Page 62 of Ivory Legacy

The Bentleys…weren’t what I expected.

Richard towered over me, his stature imposing yet softened by the silver streaks running through his well-kept hair. He offered a firm handshake that spoke volumes of his character—strong, assured, but not without warmth.

“Good to see you, Dante,” Richard said with a nod. “Thank you for having us.”

“Of course,” I responded, stepping aside to let them into the lion’s den.

Kristin floated in behind her husband, her presence like a gentle wave washing over the room. Her eyes, a calm harbor, met mine with genuine kindness. “It’s a beautiful home you have,” she commented, her voice laced with sincerity.

“Thank you, Mrs. Bentley. I hope you’ll find it comfortable.”

As pleasantries gave way to the casual hum of conversation, Emily walked in from the kitchen.

Without Jade.

Emily wasn’t Jade, but I could clearly see the resemblance in their ice blue eyes and the color of her hair. Her smile was infectious, brightening the space as if the sun itself had walked in. She was followed closely by Tom, his demeanor relaxed, an easygoing counterpoint to Emily’s vibrancy. His skeptical gaze lingered on me just a beat too long, sizing me up like one of his audience members back in Nashville.

“Emily, Tom, good to see you both,” I greeted them, offering a handshake to Tom and a polite nod to Emily.

“Likewise, Dante,” Tom replied.

After we were done with introductions, we moved to the living room.

Laughter flirted with the clink of fine china and the soft murmur of jazz from the corner record player, casting a warm spell over my penthouse’s living room. I leaned against the mantle, nursing a tumbler of whiskey as Richard Bentley approached, his gaze sweeping appreciatively over the carefully curated art on the walls.

“Your collection is remarkable, Dante,” Richard said, gesturing to an abstract painting rich with dark, brooding colors. “Feels like there’s a story behind each piece.”

“Thanks, Richard.” I tilted my head, considering the canvas. “Art’s always been a refuge for me.”

Kristin Bentley, elegant as ever, joined our little circle, her eyes reflecting the soft light of dawn spilling through floor-to-ceiling windows. “And what about your own story, Dante? You mentioned you grew up in Little Italy?”

“Yeah, not that fun from here,” I replied, a wistful smile dancing briefly on my lips. “My childhood was steeped in tradition—family dinners, Sunday mass, and the kind of loyalty that runs deeper than blood.”

Jade was talking to her siblings, undoubtedly letting her parents size me up. It wasn’t too bad. I was a little nervous, but I thought I was doing well. They seemed to like me enough.

But then, amid the camaraderie, a sharp buzz cut through the conviviality. My hand tightened imperceptibly around my glass. The doorman. I could ignore it, let the moment linger undisturbed. But family—family was not so easily dismissed. I excused myself with a curt nod and strode toward the intercom.

And no one tried to buzz into my apartment unless they were family.

“Mr. Moretti?” came the doorman’s voice, a hint of urgency threading his words. “Your brother, Marco, is here.”

I hesitated, every instinct honed by years of leadership in the Moretti crime syndicate screaming to keep control of the situation. Marco was a tempest—charismatic but unpredictable, and his presence would shatter the fragile peace of this gathering.

“Let him up,” I said finally, pushing down the knot of tension in my gut. Returning to my guests, I plastered on a smile thatdidn’t quite reach my eyes. The warmth of the room had dimmed ever so slightly, the anticipation of Marco’s arrival hanging like a thick curtain, waiting to be drawn.

The smile faltered just slightly as I caught Jade’s questioning glance.

“Family matters,” I said by way of explanation, and her eyes softened with understanding—too much understanding.

When Marco burst into the room, the shift was immediate. The air seemed to get denser, the edges of the morning light sharpening like knives against the walls. He was a storm in human form, his energy clashing with the serene scene before him.

“Good morning! I didn’t know you had guests.” Marco announced with a grin that could disarm or terrify, depending on who you were. He was all charm, dressed in jeans that cost more than some people’s rent and a leather jacket that did nothing to hide the coiled strength beneath.

“Marco,” I greeted, keeping my tone level. His eyes, so much like mine yet filled with an untamed spark, flicked towards me. There was something there—a question, a challenge. I ignored it for now.

“Who’s this?” Tom asked, tipping his head towards my brother. The skepticism in his tone was barely hidden, but Marco just laughed it off.

“Marco Moretti, at your service.” He gave an exaggerated bow, and I could almost hear the room holding its breath.

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