Page 10 of Shadows of Steel
I keep my expression cold, my voice steady and unyielding. “I want a lawyer. And I want my phone call.”
He snorts, shaking his head like I’ve just said something ridiculous. “Oh, you have demands now? You think you’re special?” His lips curl into a sneer. “Let me make something clear, women like you should stick to playing dress-up, not pretending they belong in a fight they can’t win.”
I lean forward, mirroring his intensity. My voice is calm but cutting. “And men like you should stick to filing paperwork, not pretending they wield power.”
That silences him for a moment, but only briefly. His expression darkens, and a slow, mocking smirk stretches across his face as he reclines in his chair. “You really have no idea who you shot, do you?”
I hold his gaze, my silence unwavering.
“Did he die?” I ask finally, my voice cold.
His smile remains, but it’s devoid of warmth. “You don’t comprehend the magnitude of the mess you’ve created, principessa. And that fake ID we confiscated? Oh, we’re digging into it thoroughly. So brace yourself. This is just the beginning.”
He rises, adjusting his belt. “I’ve got a call to make.” He announces, pulling out his phone. He doesn’t bother to specify who he’s calling, but the glint in his eye makes it clear, it’s someone significant.
He walks out, leaving me alone in the blindingly bright room. I lean back in the chair, waiting. Whatever’s coming, I’ll face it.
I’ve faced worse.
Chapter 4
Dante
Control isn’t just what I strive for, it’s who I am.
It defines me.
Shapes me.
Fuels me.
As Capo di Capi, there’s no room for frailty, no tolerance for hesitation, and no forgiveness for failure. Power isn’t given, it’s taken, wrested from the hands of the weak. It’s forged in violence and tempered in betrayal, and I wear it like armour.
The Sicilian heat clings like a second skin, suffocating and oppressive, as I sit across from Giovanni Ricci, the Don of Palermo. His reputation is carved from loyalty, tradition, and silence. Noble qualities, perhaps. But nobility doesn’t win wars.
Me?
I don’t just break the rules, I obliterate them.
Ricci’s eyes are cold, calculating, as they bore into mine. He’s dissecting me, hunting for weakness, for some flaw he can exploit. I let him try. Men like him always think they’re in control, that their chessboard of loyalty and family gives them the upper hand.
I’ve learned to let them believe it.
Until it’s too late.
“Your reputation speaks volumes, Salvatore.” Ricci says, his voice steady, the kind of tone that implies he’s used to people hanging on his every word.
I lean back in my chair, my fingers tapping an idle rhythm against the armrest. It’s a subtle show of dominance, an unspoken reminder that I’m the one dictating the pace here. “Reputations are like smoke, Don Ricci. Easy to spread, but just as easy to blow away. What matters is who holds the fire.”
A flicker of amusement crosses his face, gone as quickly as it came. “And you believe yourself to be the one holding it?”
I smile darkly. “I don’t believe, Don Ricci. I know.”
The silence that follows is heavy, charged. It’s a game we’re playing, this dance of words and power, and I can already tell he doesn’t like how comfortable I am on his turf.
Good.
Discomfort breeds mistakes, and mistakes are where I thrive.
