Chapter 13 - The Crimson Legacy
Five years later.
The brass plaque on East Sixty-Eighth Street had been polished until it gleamed like gold in the morning sun. It no longer read Marchetti Matches.
It read: Varlli & Marchetti: Private Estates & Strategic Acquisitions.
Inside the sunlit corner office, Lena Varlli sat behind her mother’s mahogany desk, reviewing a portfolio of European vineyard acquisitions. The door swung open without a knock, and a pair of heavy, booted footsteps crossed the rug.
A pair of strong arms wrapped around her waist from behind, lifting her slightly out of her leather chair, while a familiar, cedarwood-scented face buried itself in the crook of her neck.
"You're late," Lena said, leaning back against Dante’s chest with a lazy, contented smile.
"I had to settle a dispute with the port authorities in Genoa," Dante murmured, his lips pressing a warm kiss against her collarbone. "They tried to raise our docking fees. I reminded them who owns the shipping lanes."
"And?"
"They lowered the rates by ten percent and sent a basket of Sicilian oranges as an apology." Dante turned her chair around so she was facing him. At forty-three, the mafia boss looked more lethal, more powerful, and more dangerous than ever—yet the dark shadows beneath his eyes were entirely gone, replaced by an anchor of absolute, unbreakable peace.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, black velvet jeweler's box, opening it with one hand. Inside rested a heavy, antique diamond ring shaped like a serpent biting its own tail—an ancient symbol of eternity.
"What is this for?" Lena asked, raising an eyebrow. "Our anniversary isn't for three months."
"It's not an anniversary gift," Dante said softly, sliding the ring onto her left ring finger above her wedding band. "It's a reminder. Sixty days changed everything, Lena. And I want another sixty years of you running my life into the ground."
May you like
Lena laughed, looping her arms around his neck and pulling him down until their lips met in a fierce, possessive, undeniable collision of fire and fate.
Outside the window, the Manhattan traffic roared past, unaware of the empire built in the dark, the secrets buried beneath marble floors, or the matchmaker who had walked into the lion's den and walked out owning the cage.
