Page 32 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince
"No," he says after a pause, and there’s something different in his voice now.
Less teasing, more assessing.
"But most women take longer to recover when I fuck them half-senseless."
I set the cup down with care and tap the stack of papers with my fingernail.
"Your approval doesn’t concern me. Your signature does."
He gives a small, short laugh, then leans against the edge of the table, watching me as I lay out the quarterly figures in three neat piles.
One for the cleared shipments.
One for the adjustments to the port taxes.
One for the pharmaceutical contract he came here to review.
The room smells of us now—salt and sex and sweat—and part of me is still humming from it.
But the larger part, the part that carried my family through collapse and clawed us back into relevance, is clear and alert.
"You’ll find the ports’ customs adjustments have been processed," I say. "Your cut has been increased by one percent, folded into the updated warehousing fees. Ferro’s men have been instructed to log those crates as medical textiles."
He takes the documents, eyes scanning the headers.
His fingers are steady, clean now, his sleeves rolled up just past his forearms.
There is nothing soft about him in this light. He reads quickly, flipping the pages with a sound like blades being drawn.
"And the south corridor?" he asks without looking up.
I slide the third stack toward him.
"Already cleared. The routes were rerouted through Rosetta Holdings two weeks ago. The shell is clean. Not even Valentina could trace it back to the Rossis."
He looks up then, something unreadable flickering across his face. "And why are you protecting yourself from Valentina?"
I meet his gaze squarely.
"Because Valentina taught me to. If you think she plays by anyone’s rules but her own, you’ve forgotten who holds the real leash in your family."
The silence that stretches between us now is not heavy.
It’s sharp, like barbed wire.
He studies me for a long beat, then reaches into his inner jacket pocket and pulls out a silver pen.
Clicks it once.
Signs the papers without hesitation.
"There," he says, handing them back. "You’ve proven your loyalty. Even after I had you dripping all over my walnut desk."
"I’m always loyal," I say unsmilingly. "But never foolish."
Dante grins then, looking a lot like a man who’s finally found someone worth playing the game with. "So, what comes next?" he asks.
I slide the signed documents into my leather folder and lock the clasp.
