Chapter 3 - The Sit-Down
The air inside the estate's private study was thick with the scent of fine whiskey and cigar smoke. Victor Moretti—a rival crime boss with a cruel reputation and a scar running from his lip to his ear—sat across from Dante, leaning back in a leather armchair. Two of Moretti’s heavily armed soldiers stood behind him.
"You're losing your edge, Dante," Moretti sneered, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "You spend half your time chasing pediatricians and buying crayons while the waterfront leaks millions. Word on the street is the Iron King has gone soft for a mute child."
Dante didn't move. He sat behind his grand desk, his hands clasped casually in front of him. But the energy in the room was electric, like a thunderstorm ready to strike.
"My daughter is off-limits, Victor," Dante said, his voice terrifyingly quiet. "You know the rules of the Commission."
"Rules change when money stops flowing," Moretti snapped, leaning forward. "I want fifty percent of the docks, or the next fire won't be on a cargo ship. It’ll be in your nursery."
Dante didn't flinch. He didn't shout. He simply raised his left hand.
From the shadows behind the bookshelf, Marco stepped forward, holding a sleek black laptop. He turned the screen toward Moretti. On the display was a live feed of Moretti’s primary offshore banking accounts in the Cayman Islands, showing a balance dropping to zero in real-time.
"What is this?" Moretti demanded, standing up, his chair scraping violently against the hardwood.
"You thought I was distracted by my daughter," Dante said, rising slowly from his chair, towering over the rival boss. "While you were planning your little fire at Pier 42, my accountants were systematically liquidating your family's secondary assets. You have no money to pay your soldiers, Victor. By midnight, your own men will sell you out to the police just to cover their payroll."
Moretti’s face turned purple with rage. He reached for his jacket, but before his hand could reach his holster, Dante had leaped over the desk. In a flash of lethal precision, Dante slammed Moretti’s face into the glass coffee table, shattering it into a thousand pieces, pressing a silenced pistol against the back of Moretti's neck.
"If you ever speak my daughter's name again," Dante whispered into Moretti's ear, "I won't just ruin you financially. I will erase your lineage."
Moretti gasped for air, blood pooling under his cheek on the shattered glass. "Get... get out of my sight," Dante growled, tossing the man back toward his terrified bodyguards. "Before I change my mind."
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Upstairs, Clara stood by the window of Sophia’s bedroom, holding the little girl against her shoulder. She had heard the sound of breaking glass from down the hall. Through the window, she watched Moretti’s men rush out of the mansion, bleeding and humiliated.
She realized then the true terror of the man who ruled this house. Dante Vancini was a savior to his daughter, but to the rest of the world, he was a monster.
