Page 1 of The Chief (Those (Damn!) Texas Dantes #3)

CADE DANTE wasn’t here to fall in love.

He was here to choose a bride.

A Severin bride.

And if that didn’t taste like ash in his mouth, he didn’t know what did.

The SUV came to a stop outside the Severin estate, a sprawling fortress of old money and newer sins.

Cade stepped out into the dying light of day, the burden of legacy settling across his shoulders like a tailored noose.

The air smelled like pine, stone, and politics.

He adjusted the cuffs of his suit and stared up at the estate gates as they swung open in silence, an invitation and a warning.

He wasn’t here for romance. He was here to bind two dynasties in unholy matrimony. His family’s safety depended on it. His brother Titus and Leif Severin, the new Boss of the Severin family, had orchestrated the deal. Cade had the misfortune of carrying it out.

One of the Severin daughters would become a Dante. Mrs. Cade Dante. The next sacrificial lamb on the altar of bloodlines and dynastic leverage. Congratulations, sweetheart, you’re marrying into organized crime with better suits.

The only question was which one. There were four:

Petra—the polished lawyer who’d probably have him signing contracts before she ever let him touch her.

Katrina—the social sniper in heels, like a Bond girl with a grudge and a gasoline can, who’d rather torch the baccarat table than lose a hand.

Leanora—the fragile one. Haunted eyes. Soft voice.

Probably cried during thunderstorms. And Elise—the baby of the family.

So stunning she could’ve been a mirage conjured by lust and bad decisions.

Unfortunately, she also had the IQ of a bottle of rosé, if you believed the gossip and the opinion of someone who thought “laundering money” involved detergent.

Leif Severin waited at the top of the marble stairs leading into his mansion, looking every inch the new mafia boss he’d become in the wake of his father’s collapse, clean-shaven, cold-eyed, and politically lethal.

“Cade,” Leif said. His handshake was strong. Calculated. “Welcome to Severin House.”

Cade smiled without meaning it. “Let’s not pretend this is anything but what it is.”

“Which is?”

“A transaction.” He stared coldly, repeating their agreement in no uncertain terms. Just to be crystal clear. “One of your sisters will marry me to cement our alliance. To ensure that our families remain… united. Which of your sisters is my choice and my choice alone. Right up until we say ‘I do.’”

Leif’s mouth narrowed. “I already agreed to the terms.”

“Your sisters are also in agreement?”

“They are.” He stepped to one side. “So let’s get to business.”

Naturally. Anything less than transactional wouldn’t compute with a man who probably scheduled his own birth for optimal leverage.

Because for Leif Severin, business was a blood sport in bespoke suits.

And this time, the prize wasn’t land, money, or territory.

It was marriage. Political marriage. The last civilized form of hostage-taking.

They entered the estate, opulence dressed in neutral tones, as though taste could soften corruption. Cade’s gaze swept the hall. Art that had never seen a gallery, rugs too old to be walked on, and the strength of Severin silence clinging to every stone.

Three of the four sisters waited.

The three lined up in soft lighting and tasteful jewelry like auction lots at a high-end estate sale—valuable, veiled in family history, and just slightly haunted.

Petra stepped forward first. Late twenties.

Graceful in that practiced, press-release kind of way.

The lawyer. Her dress was a subdued gray, the kind worn by women who planned their outfits with power dynamics in mind.

Her demeanor matched, cool, calculated, and as unreadable as a redacted contract.

“Mr. Dante,” she said, holding out her hand. “Welcome. I trust your journey was uneventful.”

He took her hand in his for a brief shake. “Unfortunately.”

She didn’t blink. He liked that. Petra had the cool detachment of a woman who’d read your résumé, diagnosed your insecurities, and scheduled your downfall before coffee.

Cade respected it. Admired it, even. But it seemed more like negotiating a merger than meeting a future wife.

She was efficient. Composed. The kind of woman who’d make an excellent spouse—if you enjoyed quarterly performance reviews in bed.

Katrina followed, a smirk tugging at her mouth like she already knew where to dig the knife and how deep to twist it.

Mid-twenties, brown hair kissed by gold, hazel eyes sharp enough to cut glass.

She wore black like it was armor, the kind that hugged curves and dared anyone to call it anything less than tactical.

Every step she took said, “I know your secrets, and I’m already bored by them.

” Another handshake, offered like a dare.

“And here I thought the Dantes only sent muscle.”

“I’m the upgrade package,” Cade said. “Muscle and manners.”

She arched a brow. “Oh, honey. How sweet. You brought manners to a knife fight.”

He moved on.

Leanora lingered half a step behind the others.

Younger. Soft. Dark blonde curls, pale blue dress, hands folded like she’d wandered into a mafia mixer by mistake and was too polite to ask for directions out.

And just self-aware enough to realize she’d get lost in the parking lot, anyway.

Her hello was a whisper, like she was apologizing for existing.

She didn’t look up, either from shyness or the sheer exhaustion of being the family tragedy with excellent bone structure.

Cade clocked her as the one who wouldn’t survive him, but he forced himself to shake hands with her, despite that. He’d be polite, even if it felt like shaking hands with a ghost at a funeral—awkward, cold, and way too formal for a situation everyone secretly wanted to avoid.

And then—

She appeared like chaos in lace. “Oh no, is this where I was supposed to glide in and look mysteriously eligible? I spent twenty minutes arguing with a shoe rack, lost, and made a treaty with my slippers.” She glanced down at her bare feet. “Tragically, they betrayed me.”

White-gold hair, a dress that didn’t belong in this century, and eyes so vividly blue they looked like they’d been Photoshopped by divine intervention. For a half-second, Cade forgot what he was doing there. Forgot dynasties, alliances, and even his last name.

Elise Severin. The Severins’ walking optical illusion. A punchline wrapped in goddess packaging. Gorgeous enough to disarm a war room, and—if the rumors were true—clueless enough to walk into one thinking it was a spa. His brain hit the brakes. The rest of him stepped on the gas.

She drifted into view, barefoot and beaming, as if she’d wandered in from a garden party, and possibly through the wrong decade.

Cade blinked once, then again, unsure if he was watching a social experiment or witnessing the most breathtaking woman he’d ever seen do a slow-motion pratfall into his afternoon.

He wasn’t sure what stunned him more, the ridiculousness or the beauty. But for a beat, he couldn’t look away.

“Which of us is supposed to offer a dowry?” She tilted her head like she was trying to remember whether a dowry came with a user manual. “If it’s me, I forgot to bring goats. Or is this more of a cash-and-criminal-connections sort of vibe?”

Cade stared.

She blinked, innocent and guileless and utterly full of it.

He dismissed her with a glance.

She was beautiful in a way that made men stupid, and probably once caused a minor international incident. But she wasn’t serious. Or stable. Not the kind of woman who could stand beside the Chief of the Dantes without turning the entire underworld into a running joke.

“I’ll need time with each of them. Alone,” he told Leif. “But I already have a sense of what I’m looking for.”

Elise grabbed his hand and pumped it briskly. “Hope it’s not me. I once asked if a pre-nup was the same as an obituary.” Her smile wasn’t the least innocent. Maybe it was a warning. “Just trying to be prepared.”

Petra sighed. Katrina snorted. Leanora remained silent.

Cade didn’t know what the fuck kind of pageant he’d just walked into, but it sure as hell wasn’t the one he rehearsed for.

“You can use my office.” Leif’s offer sounded more like an order.

Cade glanced at the four women again.

What the hell.

Maybe he’d pick the one least likely to end in arson.

Assuming that was an option.

ELISE SEVERIN leaned against the hallway wall just out of view, barefoot and humming softly, pretending she wasn’t eavesdropping. Her sisters emerged one by one from Leif’s office, their expressions giving her all the intel she needed.

Petra came out first, calm and composed, like she’d just presented oral arguments before the Supreme Court and been unanimously applauded.

Her chin tilted a little higher than usual, and her heels clicked with the smug satisfaction of a woman who’d just intellectually disarmed a man she might have to marry.

“Well?” Elise asked, eyebrows up.

Petra gave a dry look. “He’s competent. Efficient. The kind of man who values productivity and efficiency reports and romantic risk assessments.”

“So... swoon-worthy,” Elise said, deadpan.

“Try strategic,” Petra said, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from her dress. “He evaluates everything—conversation, posture, potential. It’s like being scanned by a human boardroom. But attractive. Intensely.”

“Did he kiss you?”

Petra paused, just for a heartbeat. “No. Though it would have been interesting if he had.”

Elise blinked. “Interesting.”

“Exactly. I’d have liked to assess his KPIs.”

“You’re comparing kissing to Key Performance Indicators?” Elise chuckled. “Only you, Petra.”

Petra gave a shrug, unbothered. “If the chemistry isn’t measurable, what’s the point?”