Page 19 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince
We rise in silence, and I catch my reflection in the gold of the elevator doors.
I look exactly as I should.
The conference room is on the thirty-fourth floor, lined with floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a sweeping view of the port.
The table is a wide slab of dark walnut, unadorned but for a tray of fresh espresso, still steaming, and an array of delicate pasticcini, some filled with blood orange, others with pistachio cream.
I select one and place it on a porcelain plate, then pour myself an espresso, no sugar.
I sit at the head of the table, not the foot, and begin reviewing my notes again.
This is not just another quarterly review.
It never was.
On the surface, we are here to reaffirm terms: five shipping routes tied to Salvatore-licensed holding companies, two new investments in pharmaceutical logistics, one pending therestructuring of a shell company that needs to be disbanded quietly.
The real discussions, however, will hover beneath the numbers.
The Salvatores are tightening their grip, and this meeting is a test.
Of our efficiency.
Of our loyalty.
Of whether or not the Rossis will remain an asset or begin to look like a risk.
And now that Dante—not Marco, not even Valentina—has been sent to evaluate us, it means the Salvatores are shifting strategy.
Rafa wants me to flirt.
To soften the Salvatore prince, charm him into keeping our leash looser than the rest.
What he forgets is that men like Dante don't loosen leashes.
They like the pull.
They enjoy the choke.
So, I will not flirt.
I will offer efficiency and the illusion of invitation.
That is all.
What Dante chooses to make of it is his problem, not mine.
Time moves slowly in rooms like this.
Every tick of the clock is deliberate.
I review the dossiers again.
Our numbers are strong, cleaner than they have ever been, thanks to the systems I implemented after our last audit.
The customs records are reconciled, the port contacts paid.
There is no loose thread to tug—or so I tell myself.
