Chapter 3 - THE PARIS MISTAKE
The morning sun broke over the Seine, casting a warm, golden light through the sheer linen curtains of the Four Seasons suite in Paris.
Dante Romano opened his eyes, stretching his long, muscular frame across the king-sized bed. He was thirty-two, dark-haired, with sharp Mediterranean features and a broad chest covered in faint, faded scars from his early years in the Brooklyn docks.
Beside him, Claire Bennett stirred, pulling the silk sheet over her shoulders and offering him a sleepy, radiant smile.
"Good morning, handsome," Claire purred, resting her head on his bare chest. "Did you sleep well?"
"Like a log," Dante muttered, running his fingers lazily through her blonde hair. "What time is it?"
"Nearly nine," Claire murmured, kissing his jaw. "We have that private yacht tour on the river at eleven, remember? You promised we’d pick up that Hermes coat on Avenue Montaigne first."
"Yeah, yeah. Whatever you want," Dante said smoothly, sliding out of bed.
He pulled on a black silk robe and walked over to the marble coffee table where his phone sat beside a silver tray of fresh croissants and espresso.
He picked up the phone and tapped the screen.
There were forty-two unread notifications.
Dante frowned. Usually, his underlings knew better than to bug him before noon when he was out of the country unless a turf war had broken out in Queens.
He opened his call log.
MISSED CALL — MARCO (12)
MISSED CALL — UNCLE SALVATORE (8)
MISSED CALL — ROMANO GROUP HEADQUARTERS (15)
URGENT EMAIL: BANK OF AMERICA PRIVATE WEALTH — ACCOUNT SUSPENSION NOTICE.
Dante’s brow furrowed deeper. He picked up his espresso cup, took a sip, and dialed Marco—his younger brother and right-hand enforcer in New York.
The call connected on the very first ring.
"DANTE!" Marco’s voice screamed into the receiver, ragged and frantic, background noise echoing like a panicked floor on the Wall Street stock exchange. "WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?!"
Dante’s eyes narrowed, his tone dropping into his signature, lethal growl. "Watch your tone, Marco. I’m in Paris handling business. What the hell is going on over there?"
"PARIS?!" Marco almost shrieked. "YOU’RE IN PARIS WITH THAT BLONDE BITCH WHILE OUR ENTIRE INFRASTRUCTURE IS BEING DISMANTLED?!"
Dante froze, his cup stopping halfway to his lips. "What are you talking about?"
"AT 6:00 A.M. THIS MORNING, THE VALE TRUST EXECUTED A FULL CAPITAL RECALL!" Marco screamed. "SERENA’S LAWYERS FILED EMERGENCY INJUNCTIONS IN MANHATTAN SUPREME COURT! THEY SEIZED THE DEEDS TO THE WALL STREET HEADQUARTERS, THE REDHOOK SHIPPING TERMINALS, AND THE LONG ISLAND DISTRIBUTION CENTERS!"
Dante let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "Is this a joke? Serena? Those properties are registered under Romano Group LLC!"
"THEY WERE LEASED FROM VALE REALTY HOLDINGS, DANTE!" Marco roared. "YOU SIGNED THE TEN-YEAR LEASE AGREEMENTS THREE YEARS AGO AS PART OF YOUR MARRIAGE CONTRACT! THE LEASES HAD A CONDITIONAL SEVERANCE CLAUSE! IF SERENA FILES FOR DIVORCE ON GROUNDS OF INFIDELITY OR ABANDONMENT, THE LEASES REVOKE AUTOMATICALLY WITH ZERO NOTICE!"
Dante’s hand went cold. The hot espresso cup trembled in his fingers.
"Divorce?" Dante stammered, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. "She... she filed for divorce?"
"NOT JUST DIVORCE!" Marco yelled. "THE BANK OF ZURICH JUST FROZE OUR THIRTY-MILLION-DOLLAR OPERATING CREDIT LINE! THE MARITIME AUTHORITY REVOKED OUR CONTAINER SHIPPING LICENSES IN NEW JERSEY! WE CAN'T MOVE CARGO! WE CAN'T PAY THE CAPOS! THE ENTIRE BOARD OF DIRECTORS IS SITTING IN THE LOBBY CRYING BECAUSE THE BUILDING SECURITY JUST LOCKED US OUT OF OUR OWN OFFICES!"
Dante’s chest tightened as if squeezed by a iron vise. He backed away from the breakfast table, his eyes darting frantically around the luxurious Paris suite.
"Where is she?" Dante demanded, his voice cracking with sudden, terrifying panic. "Where is Serena?!"
"SHE’S NOT AT THE PENTHOUSE!" Marco panted. "WE SENT GUYS TO CHECK! THE PENTHOUSE WAS CLEARED OUT BY 7:00 A.M.! HER CLOTHES, HER JEWELRY, HER CARS... GONE! DANTE... THERE WAS BLOOD ON THE LIVING ROOM FLOOR!"
Dante dropped his espresso cup.
The fine porcelain shattered against the hardwood floor, dark brown coffee splashing across his bare feet.
"Blood?" Dante whispered, his mind suddenly flashing back to the previous night.
To the fourteen missed calls.
To the frantic text message he had sent without even looking at his phone.
In a meeting. Call you later.
"Dante?" Claire asked, walking out of the bathroom wrapped in a white towel, looking at him with wide, confused eyes. "Is everything okay? What did the doctor say about the baby?"
Dante slowly turned his head to look at Claire.
May you like
His face was completely drained of color. The arrogance, the smug supreme confidence of Dante Romano—the undisputed king of the New York underworld—shattered into a thousand jagged pieces.
"The baby..." Dante breathed, his phone slipping from his fingers and thudding against the rug. "She was in labor..."
