Dante: A Dark Mafia Romance Novel

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 | 𝐒𝐈𝐗

𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐄

La Rosa Nera was filled with the scent of aged wine and simmering garlic, but tonight, it might as well have been blood. The air was thick, the kind of quiet that made men sweat, made their fingers twitch toward holsters.

Antonio and Dominic flanked me as we entered, our steps slow, deliberate. Unrushed. Because men in our position never hurried—we let the world wait for us.

Antonio, older, his grizzled face lined with experience and loyalty. Dominic, lean and sharp-eyed, his gaze scanning the room with the restless precision of a man who expected a fight before dessert.

Toshiko Zhao sat across from me, a frail, smirking skeleton wrapped in an expensive suit. His smugness was the real insult. The way he leaned back, at ease, his fingers folded neatly in his lap, like he had all the time in the world. Like he hadn't deliberately pissed me off by poisoning my supply, by dangling a fucking rat in my own organisation like a trophy.

Sitting at the table, his bodyguards a wall of muscle behind him, their faces unreadable, their hands never straying far from their weapons. But Zhao? He didn't hide behind strength—he hid behind calculation. Thin, wiry, his frame draped in a silk suit that fit too loosely on his bones. His hair was streaked with gray, slicked back, but his eyes? 

Those were sharp as ever. Dark. Watchful. The kind of gaze that didn't just see—it measured.

Weighed. Waited.

"Toshiko," I greeted, my voice smooth, edged with steel. "I appreciate you making the time."

Zhao inclined his head, that ever-present, smug smile tugging at his lips. "Dante," he drawled, voice low and unhurried. "It's not every day one gets an invitation from the great Cosatti family." A pause. Then, a tilt of his head. "Correction-future head."

A deliberate challenge. A reminder that my father still sat at the top. That the title wasn't yet mine.

My jaw ticked. My fingers twitched against the armrest, itching to break that smile clean off his face.

The weight of generations of rivalry thickened the air, curling between us like smoke, coiling and constricting. The walls of La Rosa Nera had heard stories of war whispered over wine, had witnessed centuries of quiet negotiations, of broken truces, of blood spilled in retaliation for words spoken at this very table.

Tonight was no different.

The only sounds were the occasional clink of silverware, the muted footsteps of servers moving between us, pouring wine, setting down plates of antipasti with the kind of careful silence only men in our world understood. No interruptions. No distractions. 

I leaned back in my chair, casual, composed, fingers drumming lazily against the armrest. My gaze never left Zhao.

"Allow me to get to the point," I said, my tone brooking no argument. No space for small talk. No room for pleasantries. 

Zhao tilted his head slightly, his thin, smug grin barely concealed behind his glass of wine as he swirled the deep red liquid with practiced ease. The old bastard was enjoying this.

I studied him with an intensity that made even him shift slightly.

"What you pulled with my chemist," I began, my voice cutting through the silence like a blade. Clean. Sharp. Final. "Turning Ernesto was a bold move, but a messy one. I want to know why."

Zhao exhaled through his nose, a sound between mock amusement and something more calculated. His lips quirked at the edges, the ghost of a laugh threatening to break free.