Page 56 of The Wrong Mafia Bride
"Dante," the Don says, his voice cutting through the ambient conversation like a blade, "I hear your negotiations with Frank Lucas are not progressing as smoothly as anticipated."
Dante's fork pauses halfway to his mouth, and I see his jaw tighten fractionally. "We are making progress."
"Progress is not results." The Don takes a sip of his wine, the movement deliberate and unhurried. "Lucas has been stringing you along for two weeks now. Two weeks of meetings that lead nowhere."
"The groundwork is being laid," Dante says, and I can hear the strain creeping back into his voice, the careful control. "These things take time."
"Time we may not have." The Don cuts into his dessert with precise movements. "While you have been building groundwork, the Colombians have been making actual inroads in Harlem. But I suppose patience is a virtue, even when it costs us territory."
Several people around the table shift uncomfortably, but no one speaks.
"We have a plan," Dante says, his knuckles white around his fork. "Gabriel, Luca, and I have?—"
"Gabriel and Luca," the Don interrupts, and there is something cruel in his smile now. "Yes, let us talk about them. It seems they are carrying most of the weight in these negotiations. Gabriel in particular has been instrumental in establishing connections with Lucas's lieutenants."
"We are working as a team," Dante says tightly.
"Are you? Or are they doing the real work while you play at being a leader?" The Don leans back in his chair, studying his son like he is a disappointing investment. "Perhaps I should put Gabriel in charge of the Lucas situation entirely. At least he knows how to close a deal."
Dante's hands curl into fists on the table, and I can see him struggling to maintain his composure, to swallow whatever response is burning in his throat.
"And then there is the matter of the Harlem distribution network," the Don continues, warming to his subject. "The plan you submitted last week was... adequate. Barely. But it lacked the kind of strategic thinking I would expect from someone who is supposed to be ready to lead this family."
"The plan was solid," Dante says through gritted teeth.
"The plan was pedestrian." The Don waves his hand dismissively. "Anyone could have come up with it. Where is the innovation? The boldness? The vision that separates a leader from a follower?"
Alessandra places her hand on her husband's arm. "Giovanni, perhaps this conversation is better suited for?—"
"This conversation is perfectly suited for right now," the Don says, not even looking at her. "Our son needs to understand that running this family requires more than just good intentions and patience. It requires strength. Decisiveness. The ability to make hard choices without flinching."
"I am capable of making hard choices," Dante says, and his voice is strained now, barely controlled.
"Are you?" The Don leans forward, his eyes boring into Dante. "Because from where I sit, you have been soft your entire life. Too emotional. Too hesitant. Too much like your mother."
He says it like it is the worst insult he can imagine, and I see Alessandra flinch beside him, see the hurt flash across her face before she hides it behind a carefully neutral expression.
"You coddle your men," the Don continues relentlessly. "You seek consensus instead of commanding obedience. You hesitate when you should strike. These are not qualities of a leader, Dante. These are weaknesses."
"Giovanni—" Alessandra tries again.
"Quiet," he snaps at her, and she falls silent, her hands folding in her lap.
The table has gone absolutely silent now, everyone watching this public evisceration with the focused attention of spectators at a gladiator match.
"Even this marriage," the Don says, gesturing to me dismissively. "You were supposed to secure an alliance with theIrish and instead you let Gabriel handle the negotiations while you played house with a girl who is not even the real princess."
Dante's face goes pale, then red, and I can see his hands shaking with the effort of not responding.
"The Irish made a fool of you," the Don says, his voice cold and cutting. "They sent you a substitute, a bodyguard playing dress-up, and you did not even notice until after the wedding. What does that say about your attention to detail? Your ability to lead?"
"The alliance still stands," Dante manages, his voice barely above a whisper.
"By accident, not design. By luck, not skill." The Don shakes his head. "I have been patient with you, Dante. I have given you opportunity after opportunity to prove yourself worthy of leading this family. And at every turn, you disappoint me."
Something in Dante's expression shatters, and I can see it—the moment he gives up defending himself, the moment he accepts his father's assessment as truth.
And I cannot stand it.
