Chapter 5 - A Glass of Spilled Chianti and the Venom of the Rossi Bloodline
"Well, well," Dante’s voice was smooth, oily, and dripping with condescending amusement. "I heard rumors that the great Don Moretti had finally found someone willing to sign the church register, but I had to drive from Milan to see the miracle with my own eyes."
He stepped further into the kitchen, his sharp eyes raking over me from head to toe, lingering with open disdain on my flour-covered apron and messy bun.
Behind him stood two armed bodyguards in leather jackets, their hands resting casually near their waistbands.
Luca’s entire posture transformed in a millisecond.
The gentle, teasing man who had wiped flour from my cheek vanished completely. In his place stood the lethal apex predator of Lombardy. Luca moved smoothly, positioning his massive frame directly between me and Dante, shielding me from the underboss's gaze like an impenetrable stone wall.
"You entered my home without an invitation, Dante," Luca said, his voice dropping into a terrifyingly low, guttural growl that made the copper pans above our heads rattle faintly. "Explain why you shouldn't leave this mountain in the trunk of a car."
Dante didn't flinch, though his eyes darted nervously to Luca’s broad back before recovering his arrogant smirk.
"Come now, cousin. Is that any way to treat family? I came to congratulate you on your... unconventional nuptials." Dante gestured toward me with a flick of his manicured hand. "An American commoner? A little baker from the slums of Chicago? Tell me, Luca, were the daughters of the Roman families too terrified of your monstrous frame that you had to import a charity case who doesn't even know which fork to use at a state dinner?"
The temperature in the kitchen plummeted to absolute zero.
Luca took a heavy step forward, his fists clenching with enough force to turn bone into dust. I saw the muscles in his back cord with lethal tension. If Luca struck Dante here, if he spilled blood on this marble floor without a formal council sanction, Dante’s faction would use it to declare Luca unhinged and seize the syndicate.
Elena’s warning echoed in my ears: He will make you his target. Stand beside him without flinching.
Before Luca could throw the punch that would spark a civil war, I stepped out from behind him.
"Excuse me," I said, my voice ringing clear, crisp, and completely devoid of fear.
Dante blinked, clearly surprised that the 'charity case' had dared to speak. "Yes, little girl?"
I picked up a tall glass of dark, full-bodied Chianti wine that the staff had left on the side prep station for cooking. I walked straight up to Dante, stopping just two feet from his immaculate burgundy suit.
"You must be Dante," I said with a bright, razor-sharp smile. "Luca told me about you. He said you were the cousin who spends all his time hiding in Milan boutiques because you lack the spine to run the docks yourself."
Dante’s face turned an ugly shade of crimson. "What did you say to me, you insolent—"
"Oops," I said cheerfully.
I tilted my wrist.
The entire glass of dark red wine cascaded down the front of his bespoke burgundy suit, soaking his silk tie, his white shirt, and his tailored trousers in a sticky, dripping mess.
Dante gasped, jumping backward with a shriek of outrage. "You clumsy little bitch! Do you have any idea how much this suit cost?!"
His lead bodyguard instinctively reached for his firearm beneath his leather jacket.
CLACK.
The sound of Luca racking the slide of a heavy black Beretta was deafening.
Luca had drawn the weapon from his waistband with blinding speed, the muzzle pressed firmly against the center of the bodyguard’s forehead before the man could even clear his holster.
"Draw that weapon in front of my wife," Luca whispered, his voice vibrating with pure, murderous promise, "and your brains will decorate my ceiling before your hand clears your jacket."
The bodyguard froze, his face draining of all color.
Luca didn't look at the guard; his icy grey eyes were locked onto Dante. "My wife is clumsy, Dante. She tends to spill things on trash that doesn't belong in our house. Now take your men, get off my mountain, and if you ever speak to Donna Moretti with disrespect again, I won't just ruin your suit. I will skin you alive."
Dante glared at me with pure, venomous hatred, his chest heaving under his wine-soaked shirt. "This isn't over, Luca. The Grand Syndicate Gala in Milan is this Saturday. Let us see how your little baker survives in front of the entire High Commission."
Dante spun on his heel and stormed out of the kitchen, his bodyguards trailing hastily behind him.
The heavy kitchen doors swung shut.
The room fell dead silent.
I stood there, holding the empty wine glass, my heart hammering like a machine gun against my ribs as the adrenaline finally caught up to me.
Luca lowered his weapon, clicking the safety back on. He turned slowly toward me, his towering frame casting a massive shadow across the island.
He stared down at me in absolute, thunderstruck disbelief.
Then, slowly, the corners of his eyes crinkled. A massive, deep, booming laugh tore from his chest—a laugh so full of joy and awe that it echoed all the way down the vaulted stone corridors of the estate.
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"Dio mio, Sophia," Luca laughed, shaking his head as he stepped toward me, wrapping his large hands around my waist and lifting me clean off the floor as if I were a child. "You are completely insane."
"I told you," I gasped, laughing as I held onto his broad shoulders, looking down into his glowing face. "Bakers know how to handle the heat."
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