Page 23

Chapter Sixteen

Dante

I ’m a man on a mission. Well, missions , if I’m being honest.

The first is simple: destroy Gianni Mori.

Not Don Salvatore. Not yet. No, the real rot sits closer to the bone.

Gianni Mori, the man who calls himself Francesca’s father.

The man who sold her body and spirit to further his own ambitions.

The man who threatened not only my life but also my son's.

Who dared to plot behind my back while standing under my roof .

That kind of betrayal doesn’t deserve a bullet. It deserves slow erosion. Systematic collapse. I want to watch him unravel piece by piece until he knows what it feels like to be helpless, to beg, to lose.

The second: figure out what the fuck to do about Francesca.

My wife in name. A ghost in my halls. A woman who somehow, despite everything, continues to claw at the inside of my chest like a splinter I can’t remove.

She’s polite now. Distant. Beautiful in a way that feels unreachable. And I don’t know what the fuck to do with the part of me that doesn’t want revenge anymore.

That part wants to rewrite the ending. That part wants to be worthy of her, but I’m still Forzi. Still soaked in blood and driven by pride, and she’s still looking at me like I’m the villain in her story.

Hell, maybe I am, but even villains have limits, and mine begin and end with her.

When I step into the office, Vito’s already there, sprawled out on the sofa like he owns the place.

“So, the party?” he says, raising an eyebrow. “Kind of a bust. No blood, no screaming, no chairs thrown. Very disappointing.”

I settle behind my desk, loosening my cuffs. “Agree to disagree. I found out something important.”

He smirks. “What? That catered finger food isn’t your thing?”

“That my wife is completely committed to my family,” I say, watching his face closely.

He blinks. “Isn’t she supposed to be? ”

Right. Even Vito doesn’t know the full scope of the clusterfuck this marriage really is.

“Well,” I add dryly, “the kids, technically. But I’ll take it.”

He leans forward. “You’ve got that look. What else?”

“Paolo and Marco,” I say. “They stayed away all night. Too far, too quiet. Ignored the Vescari like it was their holy mission.”

He frowns. “That’s not like them.”

“Exactly. No one stays that far from the drama unless they’ve got something to hide.”

He crosses his arms, thoughtful. “So what’s the plan?”

“We use the faulty guns,” I say. “We prep two shipments, two fake destinations. One goes to Paolo. The other to Marco. Tell them it’s sensitive, ‘internal only.’ Let’s see which one gets raided.”

Vito’s smile is slow and sharp. “You want to smoke out the mole.”

“No,” I say, fingers steepling under my chin. “I want to catch him in the act. No more guessing. I want the truth—and after that? Blood.”

He nods, already pulling out his phone. “I’ll set it up. You’ll get your answer.”

“Good,” I say. “And Vito—quietly. No one breathes a word.”

“You got it, boss.” He stands and stretches, rolling out his neck. “You sticking around?”

“Not for long.” I push back my chair. “I’m heading home early.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Since when? ”

Since I watched the woman I married whisper love to children who aren’t hers. Since I realized I want her to see I’m not always the monster I was that night.

“The twins just finished their first week of school,” I say instead. “I thought I’d take them out for a celebratory dinner.”

“Is that right?”

I don’t like the curve of the smirk forming at the corner of his mouth.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He lifts his hands in mock surrender. “Nothing. I know you love your kids, but you’ve never exactly been Mr. Hearth and Home. Just makes me wonder if by ‘celebratory dinner’ you mean you want to go home and fuck the wife.”

My jaw tightens.

“And I wouldn’t blame you,” he adds with a grin. “The woman’s lush.”

A wave of revulsion rolls through me, sharp and unexpected.

Not just because of how flippantly he says it, but because he’s talking about her . And because I did fuck her, and despite the context, despite the violence of it, a part of me still wants to do it again. Wants her again.

But not like that. Not like that night.

And I hate that I let it happen. That it happened at all.

I also hate the implication I’ve been a bad father.

I know he doesn’t mean it like that, not really.

It’s how we were raised. Fathers weren’t gentle, just present.

But I see the difference now. I feel the difference when Francesca looks at my children like they’re made of stardust, not just blood and legacy.

I level Vito with a flat look. “Watch your mouth.”

He chuckles, but it dies quickly. “Yeah. Right. Sorry.”

I sigh, leaning back in my chair, the leather creaking beneath me. “It’s complicated.”

“Love always is.” He shrugs, too casual for someone poking a hornet’s nest.

I scoff. “Don’t be ridiculous. It has nothing to do with love.”

Doesn’t it?

The question doesn’t need to be said out loud; I hear it anyway, louder than if he’d shouted it. I shake my head, more at myself than at him.

“Okay, if you say so.” He pushes off the doorframe. “I’ll be down at the warehouse if you need me. Pietro’s hanging around too. Says he wants a word with you about the loan business.”

“Send him in.” I wave him off.

He disappears, and I sit there a moment longer, the quiet pressing in.

Love…

How stupid.

How messy.

How fucking real.

I leave not long after my meeting with Pietro. The loan business is thriving, and the money is good.

The drive home is quiet, the streets bright for once. I look at the clock, and I’ll be getting home just after the twins. That’s a first.

I can't help but smile at the thought of walking in to their laughter, their joy, and the woman who’s keeping them innocent for as long as she can. I need to tell her how much I appreciate this.

When I walk in, I expect the usual laughter and the sound of their little feet running, but all I get is silence.

I frown as I go down the corridor and see Alessio sitting at the kitchen table, scowling at the notebook in front of him.

I raise an eyebrow in interrogation, and he pouts.

“I’m grounded.”

My lip quivers, but I try my best to stay stoic, and I'm about to ask why when I hear a sniffle. A small, broken sound that makes my jaw tighten.

I follow the sound on instinct, like a wire pulled tight in my chest. I round the corner just as I see Lucia curled into Francesca’s chest, clutching her favorite plush seahorse. Her cheeks are blotchy, her lip wobbling.

I feel something inside me snap.

“Who made her cry?” I demand, stepping into the room like a storm. “Tell me the boy’s name. I’ll take him into the woods where no one can hear him scream?—”

Francesca looks up at me with an expression I can’t quite read, somewhere between calm and exasperated. “She had a little tiff with a classmate. Nothing serious.”

“What’s his name?” I ask, already imagining the boy’s face pressed against a brick wall.

“She’s five, Dante,” she replies with a sigh that says she’s already tired of me. “And so is he. It wasn’t cruel; it was clumsy. He clearly likes her and doesn’t know how to deal with it. ”

“He made her cry,” I growl. “Name.”

“Dante.” Her tone sharpens. “You’re clearly taking this very well.” She adjusts Lucia in her arms, pressing a kiss to her curls, and shoots me a sideways glance. “Maybe, just maybe… try empathy.”

I frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t worry,” she mutters. “Your son already took care of it. That boy’s missing most of his baby teeth now.”

Despite myself, I grin. “And you grounded him for defending his sister?”

“This isn’t—” She cuts herself off, then sighs. “Never mind. You’re right. They’re your children, after all. I’ll go speak to the boy’s parents. Remind them who you are.”

But something shifts in her face as she says it—her warmth cooling into distance, her eyes turning guarded. That look.

The Nanny Killjoy.

And I hate it because I put it there. Because I know what she really meant.

Remind herself who I am.

“I wasn’t trying to start a war,” I mutter.

“No,” she says without looking at me. “I think it just comes naturally to you.”

Lucia shifts in her arms, sniffling, her little face turning toward me. “He said mermaids aren’t real,” she whispers, lip trembling. “So I called him a booboo head and ran away, but he pushed me, and I fell.”

Is it a crime to plot the murder of a five-year-old?

“Did you get hurt?” I ask, already scanning her for bruises .

She nods solemnly and points to her knee. “Right here. But Cece used her mermaid magic,” she adds, like it’s obvious. “So it’s all good now.”

I look at Francesca. She meets my eyes for just a moment, and the ice in them softens just a little.

Maybe I can’t undo what I’ve done. But I can try not to make it worse.

“What do you want to do, sweetheart?” Francesca asks gently.

Lucia wipes her nose with the back of her hand and looks up at her. “Can I go play with Alessio? He protected me.”

That’s my boy.

I bite back the smile, keeping my expression flat so I don’t make things worse. No need to stroke Alessio’s ego any more than it already is, or Francesca’s temper, for that matter.

But Francesca throws me a look anyway. One of those subtle, loaded glances. She knows I approve. She sighs, shaking her head like I’m impossible.

“Sure,” she says, crouching beside Lucia and brushing a loose curl from her face. “You and your brave pirate can go play. I’ll tidy up here and be right with you.”

Lucia perks up immediately, planting a kiss on Francesca’s cheek before skipping off. I watch her go, chest tightening just a little.

She’s resilient, like her.

I clear my throat, suddenly unsure how to move my feet. “Do you have a minute?”

Francesca straightens, her hand frozen mid-wipe across the counter. Her eyes meet mine, guarded. “Sure.”

I nod toward the hallway. “In the office.”