Salvatore Moretti swallowed hard, his bravado instantly evaporating under the terrifying weight of Dante’s glare. He tried to force a nervous, lopsided smile, taking a half-step backward toward the door.

“Dante... come on, cousin,” Salvatore stammered, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “I was just... blowing off some steam. You know how these dock payouts stress me out. I didn't mean—”

“You mentioned the child,” Dante interrupted, his voice frighteningly calm, moving across the Persian rug with the silent, terrifying grace of a stalking predator.

“I was just joking! A figure of speech!” Salvatore protested, his voice pitching upward as Dante closed the distance between them.

In a fraction of a second, all pretense of family diplomacy vanished. Dante moved with blinding, explosive violence. He grabbed Salvatore by the silk lapels of his tuxedo jacket, hoisted him completely off his feet, and hurled him across the room with such force that Salvatore crashed straight through a low mahogany side table, splintering it into kindling against the wall.

Salvatore hit the floor with a sickening thud, gasping for air as blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

Dante stood over him, his chest heaving slightly, his dark eyes burning with cold, absolute fury. He drew a heavy, silver-plated Beretta from his shoulder holster, chambered a round with a sharp, metallic clack, and pressed the cold barrel directly against the center of Salvatore’s forehead.

“Listen to me very carefully, you pathetic piece of trash,” Dante whispered, every word dripping with lethal intent. “Clara Vance and her daughter are under my personal protection. They are my household. Anyone who threatens them—anyone who even looks at them with disrespect—dies before they hit the floor. Do I make myself crystal clear?”

Salvatore pressed his palms flat against the Persian rug, trembling from head to toe, tears of sheer terror springing to his eyes. “Y-Yes! Clear! Crystal clear, Dante! Please!”

Dante stared at him for another agonizing second before slowly lowering the gun, though he didn't uncock it. He stepped back, gesturing toward the shattered table with the barrel of his weapon.

“Get out of my house,” Dante ordered quietly. “Pack your bags, transfer your command of the southern docks to Marcus’s former deputy, and catch a flight to Miami tonight. If I ever see your face in Chicago again, I won't use a gun. I’ll let you choke on your own teeth.”

Salvatore didn't hesitate. He scrambled frantically to his feet, clutching his bruised ribs, and bolted out of the study without looking back, his footsteps echoing wildly down the marble corridor until the front heavy doors slammed shut.

Dante stood motionless in the center of the ruined study for a long moment, breathing slowly through his nose to steady his raging pulse.

Then, he lowered the Beretta, clicked the safety back on, and holstered it beneath his arm.

He slowly turned around to look at Clara.

Clara was standing rigidly behind her desk, her hands gripping the wooden edge so tightly her knuckles were translucent white. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, not just from fear of Salvatore, but from the terrifying realization of what Dante had just done for her. He had banished his own blood, his own syndicate captain, over a threat made against her and Ellie.

“Are you hurt?” Dante asked, his voice instantly softening as he walked toward her, discarding the terrifying persona of the mob boss in favor of the man who shared afternoon tea with a baby.

“No,” Clara whispered, her voice shaking. “I... I’m fine. But Dante... you just made an enemy of half the southern syndicate. Salvatore won't take this lying down.”

“Let him try,” Dante said coldly, stopping just a foot away from her desk. He looked down at her, his obsidian eyes searching her face with an intensity that made her breath catch. “Nobody touches what is mine, Clara. Nobody.”

The word hung in the air between them—mine.

It wasn't a claim of ownership like Marcus used to use; it was a sacred vow carved out of lead and iron.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, Dante reached out and placed his large, warm hand over her trembling fingers resting on the desk. His touch sent a sudden, electric jolt up her arm, melting away the lingering fear and replacing it with something entirely new, forbidden, and deeply overwhelming.

Clara didn't pull her hand away. Instead, she looked up into his dark, haunted eyes, realizing that the shadow she had stumbled into down in the basement wasn't a dungeon at all—it was the only safe harbor left in the world.