Page 20 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince

I finish the espresso and set the cup down with a small, decisive clink.

The port stretches out beyond the window, cranes moving containers like chess pieces, the sea a dull, slate-green mirror that reflects nothing.

The elevator chimes once.

The door opens, and Dante Salvatore steps into the room.

He is in charcoal grey today, the suit fitted to the point of arrogance.

The fabric catches the light in all the ways men like him are born understanding.

His shirt is crisp, collar open, no tie.

His hair is still damp, as if he showered only moments before arriving, and there is a kind of glint in his eyes that speaks of mischief and violence held just barely in check.

He does not smile when he sees me, but he doesn’t look away either.

"Gianna," he says, in a tone that manages to be both greeting and provocation.

"Dante," I return, voice smooth, rising just enough from my seat to offer a nod, not a bow.

I don't extend my hand.

He does not offer his.

He walks to the table and sits, not across from me, but beside, just one seat over.

The room is large, but suddenly, it feels crowded with the shape of his attention.

He lifts the espresso pot, pours himself a cup, drinks it black.

"You're early," I say, watching the way his fingers curl around the porcelain.

"So are you. I thought that was my thing."

I allow a hint of amusement to curl at the edge of my lips, but I don't answer.

He leans back, one arm slung lazily over the chair beside him, posture loose, but eyes sharp.

"Let's begin," he says, setting the cup down without looking. "Show me what your family's survival is worth."

And there it is.

The opening shot. I smile, slowly and patiently, reaching for the tablet before me.

"Of course. Let's begin with the port manifests. The last quarter saw a fourteen percent increase in throughput, largely due to the rerouted shipments through the Palermitan corridor. Your team requested a leaner customs model. We delivered."

I tap the screen.

Charts light up.

I watch his eyes track them, flicker with interest.

Behind the lazy charm, he’s sharp—as sharp as his brother is cold.

Where Luca moves like a man who expects obedience, Dante moves like a man who already knows where you’ll break.

He doesn’t look at the numbers for long.