragile in her mouth. Like it didn't belong. Like it was an infection she didn't want to catch.
Dante didn't answer. His jaw tightened.
Her voice rose by a thread, the calm before a tidal wave. "Do you think this is what your father wanted? For the heir to the Falcone name to throw it all away for some... phase?"
His throat burned. His chest ached with the effort of holding himself still.
"Don't call it that," he said. Quiet. Deadly.
Her eyes snapped to his. Cold steel. A look honed by decades of ruling rooms full of dangerous men.
"I promised your father on his deathbed," she said, voice trembling not with grief, but authority, "that I would secure this family. That I would make sure you fulfilled your duties. And you will."
"You mean marry Sophie?" His voice was bitter, half-laugh, half-wound. "That girl you and her father parade around like a prize cow at every event?"
"She's proper. She's from a good house. She can give you children. A legacy," she said, jaw tight. "Not whatever this is with Emilio."
Dante turned, pacing, fists clenched. The walls of the room felt closer, like they were folding in around him.
"I'm not marrying Sophie," he said sharply. "I won't live a lie."
"You think this life was ever about what you want?" she hissed. "You carry your father's name. Your choices stopped being yours the day he died. You don't get to run around playing Romeo with some boy while the empire your father bled for crumbles."
He stopped cold.
His pulse thundered. His mother didn't understand. She never had. Emilio wasn't just some boy. He was the only one who ever looked at Dante like he wasn't a weapon. The only one who made the blood on his hands feel like something that could be washed away.
And she wanted to tear that from him. Like it was nothing.
Donatella stepped forward, her hand gripping his arm. Her nails bit into his skin.
"You will marry Sophie," she said, her voice shaking now, "in a month. You will walk beside her, take her hand, and do what this family demands. You will forget Emilio."
Dante ripped his arm away, breath catching.
"You don't get to decide who I marry," he growled.
"And you don't get to destroy everything your father built because you're *confused*."
"I'm not confused!" he shouted, voice cracking.
The words sliced the air. Silence dropped like a blade.
She stared at him, something flickering in her eyes—fear, perhaps—but she didn't retreat. She squared her shoulders.
"If you walk away from this, Dante... if you walk away from Sophie... you walk away from *everything*."
He turned away again, shoulders heaving.
"I've given you everything," she whispered behind him. "I've killed for this family. I've buried friends and betrayed allies. I have done unspeakable things to protect you. Don't make me regret it."
He didn't respond.
"Because if you don't marry Sophie," her voice broke, "I swear on my soul, I'll put a bullet in my own head and leave the mess in your lap."
Dante froze.
His lungs seized. His blood went cold. He turned slowly, and for the first time in years, he saw her crack. Her perfect face crumpled. She dropped to her knees, gripping his arm like a lifeline, like a mother, not a don.
Tears fell. Real ones.
"Please," she whispered. "Do this one thing for me. Marry Sophie. Give your father peace."
He knelt beside her, silent, numb. Her hands trembled in his. His armor shattered—not with her words, but her brokenness.
He didn't sleep that night.
_______
But by the next evening, he was in a black suit, beside her, walking up the grand marble steps of Don Carlo De Sanctis' estate.
The dinner table was long, polished, glittering with crystal and gold. Every seat was filled with power and expectation. Dante's was filled with silence.
Sophie entered in a pale blue dress, radiant and soft. Her smile stretched wide as she approached him, her arms folding around him like they were lovers instead of strangers bound by legacy.
"I've missed you," she murmured.
He gave her a polite nod, the same smile he'd worn to a dozen fake events, and said nothing.
Through dinner, he listened. Sophie laughed, charming everyone. Her father, Don Carlo, raised a glass, voice rich with pride.
"I want to speak," he said. "Dante, your father and I were brothers in all but blood. I want our families bound forever. And I want Sophie protected when I'm gone."
Sophie took Dante's hand. Her warmth meant nothing. Not anymore.
"So," Don Carlo said, "let's not waste time. Let's make it official. A marriage."
Dante's chest caved in.
Across the table, his mother waited. Watching. Waiting.
In his mind, Emilio smiled.
Dante opened his mouth—
—but all that came was silence.