Page 28

The drive up the winding mountain road is silent. Romeo sits with his fingers intertwined with mine, his thumb tracing the ridged scar on my palm, lost in cold calculation.

When the car finally stops, the air outside is cold, smelling of subterranean dampness, oak barrels, and sulfur.

We are led down a stone staircase carved directly into the mountain bedrock, beneath an ancient winery that has served as a neutral meeting ground for Sicilian syndicates for over a century. Torches flicker in iron sconces along the damp limestone walls, casting shifting, dancing shadows that make my eyes sting behind my sunglasses.

At the end of the corridor, heavy iron-studded oak doors open into a massive, vaulted cellar.

A long, rectangular table of dark chestnut sits in the center of the room, illuminated by flickering chandeliers of wrought iron. Around the table sit eight men: grizzled capos in dark suits, their faces lined with violence, their fingers heavy with gold signet rings. Armed enforcers stand along the perimeter like statues, their hands resting on the grips of automatic handguns tucked into shoulder holsters.

The moment we enter, the low murmur of Italian conversation dies completely.

Eight pairs of hostile, assessing eyes land on me.

"Messina," a raspy, gravel-filled voice calls out from the far end of the table. Don Russo, an older capo with a scarred neck and yellowed teeth. "We expected you an hour ago. And we expected a private council. Why the fuck is Daniel O'Connor's blind daughter standing in this vault?"

A tense, dangerous stillness descends upon the room. Enzo and Tony flank the doorway, their expressions completely blank, ready to draw.

Sofia's head lowers, a deep, rumbling growl vibrating from the depths of her chest, her lips peeling back to expose razor-sharp white teeth.

Romeo does not speak. He does not explain, nor does he apologize.

He simply walks to the head of the table, his heavy steps echoing with terrifying authority against the flagstones. He pulls out the massive, high-backed carved chair, but he does not sit alone.

He sits down, his long legs parting, and in one smooth, dominant motion, he catches my waist and lifts me onto his lap.

A collective, stunned silence sucks all the air out of the room.

I don't flinch. Danny O'Connor's blood runs through my veins, and the Messina name is sealed onto my hand. I settle sideways across Romeo's muscular thighs, draping my left arm over his broad shoulders, letting the heavy platinum and emerald ring glint openly under the torchlight.

Sofia walks forward and sits directly between Romeo's boots, facing the table like an ebony statue of death, her yellow eyes fixed on Don Russo, her low growl vibrating the floorboards.

Romeo's large, tattooed right hand settles over my bare thigh, fingers splaying wide, thumb caressing my skin with lazy, absolute possession. His left hand rests casually on the arm of the chair, right beside the butt of his holstered gun.

He leans back, crossing one ankle over the other, exuding raw power.

"You speak to my wife with respect, Russo," Romeo says, his voice a low, icy purr that chills the cellar faster than the mountain drafts. "Or you won't leave this mountain with a tongue in your mouth."

Russo's face purples with indignation. "This is Cosa Nostra business, Messina! Syndicate trade! Women do not sit at this table, especially an Irish woman whose father let the church run rampant in New York!"

"Iris is not a woman who sits at this table," Romeo replies coldly, his fingers tightening slightly on my thigh, pulling me closer against his chest. "She sits above it. She is Donna Messina. Her father's shipping lines belong to her, and by extension, they belong to this house. Anyone who wants access to the northern ports will negotiate through her authority."

I tilt my chin up, facing the direction of Russo's voice. Even through the dark lenses of my glasses, my scarred face radiates cold, untouchable defiance.

"Danny O'Connor isn’t in charge, Don Russo," I state clearly, my voice carrying the crisp, sharp edge of an O'Connor ruler. "If your Syracuse distributors want the pharmaceutical shipments cleared through Boston Harbor without being seized by my brother Jamie, the tariff is fifteen percent directly to the Messina family vault. Take it, or move your crates through the French rail lines and see how long your trucks survive the border."

Russo gapes at me, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish. The other capos around the table exchange quiet, uneasy glances, seeing the ruthless alignment between the Irish docks and the Sicilian throne.

Romeo's chest rumbles with deep, dark amusement behind my back. His lips brush against the shell of my ear, his breath hot and intoxicating.

"Such a ruthless little Donna," he whispers for my ears alone, his hand sliding higher up my thigh, his thumb brushing dangerously close to the lace of my panties. "You're making me hard in front of all these old men, Kitten."

"Keep your hands to yourself, husband," I whisper back, my fingers digging into his shoulder, fighting the heat pooling between my legs. "We have business to finish."

Russo swallows hard, his gaze dropping to Sofia, whose fangs remain bared, then to Romeo's stone-cold glare.

"Fifteen percent," Russo grates out reluctantly, lowering his head. "The Syracusa families agree."

Romeo smiles, slow, feral, and victorious.