Page 99 of Fire and Silk

“The next time you want to insult me, I suggest you bring cleaner books.”

She turns the next page in the folder Matteo passes forward and continues speaking in the same tone.

“Border checks on the second route between Palermo and Naples have doubled,” she says. “That needs to be rerouted through Split if we want to avoid detainment.”

The room stills slightly. Some of the men glance at each other.

Calvani exhales, his palms flat against the wood. “Hey, little girl.” His voice is sharper now. “Enough of this ridiculousness.”

He turns toward me fully, eyebrows raised.

“I don’t care what your father’s game is. Or what this marriage was supposed to buy you. But we can’t do business with you like this.”

Lira doesn't shift in her seat.

She slides a single sheet from the folder and holds it up between her fingers. The page is typed, sealed, dated.

“Then you’re banned from our ports,” she says. “Matteo, make a note. Don Calvani’s cargo is to be denied clearance in all shipping lanes controlled by this table. Disseminate the directive to all port masters and warehouse leads before nightfall.”

Matteo moves, reaching for the pen tucked into the folder spine.

Calvani’s face twists. He pushes up from the table, his chair scraping the floor.

“You bitch,” he snaps. “You can’t do that.”

He slams a hand down. “You think you're some kind of queen? This is suicide. I’ll band with the others. We’ll block your lines so tight you won’t breathe past your own backyard.”

Around the table, a low wave of muttering builds. The men exchange glances.

Lira straightens the page in her hand and lays it flat again, smoothing the corner with her ring finger. Her voice is calm when it returns, but something colder threads beneath it.

“Okay then,” she says, looking across the table. “Let’s have a vote.”

The room stills.

“All in favor of banning the Dantès family from port access,” she continues, “raise your hands.”

She pauses—only for a breath.

Then tilts her head toward the man two chairs down from Calvani.

“Oh wait—Don Martins.” She blinks “You didn’t tell them, did you?”

Martins, a middle-aged man who had been blank the whole time lifts his head slowly. His complexion shifts several shades. A small pulse at his temple jumps beneath the skin.

Lira turns toward the rest of the room.

“You all might want to hear this before casting your vote,” she says. “Don Martins has been under quiet investigation by the Chicago Police Department for the last six weeks.”

Every chair creaks. The murmurs stop. Three heads snap toward Martins. No one speaks.

Lira’s voice softens slightly. Not gentle—mocking curiosity dressed as concern.

“Oh, my word,” she says, raising one brow. “Did I slip up and tell them too soon?”

Martins tries to speak. His mouth opens, but no words form.

She lets her gaze move across the room slowly.