Page 60 of Gilded Cage
The sun had barely kissed the horizon when Dante stood by the edge of the marble balcony, his silk black shirt catching the ocean breeze.
Below, waves crashed against the jagged rocks.
Isolde was still asleep inside, curled beneath their dark satin sheets.
He turned from the balcony, the chill of morning clinging to his skin, and entered their bedroom.
She stirred. Her arms reached across the bed, searching for the warmth she craved.
When her eyes fluttered open and met his, a soft smile tugged at her lips.
But it vanished when she saw the coat in his hands.
"You're leaving already?"
Dante sat at the edge of the bed and brushed a knuckle along her jaw. "Manhattan."
Her brows pulled together. "You're not taking me?"
"Not this time." He leaned down, lips brushing hers possessively. "Lucien, Alexander, Vincente, Antonio. It’s business. I will return soon little dove."
She sighed, clinging to his coat as if it might stop him. But she knew better.
By the time he reached the gates of the estate, his convoy of matte black cars already waited.
His guards in black suits held the doors open, stoic.
Inside the lead car, Dante rode in silence, his mind already shifting into the darker gears of strategy.
At his private airport, the tarmac gleamed under the rising sun.
His jet, obsidian and monstrous, waited with engines humming. As he boarded, the pilot greeted him with a bow.
The interiors were a symphony of quiet wealth: dark leather, gold accents, mahogany-paneled walls.
He poured himself a glass of whiskey as the plane lifted into the clouds.
By noon, Dante’s jet touched down at his personal hangar in Manhattan.
His car awaited him on the tarmac sleek, armored, vicious.
The Manhattan villa was no less intimidating than his main estate.
High security, gated perimeter, minimalist brutalist design, and art worth more than most buildings in the city.
The moment he entered, staff cleared out. They knew better.
He stripped off his coat, tossed it onto a nearby chair, and walked into the marble-tiled bathroom.
The water hit his skin in torrents as he stood under the rainfall shower, steam rising. Thoughts of Isolde lingered as he pressed his palms to the wall.
The things he’d do when he returned. He already missed her.
Refreshed and dressed in a charcoal suit, black dress shirt, no tie, Dante slipped on his coat and stepped back out into the city.
The bar was exclusive to the point of invisibility. No sign, no street number. Only those invited knew where it was.
Inside, the walls were obsidian and velvet. Jazz hummed low from speakers.
The lighting was gold-dimmed, warm.
Antonio was already there—of course. He sat like royalty on a crimson leather booth, legs spread, arms wide, flashing his gold rings like they were currency.
His navy-blue suit had ridiculous diamond embroidery on the cuffs. A red rose rested in his chest pocket.
Alexander, ever-calm, sat across from him, sipping a drink with minimal care, clad in a dark green tailored suit. His expression was one of mild boredom.
When Dante entered, both men stood.
"The man of the hour," Antonio called with a grin. "Finally gracing us with his royal darkness."
Dante didn’t smile. He gave Antonio a brief nod, then clasped arms with Alexander.
Antonio wrapped Dante in a dramatic one-armed hug.
They exchanged gifts. Dante handed a leather case to Antonio—inside, a rare Cuban cigar line with diamond tips.
Antonio’s eyes gleamed.
Alexander handed Dante a small obsidian box—within, a silver dagger engraved with Dante’s initials.
"You keep giving me weapons," Dante muttered.
Alexander raised a brow. "Because you actually use them."
Just then, Lucien entered.
His presence dropped the room’s temperature. Pale gray eyes scanned the space, gold-framed specs resting low on his nose.
His tailored black coat swept behind him like smoke.
"You all look like you’re auditioning for a death cult," he murmured.
Antonio stood theatrically. “Lucien! Finally! A proper psychopath to match our energy.”
Dante smirked slightly as Lucien took a seat next to him.
The last to enter was Vincente. Tall, brooding, with dark brown hair and blue eyes that seemed to carry both pain and venom.
He walked in silence, nodded to them all, and sat with a drink already waiting.
Once all five were seated in the black velvet booth, the guards posted nearby tightened formation, ensuring no one interrupted.
The room fell into natural rhythm—the kind forged only through bloodshed and years of loyalty.
"So," Vincente drawled, swirling his drink. "Why the urgency, Antonio?"
Antonio exhaled dramatically. "My wife divorced me."
Lucien’s gaze snapped like a whip. “You called us from across the country… for that?”
“I thought we were brothers!”
Lucien’s voice went flat. “I skipped a family weekend for this.”
Alexander chuckled. “You’ve always been dramatic, Antonio.”
Vincente scowled. “My ex-wife ran away pregnant—with my best friend’s bastard. I still haven’t found her. You don’t see me calling emergency council meetings.”
Antonio waved a hand. “Maybe you should’ve! What if she’s raising a mini you?”
Alexander snorted into his drink. “Imagine the therapy bills.”
Dante said nothing for a beat, then looked up with that slow, lethal calm. “I left my wife alone. Again. For this.”
His voice was quiet. Too quiet.
Antonio paled slightly. “You all make it sound like I committed a war crime. I’m heartbroken, dammit!”
Lucien deadpanned, “Then cry in your own penthouse.”
“But I missed you guys,” Antonio murmured, suddenly looking like a boy denied dessert.
Lucien shook his head. “You’re the only Don I know who leads a cartel with glitter in his back pocket.”
The men chuckled. The tension eased.
Drinks were poured. Stories shared.
Lucien spoke of Sorina, and little Dominic—his son’s curiosity and how he mimicked Lucien’s every scowl.
Alexander mentioned how his pregnant wife had banned cigars and wine from the house, and how he secretly smoked on the balcony like a teenager hiding from his mother.
Dante stayed mostly silent, sipping a deep amber drink. But when they asked about Isole, his eyes flickered—dark, dangerous.
“She’s Alone,” he said simply. “And she’s waiting. So let’s make this quick.”
..........
Dark polished walnut shelves glowed behind crystal bottles. The air was laced with quiet luxury. Lucien examined one label with faint amusement.
“I have this one. Stored in my cellar in France. 1862 vintage. Cost me half a gallery’s worth.”
Dante poured two fingers of bourbon into Lucien’s glass. “That’s nothing. I bought a vineyard last month."
Antonio smirked. “Lucien, what’s your cellar like these days?”
Lucien’s gaze turned fondly calculating. “Two hundred and sixteen bottles, carefully curated. French, Sicilian, a couple from Greece. You know—things older than Antonio’s last relationship.”
Vincente barked a short laugh. “That’s not hard.”
Antonio pointed at Lucien. “I will fight you.”
Lucien: “You’d lose. You run from cardio.”
Dante drained his glass, leaning against the bar. “Enough wine talk. What’s your darkest hobby these days?”
Alexander shrugged. “I read crime novels and guess which killer’s technique I’ve used.”
Lucien: “I collect antique scalpels. They tell a story.”
Vincente: “I photograph abandoned asylums.”
Antonio: “I follow mommy vloggers and leave cryptic comments.”
Silence. Then laughter.
Dante smiled. “You’re unwell.”
Antonio grinned. “And yet you all keep me around.”
Back at Dante’s coastal estate...
The sun bathed the Mediterranean beach in golden heat. Inside, the cool air smelled of citrus and sugar.
Isolde stood in the open kitchen in an oversized ivory sweater, sleeves bunched near her elbows.
Her bare legs glided silently over the marble floor.
Her hair—half pinned, half loose—framed her thoughtful face.
She was now trying her hand at macarons. A terrible idea. A cracked tray sat abandoned on the counter.
“Why are they hollow?” she asked aloud, squinting.
She licked the icing off her finger. A bit too sweet.
Then she wiped her hands, picked up her phone and dialed.
“Piccola,” Dante’s voice rumbled.
She exhaled. “You’re alive.”
“Always. Are you alright?”
“No guards came in when I almost set the kitchen on fire.”
He laughed. “Did you?”
“Almost. Flour and I are not friends.”
“I’ll be home soon.”
“I miss you,” she said softly. “The house is too quiet.”
“I’ll fix that when I’m back." He replied.
She smiled. “I'm waiting for that.”
“Good.”
She hung up, flushed and happy.
Then walked barefoot into the living room where she began rearranging the throw pillows, pausing to hum as she danced lightly with her phone, pretending he was watching.