Chapter 13 - Whispers in the Boardroom
The private dining room on the top floor of Manhattan’s most exclusive private club smelled faintly of aged scotch and mahogany. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city lights were just beginning to flicker to life against the darkening twilight sky, casting a golden glow over the sprawling metropolis.
Inside, however, the atmosphere was as cold as ice.
Dante sat at the head of a massive oval conference table, his fingers steepened beneath his chin as he stared silently at the three elderly men sitting opposite him. These were the remaining patriarchs of the old-guard families—men who controlled shipping lanes, financial institutions, and dockworkers' unions across the tri-state area. For decades, they had maintained an uneasy peace with the Moretti syndicate. Now, with Salvatore out of the picture, they were circling like sharks sensing blood in the water.
"Let's not pretend we don't know why we're here, Dante," muttered Arthur Vance—no relation to my father, though the shared surname had always been a bitter coincidence in the underworld. Arthur was a frail-looking man with silver hair and watery eyes, but his voice carried the calculated weight of a man who had survived half a century of betrayal and bloodshed. "Salvatore is gone, his assets are frozen, and the feds are tearing through his warehouses. But a vacuum in Manhattan creates instability. And instability is bad for business."
"My business is entirely stable, Arthur," Dante replied, his voice deceptively calm, carrying a quiet menace that made the older men subtly shift in their seats. "The docks are running on schedule. The distribution networks are secure. If you called this meeting to discuss market stability, you wasted your afternoon."
"It's not the docks we're worried about," interjected a heavier man named Morello, leaning forward and placing thick, age-spotted hands flat on the polished table. "It's the loose ends. Word has been leaking through the federal leaks that Julian Vance's daughter—the girl everyone thought died in Prague twenty-two years ago—is alive. And worse... she's currently living under your roof."
My name hung in the tense air of the room like a loaded weapon.
I was sitting outside in the adjacent antechamber, separated from the boardroom by a thick mahogany door with frosted glass panels, but through the heavy insulation, I could hear the murmur of their raised voices. Orion lay quietly at my feet, his massive head resting on his paws, though his ears twitched constantly, tracking every sound inside the room.
I took a slow, steadying breath, running my fingers through Orion's thick fur. I refused to cower in a corner. Dante had promised me protection, but I knew as well as anyone that my very existence represented a mythical key to encrypted offshore accounts that ruthless men had been hunting for decades. Even with Salvatore neutralized, scavengers were already trying to pick at the carcass of the past.
Inside the boardroom, Dante's response was swift and merciless.
"Keep my personal life out of your mouths," Dante said, his voice dropping an octave into a lethal register that cut through the room like a razor blade. "Olivia Marshall is under my direct protection. Anyone who looks at her sideways, let alone attempts to dig into her past, answers directly to me. Is that understood?"
A heavy, suffocating silence followed his words. For several long seconds, no one dared to breathe.
"We are only trying to protect the council's interests, Dante," Arthur said defensively, his voice trembling slightly. "If rival factions from Europe catch wind that the Vance heir is sitting right here in Manhattan, they won't care about your protection. They'll launch a war that will burn this city to the ground."
"Let them try," Dante replied flatly. "Let them come to Manhattan and test me. But I am warning you all right now—if I find out that any whisper of information regarding Olivia originated from within this room, there won't be a council left to negotiate with."
The chairs scraped loudly against the hardwood floor as the meeting abruptly adjourned. A moment later, the heavy mahogany door swung open, and the three patriarchs filed out, their faces pale, avoiding eye contact as they hurried past me toward the private elevators.
Dante remained inside, standing by the window with his back to the door, his broad shoulders tense beneath his suit jacket.
I stood up, signaling for Orion to stay, and quietly pushed the door open the rest of the way. I walked across the plush carpet until I was standing just behind him. Without a word, I slid my arms around his waist, pressing my cheek gently against his back.
Dante let out a long, shuddering breath, his hands coming up to cover mine where they rested against his chest.
"You heard them," he murmured quietly, his voice unusually vulnerable.
"I heard them," I whispered back. "They're terrified. And they should be."
"I brought you into this world, Olivia," Dante said, turning around slowly to face me, his gray eyes searching my face with an intensity that pierced right through me. "I wanted to keep you safe in the penthouse, away from the violence, away from the politics. But as long as your name carries the shadow of Julian Vance, enemies will keep coming out of the woodwork."
I looked up at him, my expression unwavering. I reached up, my fingers gently tracing the hard line of his jaw.
"I spent my whole life hiding from a ghost I didn't even know existed," I said softly. "Working double shifts, wondering why I always felt like someone was watching me. But I'm not running anymore, Dante. And I'm certainly not hiding behind closed doors. If these people want to come after me, they have to go through you—and through Orion."
At the sound of his name, the massive hound pushed his way past the open door, letting out a low, approving rumble as he sat right beside us.
May you like
A faint, grateful smile touched Dante's lips, and for a fleeting moment, the weight of the underworld seemed to lift from his shoulders. He pulled me against him, holding me as if he never intended to let go. But even as we stood there in the quiet sanctuary of the penthouse dining room, neither of us knew that the greatest threat wasn't coming from the old-guard patriarchs in Manhattan—it was already crossing the Atlantic, heading straight toward us.
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