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Chapter 3

The next day, I met a few old colleagues for a goodbye lunch.

Sofia insisted on a place near the Family offices—white tablecloths, too-bright lighting, the kind of restaurant that pretended it wasn't full of mob associates in disguise. I hadn't even finished taking off my coat when a familiar voice cut through the room.

"Well, look at that."

I turned and saw them—three women from my training cohort, the ones who had hated me since day one because my scholarship status might as well have been a target painted on my back. Lucia Greco sat at the bar with two others, all glossy hair and polished smiles, all from wealthy families.

"Elena Castellano," Lucia said, loud enough for nearby tables to hear. "The organization's resident prodigy. Still trying to get that Consigliere position?"

She widened her eyes in fake apology and tapped her own lips. "Oh, sorry. I forgot. You didn't get it. Again."

The two women beside her giggled—high, performative sounds meant to draw attention.

My friends tensed. Marco, an enforcer I'd trained with, half-rose from his seat.

"Don't," I said quietly.

Sofia's hand found mine under the table. "Ignore them, Elena."

But Lucia wasn't done.

"You know what's funny?" she continued, swirling her wine glass. "My cousin works on the Family Council. She said you were ranked first initially. But then—oops—some clerical error happened."

Her friends laughed harder.

"Must be frustrating," Lucia added, voice dripping with false sympathy. "Working so hard, only to have it handed to someone like Isabella Romano. Someone who actually fits the role. Someone who knows how to be a woman properly in this business."

One of them wiped a fake tear from her eye. "You think Dante Moretti is your fiancé? Honey, you're not even in his league."

Lucia tilted her head. "You couldn't even get chosen as his wife."

The table around us went quiet. Other associates were listening now, some with pity, some with cruel amusement. Sofia reached for my hand under the table, like she could anchor me.

Then Marco's eyes widened.

"Speak of the devil," he murmured.

I looked up.

Dante had walked in.

And of course—Isabella Romano was with him.

She was half a step behind him, close enough to be intimate, far enough to look innocent. Dante held the door for her, then guided her through the room as if he were escorting someone precious, his authority protective and possessive.

My friends sat up straighter like soldiers called to attention.

"You see?" Sofia said under her breath. "That's him. That's Dante."

She stood, ready to march over, her protective instinct bristling. "Let's go. Let's make them eat their words."

Lucia's group faltered for a split second, suddenly less confident. But then Dante stopped in the entryway, turned back, and reached for Isabella's hand.

He didn't just gesture. He took her hand, his larger one enveloping hers completely.

And then he walked her to a booth in the corner, leaned down to speak near her ear—close enough that his breath would stir her hair—and waited until she was seated before he sat beside her, his body angled toward hers like she was the center of his world.

The intimacy wasn't subtle. Every person in the room could sense it—the beginning threads of a bond forming, the future Don claiming his chosen woman.

Lucia's eyes lit up again, cruelly delighted.

"Oh," she breathed. "Isabella Romano. She's back in town."

Another added, "Now that makes sense. Power couple. An heir from the founding families and a perfect woman."

Lucia laughed, turning to me. "See? That's what 'matching' looks like, Elena. Not whatever fantasy you've been living in."

Their laughter drew Dante's attention. His gaze swept the room, landed on our table—and paused.

For a moment, his face tightened, something like discomfort crossing his features.

Then he leaned toward the restaurant manager and said something quietly.

Two minutes later, the manager approached us with a forced smile, his submission obvious in his posture.

"I'm so sorry," he said. "Mr. Moretti has reserved the restaurant for a private function. We'll have to ask everyone to relocate."

My friends went stiff.

Sofia stared, her voice barely a whisper. "He—he bought out the entire restaurant?"

The manager's smile stayed fixed. "Mr. Moretti wanted Miss Romano to have a quiet meal."

Associates began to gather their coats, confused and annoyed, casting glances toward Dante's booth. My friends hesitated, looking at me with sympathy they didn't know how to hide.

Lucia's group nearly collapsed laughing, their cruel amusement echoing through the emptying restaurant.

As the room emptied, I kept my head down, refusing to look across the space, refusing to give them the satisfaction.

But Lucia wouldn't let it end cleanly.

She stood and called out, bright and sharp, "Mr. Moretti!"

Dante looked up, his dark eyes meeting hers.

Lucia lifted her voice, theatrically sweet. "Quick question—this woman says she's your fiancée. Is that true?"

The room went completely still. Every remaining person froze.

Dante's eyes searched the crowd. Found me.

Isabella's fork clattered against her plate. She frowned, lips pursed, visibly displeased—like a queen whose dinner had been interrupted by a servant speaking out of turn.

Dante's face went unreadable. Then he spoke, cool and effortless, his authority making it impossible to question.

"I don't know her."

The words hit like ice water.

Lucia laughed so hard she had to bend forward. Someone raised a phone, camera pointed at me like a weapon, ready to capture the rejected woman's humiliation.

I didn't say a word.

I stood, picked up my coat, and walked out, something howling silently inside me, the unofficial bond shattering like glass.