I found my father in his study, as always. Enzo Valenti, seventy-two years old and still sharp as a knife. He sat behind his massive oak desk, a tumbler of whiskey in one hand, reading glasses perched on his nose as he reviewed some documents. He didn’t look up when I entered.
“Close the door,” he said.
I did, then took the seat across from him without being invited. One of the few privileges of being his son was that I didn’t have to wait for permission.
He finally looked up, studying me over his glasses. “Benson talk?”
“Eventually. Gave up the warehouse and the trucking route to Caruso.”
My father’s jaw tightened, but he just nodded. “And?”
“Marco and Angelo are handling it.”
“Good.” He set down his whiskey, removed his glasses, and leaned back in his chair. The leather creaked under his weight. “Now. Montana.”
“My flight leaves at six.”
“I know when your flight leaves.” He waved a hand dismissively. “What I want to know is if you’re prepared for this. This isn’t Newark, Dante. You can’t just walk into some rancher’s home and start breaking fingers.”
I bristled at that. “I know how to conduct business, Pop.”
“Do you?” He leaned forward, his dark eyes—the same ones I saw in the mirror every morning—boring into me. “Because this needs to be clean. Legitimate. The girl marries you, we get the ranch, and we establish our foothold out west. No bodies, no headlines, no FBI sniffing around because you couldn’t keep your temper in check.”
“I don’t have a temper.”
He laughed, short and sharp. “You’re a Valenti. Of course you have a temper. The question is whether you can control it long enough to close this deal.”
I bit back my first response, which would’ve proven his point. Instead, I took a breath. “The Wesleys are desperate. They need this as much as we do. The daughter will agree to the marriage, we’ll make it legal and proper, and in six months we’ll have a legitimate cattle operation generating clean revenue. Just like we discussed.”
“And if she doesn’t agree?”
“Then we take the ranch outright. Either way, we win.”
My father studied me for a long moment, then reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a manila folder. He slid it across the desk to me.
I opened it. Inside were photographs and documents—information on the Wesley family. The father, stern-faced and weathered. The mother, kind eyes and graying hair. A daughter,early twenties, long hair, hopeful eyes, and a genuine smile. But to me, she looked like every other girl my father had tried to marry me off to.
And then I saw him.
Nicholas Wesley. Twenty-six years old, according to the file. Dark hair, green eyes, and a smile that could charm a rattlesnake. He was standing next to a horse, one hand on its neck, wearing tight jeans and a flannel shirt. He was handsome and rugged in all the ways that turned me on. He was the kind of man I dreamed of alone in my bed each night.
“She’s a good girl,” my father said, watching my reaction. He thought I was looking at the daughter. “No record, no scandals. Works the ranch with her family. Goes to church on Sundays. The kind of girl who’ll give you legitimate children and make you look respectable.”
I stared at the photo, feeling something uncomfortable twist in my gut. She looked happy. Innocent. Nothing like the women I usually dealt with—the ones who knew exactly what the Valenti name meant and didn’t care as long as the money kept flowing.
“When’s the wedding?” I asked, closing the folder.
“That depends on how the meeting goes tomorrow. I want this wrapped up within the month. The sooner we’re established out there, the better.”
I nodded, tucking the folder under my arm as I stood. “Anything else?”
“Yes.” My father’s voice stopped me at the door. “Dante. I know you think this is beneath you. Playing rancher, marrying some farmer’s daughter. But this is important. To me. To the family. We need that ranch to expand, even if we need to get…creative. Don’t fuck it up.”
I met his eyes. “I won’t.”
“Good. Because if you do, you won’t get another chance to prove yourself. Understand?”
The threat was clear. This was my shot at something bigger, at the legitimate life I’d been pushing for. If I screwed it up, I’d be stuck in Newark forever, interrogating rats and dodging indictments until I ended up dead or in prison like half my cousins.
