Elena Moretti POV:
I placed the report card on the table, taking a sip of my hot tea.
"The winter this year feels exceptionally warm, doesn't it?" I said to the empty room.
The heavy oak door swung open. Dante walked in, carrying a fresh porcelain teapot. The steam curled into the air, carrying the rich scent of black tea and bergamot.
"It is warm," Dante said, his deep voice sliding over my skin like heavy velvet. "Because I burned down everything that ever made you cold."
He walked to my chair and handed me a fresh cup. I took it. My fingertips brushed against the thick, rough calluses on his palm. A jolt of pure, steady heat traveled up my arm, settling right in the center of my chest.
Dante sat down beside me. His large frame took up most of the space on the loveseat. He wrapped a heavy arm around my shoulders, pulling me flush against his side. He leaned over, his blue eyes scanning the perfect marks on Leo's kindergarten report card.
I rested my head against his solid chest. I listened to the slow, powerful thud of his heartbeat.
"He needs to learn Russian next," I murmured, my voice completely relaxed. "And maybe we start him on basic encryption by the time he's seven. The world is changing, Dante."
Dante pressed a firm, lingering kiss to the crown of my head.
"He will learn whatever you want him to learn," Dante said. "I will give him the world. And I will kill anyone who tries to take it from him."
I looked up. The ruthless, cold light of the Reaper flashed in his eyes. It was the look that terrified New York, but to me, it was the ultimate blanket of security.
I smiled and looked back at the fireplace. The flames suddenly leaped higher, roaring in the stone hearth.
The heat washed over my face. The hands on the grandfather clock in the corner began to tick louder. The sound echoed in my ears, speeding up, spinning the quiet afternoon into a relentless blur of time.
The firelight morphed into the harsh, blinding fluorescent lights of the NASDAQ trading floor.
I sat in a high-backed leather chair in the center of the room. The giant screens above me flashed red and green, numbers ticking upward at a dizzying speed.
A terrified Wall Street executive rushed over, his hands shaking as he handed me a thick stack of M&A agreements.
I didn't look at him. I took my pen and slashed my signature across the bottom line. With that single stroke, I swallowed the last remaining legitimate assets of the Corsican mafia.
Dante stood behind me, his hand resting heavily on my shoulder. I pulled the pure gold Syndicate seal from my pocket and pressed it into the hot red wax on the final page.
A deafening, metallic bell rang out across the trading floor. The crowd erupted into cheers. The Moretti empire was completely, legally untouchable.
The bell faded into the sharp, aggressive crack of skin hitting leather.
The calendar pages ripped away in my mind, dropping me eighteen years into the future.
I stood on the second-floor observation deck of the Long Island estate's underground training facility. The air smelled of sweat, chalk, and raw aggression.
Down on the mats, my eighteen-year-old son moved like a predator.
Leo ducked a vicious jab from the head combat instructor. The punch sliced through the air, missing Leo's jaw by a fraction of an inch. Leo didn't even blink. He had inherited his father's terrifying combat instincts.
The instructor pivoted, launching a brutal leg sweep.
Leo's eyes darkened. He didn't dodge. He dropped his stance and slammed his forearm down to block the kick.
A dull, heavy thud echoed through the massive room.
The massive recoil sent the instructor stumbling backward. Leo didn't hesitate. He used the momentum, spinning on his heel, and launched a devastating roundhouse kick straight into the instructor's face.
The man crashed to the mat. He groaned, clutching his bleeding nose, looking up at the new heir with absolute, trembling awe.
Leo stood over him, his chest heaving slightly. He reached up with his teeth, pulled the velcro strap on his boxing gloves, and tossed them onto the mat. Sweat dripped from his sharp, razor-cut jawline.
He tilted his head back. His dark, piercing eyes locked onto mine through the bulletproof glass.
I stood perfectly still, looking down at him. A slow, deeply satisfied smile curved my lips.
A warm chest pressed against my back. Dante stepped out of the shadows, his arm sliding naturally around my waist. He rested his chin on my shoulder, looking down at the monster we had created.
Down below, Leo gave a slight, respectful bow toward the second floor. Then he turned and walked into the locker room. The heavy steel door slammed shut behind him. His retreating back radiated pure, suffocating oppression.
"He has grown into something terrifying," I said softly, watching the empty doorway.
Dante's fingers dug into my hip. He reached up, pinching my chin and forcing me to look at him.
"He is strong like me," Dante corrected, his voice a low, possessive rumble. "But he is cunning like you. That is what makes him terrifying."
I laughed. I swatted his hand away from my face and turned toward the spiral staircase.
Dante followed immediately. He caught my hand, intertwining our fingers tightly. We walked up the stairs, our footsteps echoing in perfect unison.
We stepped into the main corridor. The walls were lined with massive oil paintings of the past Moretti Dons. Cold, dead men who ruled with bullets and blood.
We walked to the very end of the hall. Under a glittering crystal chandelier hung a massive, empty gold frame.
I stopped. I pulled my hand from Dante's and reached out. My fingertips traced the carved edges of the blank canvas. My chest tightened with a strange, heavy emotion.
Years ago, I was the discarded trash of Chicago. I was the unaccepted outsider, the woman they thought they could break. Now, I held the pen that wrote their history.
Dante stepped up behind me. He wrapped both arms around my waist, pulling my back flush against his chest.
"Tomorrow night," Dante whispered against my ear, his breath hot on my skin. "That frame will be filled."
Footsteps hurried down the hall. My assistant stopped three feet away, bowing his head respectfully.
"Boss," he said, holding out a thick leather folder. "The final guest list for the coming-of-age ceremony tomorrow."
I took the folder. I flipped it open. My eyes scanned the rows of printed names. I saw the names of the old New York elders. I saw the names of the Chicago remnants. The men who had laughed at me, the men who had tried to kill me.
Now, they were begging for a seat at my table.
I snapped the folder shut and tossed it back into the assistant's chest. He scrambled to catch it.
"Let them come and bow."
