Page 66 of Beauty and the Daddy

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. My father this, my father that. Dead ten years and they still throw him in my face.

"My father didn't have the Bratva running fentanyl through his shipping lanes," I shoot back. "Different times."

Don Catalano, the youngest at seventy, snorts. "Different times, or different balls?"

Everyone chuckles. I don't. Declan's been too quiet, which never means anything good.

The meeting goes on the same way all these meetings do: money, routes, corrections to routes, a discreet reminder that a particular judge needs reminding. I nod, I delegate.

And then Declan goes for the throat.

"Speaking of housekeeping," Declan says, voice deceptively casual, "shouldn't we discuss the... situation in your house?"

Every muscle in my body coils. "Speak plainly."

"Your americana." He lets the word drip with disdain. "Belle."

The temperature drops ten degrees. Breathing stops. Even the old men sense blood in the water. I go perfectly still—the kind of stillness that precedes violence.

"What about her?"

Declan leans forward with that smirk I've wanted to punch off his face since we were kids, "Shouldn't we discuss your... engagement?"

"My engagement isn't council business," I say, my voice low. Warning shot.

Declan ignores it, like he does everything when it doesn't suit him. "When the Don of the Moretti family marries, it's everyone's business."

He turns to the old men. "Especially when his bride-to-be wanders the city unsupervised, doing God knows what with God knows who."

My blood turns to lava. The pen in my hand snaps, leaking ink onto my palm.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" I grind out.

"Your little Belle," Declan drawls, his eyes gleaming. "She's been sneaking out. Taking taxis. Meeting people. Didn't you know?"

I keep my face blank, but inside I'm raging. He's not wrong. She has been going out. To meet her father, to live her life. All those are her rights.

He's baiting me, so I bait him right back. Time to show him who the bigger fish is around here.

"And how would you know that, Declan?" I ask. "Been watching her?"

"Someone has to." He shrugs. "Since you're too busy playing king to notice what's happening under your own roof."

My chair scrapes back before I realize I'm standing. "Say one more word about her."

Don Fiorello clears his throat. "Luca, sit down. Declan raises a valid concern."

I'm still standing, eyes locked on my brother. Something's off about the way he's watching Belle. Like he's hunting.

"Valid concern?" I laugh. "He's stirring shit because that's what Declan does best."

"Maybe," Don Fiorello concedes, "but we have questions about this woman. This... outsider."

"Her name is Belle," I say, my voice deadly quiet. "And she'll be your Donna when we marry. I suggest you start showing some respect."

Don Catalano leans forward. "We respect power, Luca. Not pretty faces. Who is she, really? Where did she come from?"

"You vetted her yourself," I remind him.