"Everyone Laughed When She Stepped Forward—Until the Mafia Boss Realized She Was Gifted

At 7:00 that evening, Dante walked into Campagnola, an upscale Italian restaurant on First Avenue.

The dining room was filled with the low hum of conversation, the clinking of heavy silver against china, and the scent of roasted garlic and veal reduction. At a corner table near the rear, Victor Romano sat alone, reading the evening edition of the *Post*.

When Victor saw Dante enter, he immediately folded the newspaper and stood up, offering both hands in a warm, fraternal gesture.

“Dante,” Victor said, his smile broadening. “You look much better. The fever passed?”

“The fever passed,” Dante said, taking the seat opposite him. He did not shake Victor’s hands; instead, he draped his dark wool overcoat over the back of the chair.

A waiter appeared instantly with a bottle of Barolo. Dante waved it away, asking for sparkling water with lemon.

“I spoke with Chicago,” Victor said, leaning in across the white tablecloth. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur. “They were furious about the delay, Dante. Duca thought you were showing disrespect. I had to spend forty minutes smoothing his feathers.”

“I appreciate that, Victor,” Dante said smoothly. “You have always been the bridge between my father’s generation and mine.”

Victor’s eyes flickered with satisfaction. He reached for his breadstick, snapping it in half. “It’s about balance, Dante. Your father understood that power is like oil—too much pressure on the line, and the pipes burst. We need this Thursday meeting to go off without an incident. We settle the dock distribution, we divide the cartage routes in Queens, and everyone goes home rich.”

“And the tie?” Dante asked casually.

Victor froze for a fraction of a second, the breadstick halfway to his mouth. “The tie?”

“You told me this morning I looked strange without the black silk,” Dante said, fixing his gaze on Victor’s face. He watched the man’s eyes carefully. As Lily had noted, the skin around the corners did not crinkle. The smile was mechanical.

“Ah,” Victor laughed, shaking his head. “A matter of tradition, that's all. Your father always wore black silk to a summit. He said it reminded the other families of a funeral—theirs, if they broke faith.”

“A wise man,” Dante agreed. “I ordered three more from Falcone this afternoon. Giuseppe said he would have them delivered to Mott Street by eight-thirty Thursday morning. I will put one on before the meeting starts.”

Victor took a slow sip of his wine. Dante watched his right index finger tap the base of the crystal goblet twice.