Chapter 4 - Into the Lion’s Den
The private dining room at Il Falcone, an exclusive, members-only restaurant in lower Manhattan, was shrouded in velvet shadows and heavy security.
Outside, twenty of Dominic’s most ruthless enforcers locked down the perimeter. Inside, only four people occupied the massive mahogany table: Dominic, Clara, Salvatore Romano, and Romano’s nervous-looking legal counsel.
Salvatore Romano was an aging Sicilian patriarch with silver hair slicked straight back, cold, dead eyes like a shark, and diamond rings on every finger. When Dominic and Clara walked in, Romano’s gaze flicked immediately from Dominic to the woman on his arm.
Clara kept her posture immaculate. Her chin was up, her shoulders back, and her face wore a mask of serene, untouchable boredom—the exact expression she used when dealing with arrogant theater producers.
"Dominic," Romano rumbled, his voice like grinding stones, speaking in heavily accented English. "I heard rumors you finally settled down. I thought it was a joke. Men like us don't marry for love."
"I didn't marry for love, Salvatore," Dominic replied smoothly, pulling out a chair for Clara before taking his own seat beside her. He rested his hand casually on the back of her chair, his fingers brushing her shoulder with a surprisingly natural, proprietary warmth. "I married for stability. Meet my wife, Clara."
Romano’s cold eyes bored into Clara. He offered a thin, knife-like smile. "Signora Moretti. It is a rare privilege. Your husband is a very dangerous man. Aren't you afraid sharing a bed with a ghost?"
The table went completely silent. The legal counsel stopped breathing.
It was a direct, lethal provocation designed to test her nerves, to see if the fragile "society wife" would panic and look to her husband for rescue.
Clara didn't even blink.
She picked up her crystal water glass, took a slow, unhurried sip, and set it down with a soft clink. She turned her head, fixing Romano with a warm, pitying smile that mothers give to unruly toddlers.
"Mr. Romano," Clara said, her voice dripping with honeyed condescension. "If you lived with a man who reorganizes his entire criminal empire by color-coding spreadsheets and obsessing over dry-cleaning schedules, you wouldn't be afraid of ghosts either. You’d just be exhausted."
Dominic’s jaw twitched. He bit the inside of his cheek hard to keep from laughing out loud.
For one terrifying second, Romano stared at her. Then, the old Sicilian threw his head back and let out a booming, genuine laugh that rattled the crystal chandeliers.
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"Ah!" Romano slammed his palm on the table, pointing a diamond-ringed finger at Dominic. "You found a live one, Moretti! She has teeth! I like her!"
"She has many talents, Salvatore," Dominic replied smoothly, his eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and intense pride as he looked at Clara. "Now. Let’s talk about the shipping lanes."
