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The boss didn't blink. He reached out, his ink-stained fingers brushing the loose strands of hair away from my forehead, his touch terrifyingly gentle yet completely immovable. "A ghost doesn't know her own reflection, maybe," he murmured, his breath hot against my temple. "Look at the corner of your left eye. The faint crescent scar. My wife got it falling off a horse in Sicily when she was twelve. You have it, too. Down to the millimeter." / Chapter 22 / 39

Chapter 23 - Dinner with the EnemyThe dining hall of the Moretti estate was lit by the soft, golden glow of three massive crystal chandeliers. Long tables draped in white silk reflected the silverware and crystal wine glasses, creating an atmosphere of elegant, terrifying formality.

At precisely 8:00 PM, the heavy mahogany doors swung open.

Senator Julian Vance entered flanked by two silent, impeccably dressed security operatives. Julian looked remarkably like his deceased brother—same sharp cheekbones, same cold, calculating eyes—but where Viktor radiated violent chaos, Julian projected icy, aristocratic control. He wore a charcoal bespoke suit, a silver lapel pin shaped like a serpent subtly glinting under the lights.

"Dante Moretti," Julian said smoothly, stepping forward with an outstretched hand, though his smile didn't reach his eyes. "And you must be Mara. The legendary waitress who turned a mafia empire upside down."

Dante didn't take the hand. He simply gestured to the seat across from us. "Senator Vance. You've flown a long way for a social call. Let's skip the pleasantries. Why are you in my house?"

Julian wasn't fazed in the least. He calmly pulled out his chair, sat down, and folded his hands neatly on the table. "Direct. I appreciate that, Dante. But I'm not here as an enemy. I'm here as a businessman offering a mutually beneficial arrangement."

"Go on," I said, leaning forward, resting my elbows on the table, studying him the way my mother used to study financial statements—looking for the hidden trap.

"My brother Viktor was a hothead," Julian said smoothly, accepting a glass of wine poured by a silent butler. "He lacked vision. He saw the Moretti syndicate as a rival to be crushed. I see you as a partner. The European High Council is restructuring its maritime trade lanes. We need stability in this region. If the Moretti family guarantees safe passage for our shipping contracts, the Council will officially recognize your territories and clear all pending federal investigations against your holdings."

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Katherine sat in her parked car outside their suburban home, the engine idling while the dashboard clock blinked red. The digital photo on her phone—captured with ruthless clarity at the wine bar—glowed in the dark cabin. Her husband, Reginald, laughing under warm pendant lights while a woman with striking red hair stroked his forearm.

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