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My woman is getting so smart, so intricately weaved into my world that I needed to claim her again. To remind us both precisely who wields the power between us.

"When are you meeting Nico?" she asks, not turning from the stunning view outside.

I adjust my cufflinks, straightening my black dress shirt. "One hour. A private room atDiavolo's."

"And I'm still not invited," she says, a statement rather than a question.

She knows the answer already, but tests the boundary anyway. Like she always has. It's what makes her mine… this constant challenge, this refusal to bow completely even after she submitted to her knees an hour ago, her mouth working my cock as I spanked her perfect ass red raw.

"You stay here," I confirm, crossing to stand behind her. My hands find her waist, soothing over the curve that I might have been a little too rough with. "Marco has organized for us to be behind locked doors. With security positioned at every access point."

She leans back against me, the silk robe doing nothing to disguise the irresistible curves she hides beneath. "I could help you assess him, you know. I'm good at reading people."

"You're good at many things," I murmur against her neck, teeth grazing her skin. "But this is Ravelli business."

Her spine stiffens. "As your partner—"

"As my queen," I correct her, spinning her to face me. "Your task is to remain safe. To be here when I return." My fingers tangle in her hair, pulling her head back to expose her throat. "Is that understood?"

The fire in her eyes tells me she's not satisfied. But she nods, a single sharp movement. "Fine."

My lips curve into a smile that makes her pulse quicken beneath my fingertips. "Good girl."

She pushes against my chest, creating distance between us. "Just be careful, Dante. Nico may be your brother, but blood hasn't exactly proven reliable in your family history."

The truth of her words stings more than I care to admit, but I kiss her goodbye, and pile into the car waiting for me.

Diavolo's Cigar Lounge sits beneath street level in Rome's financial district, accessible only through a nondescript doorand a long descent down red-carpeted stairs. The air is thick with expensive smoke and even more expensive perfume, the lighting deliberately dim to obscure the identities of its exclusive clientele.

I pass the main floor where Italian politicians mingle with crime lords, where judges share drinks with the very men they'll pretend to prosecute tomorrow.

This is a world where power is the only currency that matters.

And every fucker here possesses it in abundance.

Marco flanks me, his presence a silent warning to anyone who might consider approaching. The manager, a former Mafia enforcer with a scarred face and perfect discretion, leads us through velvet curtains to the VIP section without a word.

The private room is exactly the decadence I expected.

Dark wood paneling absorbs the low light, creating shadows where secrets can be spoken but never shared beyond them. Leather couches line the walls, occupied by barely dressed women whose beauty is exceeded only by their interesting choice of music.

Through the haze of cigar smoke, my gaze catches on the dancers.

Their bodies twist in slow, hypnotic movements that remind me of Francesca beneath me. One particularly striking brunette arches her back against a pole, her black lace barely containing breasts that would tempt lesser men.

But I've tasted better.

The music pulses low, matching the rhythm of blood in my veins. Another dancer, all pale skin and red lips, slides to her knees before a businessman who doesn't deserve her attention.

The dancers continue their performance, a symphony of flesh and shadow. A raven-haired beauty approaches, her eyes promising pleasures I know she can't deliver.

"Hey… can I keep you company?"

"No." My voice rips a fucking hole through her practiced smile.

She retreats quickly, recognizing the danger in my tone. These women are masters of fantasy, and in the center of it all, sits my youngest brother.

Nico sits at a circular table, tumbler of scotch in hand, cigar smoldering in a crystal ashtray beside him. Unlike Luca and me, he's always been leaner, more refined. The diplomacy to our brutality, Vito would say.