Page 46 of Shadows of Steel
And yet…
She’s in my head, threading through my thoughts like a whispered curse. She’s unravelling me in ways I can’t afford, turning control into something fragile and slipping. I should be the one setting the rules, holding the power. But every time she looks at me with those storm-grey eyes, sharp as steel, I am the one who fractures first.
And that? That is a dangerous fucking thing.
The car slows as we approach the reception venue, Il Castello di Notte. An exclusive, high end restaurant, reserved entirely for tonight. Inside, power converges. Three of the most formidable families in the underworld gathered under one roof.
To some, it will be a symbol of strength.
To others, a declaration of war.
The car rolls to a smooth stop, the soft purr of the engine fading as our security shifts into position. The door swings open, and I step out first, the weight of the late afternoon pressing in, thick with the remnants of the day’s heat. The sun still lingers on the horizon, casting long shadows across the pavement, but it does little to cool the slow burn beneath my skin, the fire coiled tight in my veins, restless and untamed.
With a steady pace, I round the vehicle. When I reach for Harlow’s door, she lingers for a fleeting moment, barely perceptible, before her fingers slip into mine. The instant our skin connects, something knots in my chest. A sharp, unwelcome sensation.
My gaze drops to her hand, to the glint of gold against her skin, where the rings I placed now rest, an unspoken claim no one can challenge. Then to my own hand, the matching band, deceptively simple yet bearing a weight far greater than gold. The sight of them together stirs something dark and possessive in my chest, a satisfaction I refuse to name.
She’s mine. In every way that matters.
Harlow steps out of the car with effortless poise, the fabric of her gown whispering against the pavement. She moves beside me, spine straight, chin high, like she’s walking into battle, ready to fight even when the war is already lost. My gaze lowers, drawn to the bouquet resting in her grasp, pristine, refined. A stark illusion against the sharp wit and defiant fire burning in her eyes.
A slow, knowing smirk curves my lips, edged with something dangerously close to amusement.
“Calla lilies?” I drawl, my gaze flicking to the bouquet in her grasp. “I wouldn’t have taken you for someone who indulges in the illusion of innocence.”
Harlow meets my eyes without hesitation, her smirk a slow, knowing thing, sharp enough to cut. “I am anything but innocent, Dante. You’d do well to remember that.”
A low chuckle rumbles in my chest. “Oh, I never forget, leonessa. But let’s not deceive ourselves, you’re not as ruthless as you’d like me to believe.” I take a step closer, my voice dropping. “There’s a chasm between having claws and wielding them with precision. And you?” My gaze drags over her, lingering justlong enough to make my point. “You’re still in the process of refinement.”
Her expression flickers, eyes narrowing, but she pointedly steers the conversation back to her bouquet. “Don’t flatter yourself. I had no hand in orchestrating this spectacle.” She pauses, as if considering whether to say more, then exhales, her voice quieter, almost reluctant. “But if you must know, I find them rather striking. The hue. The rarity. There’s something singular about them, distinct, unforgettable. They’re swiftly becoming a preference of mine.”
Something sharp coils in my chest. Unfamiliar. Unwelcome.
And I fucking hate it.
I don’t know why the hell her words get under my skin, why the simple fact that she likes something makes me want to drown her in it. To see every goddamn room she walks into flooded with those flowers. To make sure she never has to settle for something chosen by another hand.
The thought is irrational. Infuriating.
Because that’s not in my nature. I have no inclination for such trivialities.
And yet, for reasons I refuse to acknowledge, the idea of her favourites suddenly matters. It lingers, an irritation, a thorn buried deep, festering beneath the surface.
Inside, the reception is already in motion, the air thick with low murmurs and laughter edged with calculation. Conversations laced with ambition, with carefully veiled threats. The scent of wealth and power clings to the room like expensive cologne, masking the rot beneath.
The Camorra. The Outfit. The Sicilian Mafia.
The Salvatores. The Morettis. The Riccis.
Three names. Three empires. Bound together in a pact sealed with vows and veiled threats.
And beyond them, vultures in tailored suits. Allies and parasites alike, waiting to see how this marriage shifts the balance of power. Watching. Judging.
Among them are the men who kneel to me, families bound by blood and fear, their loyalty not a choice but an expectation. Their presence here isn’t a gesture of goodwill. It’s an obligation. A silent reminder of who owns them.
All gathered under one roof.
The weight of their stares follows us as we step inside, the tension in the room coiling like a wire pulled too tight. Restraint barely leashed, tempers simmering beneath polished smiles. And they all know one thing, there is no middle ground. You stand with me, or you become nothing.
