"Your hospitality is touching," I say, voice flat. "Does Alessandro know I'm here?"
The guard just grunts, confiscating my gun before nodding toward the house. Message received. I'm no longer trusted here—if I ever was.
The mansion looks exactly the same. White marble. Imposing columns. The Dante legacy carved in stone.
Walking through those double doors feels like stepping back in time, but the reception inside reminds me that this is no homecoming.
The main hall falls silent as I enter. Cousins, capos, and consiglieri gathered in black suits, conversations dying mid-sentence.
Some faces register shock, others contempt. Nobody moves to greet me.
My younger brother, Adriano, leans against the far wall, whiskey in hand. His eyes meet mine, hardening instantly. "Who the fuck invited you?"
Well, I can eliminate him as the sender of the letter.
I don't answer, don't have one that wouldn't complicate things further.
Valentina, my youngest sister, appears at the top of the stairs.
For a moment, her face brightens, but a glance toward someone I can't see makes her features smooth into careful neutrality.
"Welcome home," she says cooly as she descends the stairs.
"Luca fucking Dante." The voice cuts through the tension, and suddenly, there's Victorio, my oldest friend from childhood, now working for my family.
He pushes through the crowd.
His face cracks into a genuine smile, arms opening wide.
"You have balls of steel, my friend." He embraces me. Maybe he sent the letter.
"Vic. Not even I can avoid paying respect to my father.”
"Lorenzo would be glad you're here," he says, clapping my shoulder. But there's something in his eyes that feels like a warning. "Despite what others might think."
I nod in understanding. Victorio's warmth is genuine, but he knows my presence disrupts the status quo of power in the Dante family.
The room feels like a powder keg. I’m the match.
Alessandro steps forward as the head of the family like he was born there.
In a way, he was.
The eldest Dante, groomed since childhood to wear the crown.
His gray eyes, identical to mine, to all of our siblings’, assess me coldly across the room.
He hasn't aged these seven years, just hardened. More steel in his jaw, more ice in his gaze.
"So, the prodigal son returns." His voice fills the room without his raising it. A talent he learned from our father. "Convenient timing."
I shrug, deliberately casual. "Nothing convenient about a murdered father."
The family council surrounds us, uncles, cousins, capos from each territory.
Their faces shift between curiosity and suspicion.
My brother Adriano moves to stand on Alessandro's right, watching me like he's trying to solve a puzzle.
