The Mafia Boss' Betrayal

Alliance Gala

Dante POV

Dante adjusted his cufflinks and stared at his reflection. Crisp tux, tailored to perfection. He looked like the man he was supposed to be. The man Gia would probably spit on right now.

It had been over a week since he’d seen her. Since she’d looked him in the eyes. Since she’d smiled—even if it was just to mock him.

She used to mock him all the time.

His mouth twitched at the memory of their first date. His father had wanted him to get married. But when he’d found out it was her he’d wanted to sabotage their date…

"Who is she?" Dante had asked, pouring himself a drink.

"I don't want to spill the beans just yet, son, but you won't be disappointed."

Dante snorted into his glass. He already was.

His father grinned. "Okay, fine. It's Gia Moretti."

Dante’s hand had frozen mid-sip. "Gia? As in Sophia's best friend?"

"Ah yes. But she's not a wild one like that De Luca girl."

No, she wasn’t wild. She was worse.

Gia Moretti was stuck-up. Opinionated. Always had something to complain about and an attitude sharp enough to slice through steel. And fine, sure—she was pretty. But that was it. All he ever saw her do on campus was eye-roll her way through the day like everyone was beneath her.

There was no way in hell he was marrying her.

"You should take her out this weekend. Charm her. Make her want the alliance," his father said. "Her father's all about free will, so you'll have to woo her. Show her the man you can be."

Dante had tried not to laugh.

Oh, he’d show her alright.

He remembered parking by the curb that morning, scrolling through his messages, and smirking at a very nude photo someone had sent him. Lydia—whatever her last name was—wanted to hook up, and Dante had every intention of making that happen after sabotaging his "date."

Egg ’n’ Go was the kind of place you went to if you hated yourself or had exactly $3. He dressed down just enough to annoy her—joggers, loud shirt, maybe even a baseball cap if he’d really committed.

But when he walked in? No Gia.

No long black waves. No sunglasses. Nothing.

He texted her: Ciao Gia, where are you? Did you leave because I was late? I’m sorry.

She replied: I had other plans.

Her location pinged from across the street. Of course. Of course she was sipping a $12 espresso at some bougie café. Probably laughing at him.

He’d stormed across the street with murder in his heart, only to find her seated like a queen—legs crossed, sunglasses on, latte untouched.

"Interesting other plans," he had drawled.

She didn’t look up. "You were late."

"You weren’t there."

"Exactly."

He remembered wanting to strangle her and kiss her all at once.

And when she walked off without warning, he’d followed like an i***t. She’d insulted his shirt, his cologne, his ego—and he still couldn’t stop.

The car door. The kiss. Her mouth, her laugh, the taste of her coffee on his tongue.

And then Lydia had shown up unexpectedly. Gia hadn’t missed a beat.

"He’s taken," she had said.

And then she kissed him like she meant it.

Now, standing in front of the mirror, he ran a hand through his hair and muttered under his breath.

"Yeah. I’m fucked."

Tonight’s party was going to be hell. Especially if she was there.

“Are you ready, mi amore?” Isabella asked from the doorway.

Tonight was a big night. A night for power plays disguised as casual party chatter. The Russo family—a neutral and respected mafia bloodline known for diplomacy and old-school tradition—was hosting their annual Alliance Gala. Once a year, all the major mafia families and trusted allies gathered under one roof to reinforce peace, review trade agreements, and posture like it was still the 1950s.

Everyone would be there. The De Lucas. The Morettis. The Mancinis... Every generation was welcome.

Well—everyone except for small children and anyone dumb enough to forget how dangerous a room like that could be.

Leaving Aria with the babysitter, Dante led Isabella to the car, opened her door, and slid into the driver’s seat with a heavy sigh. His fingers gripped the steering wheel as his mind spiraled.

Would Gia be there tonight?

And if she was… would Leo be parading her around like a trophy?

A twinge of regret hit him. He wouldn’t be seeing Luca. Wouldn’t get to look his son in the eyes or hear his voice. Tonight was about suits and masks and pretending. There was no room for softness at an event like this.

Beside him, Isabella droned on about her dress—something about how it cost more than most people’s mortgages. She bragged, as she always did, about being the most beautiful woman at the gala.

Dante didn’t respond. His mind was miles away. The Costas might be there tonight.

If they were, it would be the first time.

The Russo family had never extended an invitation before—not until the Costas grew too big, too rich, too powerful to ignore.

And now, they were climbing out of the shadows and into the light.

After the valet pulled away with their car, Dante and Isabella stepped into the grand hall, greeted by the low hum of laughter, clinking glasses, and the subtle tension that always accompanied a room full of criminals in designer suits.

Dante’s eyes swept the crowd instinctively, already searching—but before he could get far, Vincenzo Russo appeared with a wide smile, extending a hand.

“Dante,” he boomed. “Welcome. You clean up well, son.”

“Only for you, sir,” Dante replied smoothly, shaking his hand.

And then came the endless parade—family after family stepping forward to greet him. Dante smiled, nodded, exchanged pleasantries. But his eyes never lingered on any one man for too long—Until he saw her.

Gia.

She moved through the crowd like all elegance and grace, her arm looped through Leonardo Costa’s, who was greeting everyone as if he’d known them for years. He hadn’t seen Dante yet, but they were approaching—fast.

Gia looked devastatingly beautiful.

But that dress? It was far too revealing for anything she would ever choose. Dante was sure of it.

His jaw tightened. She didn’t choose it. He knew it. Knew Leo had picked it. Knew she was wearing it like armor.

“There’s Olivia,” Isabella suddenly said, adjusting her earring. “I can’t wait to tell her my dress cost more than her entire house.”

Before Dante could respond, she had already peeled away into the crowd, heels clicking against marble as she zeroed in on her next victim.

Dante exhaled. Alone. Just long enough for trouble to find him.

“Dante Mancini, we meet at last,” Leonardo appeared in front of him, a sly smirk on his face, “you must have heard of me before. Leonardo Costa, and this here, is my lovely wife, Gia,” Leonardo pushed her forward, his eyes never leaving Dante’s.

It was a power play, and Dante knew it. Leonardo must know about Gia and Dante’s history. He was testing them—daring Dante to say something.

Dante smiled slowly. “Of course. I’ve heard your name mentioned a few times.” His voice was smooth. Polished. Lethal under the surface. Then he looked at Gia. Really looked at her—and offered his hand.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Costa.”

Gia hesitated, just a fraction. But her hand slid into his. Dante bent low, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. Not rushed. Not exaggerated. Just enough for Leo to notice the lingering.

“You look…” His eyes swept the dress again. “Stunning.”

Her hand twitched in his. Whether from discomfort or memory, he didn’t know.

“Don’t you think she looks stunning, Leonardo?” Dante asked casually, still holding her hand. Leo’s smirk didn’t falter, but Dante saw it—the flicker. A tightening around the mouth. A warning glint in his eyes.

“She always does,” Leo said. “Especially when she’s mine.”

The two men held each others gazes for a moment longer, before someone else caught Leonardo’s attention.

Leo led Gia away, and Dante's eyes tracked her like a man possessed.

She smiled at all the right people. Laughed when she should. But he could see it—the stiffness in her shoulders, the tight grip on her clutch. She was performing.

That dress was still burned into his brain. Not her color. Not her style. It showed too much skin and too little soul. Gia never would've picked it for herself.

She hadn’t looked at him since the introduction. Not once.

“Dante!” Isabella’s voice rang out behind him, far too loud for the space they were in.

He turned as she waved from across the hall, holding up a glass of champagne and laughing at something one of the wives had said. She looked gorgeous—dramatic gown, diamonds in her ears—but her laugh was too sharp. Her gestures too big. She was drawing attention, again.

People turned. Watching. Judging.

But Dante didn’t care. All he saw was her. Gia.

“Stop staring,” a voice said at his shoulder. “You’re going to start rumors.” Dante didn’t have to look to know it was Dario.

He appeared with a drink in one hand, his bowtie already undone, a lazy smirk on his face.

“You’re late,” Dante muttered.

“I brought charm. That makes up for it.” Dario turned his attention toward the crowd—scanning casually, until his gaze caught.

He stilled. Then gave a low whistle. “Madre Madonna… who’s that?”

Dante followed his line of sight.

Standing beside Nico De Luca was a young woman in emerald green satin, her hair glossy and loose, skin glowing under the chandeliers. Elegant, graceful—and unmistakably young.

Madeline De Luca. Sophia’s baby sister.

“That’s Maddie,” Dante said.

“Holy s**t, that’s little Madeline De Luca?! She sure has grown. I mean, will you look at those—”

“Don’t,” Dante snapped. Dario was twenty-five, but he still acted as if he was in college, sleeping with everything that moved.

Dario didn’t even blink. “You say that like it’s a challenge.”

“It’s not a challenge,” came another voice, sharp and low. “It’s a warning.”

Alessandro Ricci. He stepped up beside them, glass in hand, eyes fixed on Dario. “She’s only nineteen, my sister-in-law…and off-limits.”

Dario tilted his head, amused. “You married Sophia when she was nineteen. And look how good that’s going.”

Alessandro’s jaw flexed, but he smirked. “You want to marry her, huh?”

Dario scoffed. “I didn’t say that.”

“Because if you do, that means asking Matteo De Luca for her hand.”

Dario’s smirk faltered.

Alessandro raised his glass in a mock toast. “Good luck surviving that conversation.”

Dario’s eyes flickered to Madeline again, slowly taking her in—and knowing Dario, when he saw something he wanted—he went for it.

Isabella POV

The politics bored her.

Endless small talk, backhanded compliments, old men with fat cigars and wandering eyes—it was all noise. She didn’t come for this. She came to be seen.

To remind everyone who she was.

She ordered another glass of champagne at the bar, her third—or fourth?—and let the cold bubbles cool the heat building behind her temples. The dress was stunning. The diamonds were real. And yet…

Across the room, she spotted him.

Her husband. Staring at her.

Gia.

Not even trying to hide it. His whole body leaned toward her like a compass pulled north. Even after all these years… he still didn’t look at her the way he’d always looked at Gia. Isabella’s chest tightened, but she forced a smile to her lips and laughed at something no one had said.

“Another drink?” the bartender asked.

“Why not,” she replied, lifting her glass. “It’s a celebration, isn’t it?”

A new glass slid into her hand. And then—A presence at her side.

Leo.

He didn’t look at her. Just stared ahead at the mirrored bar, smiling like a man who already knew the ending. “You wear his name like it protects you,” he said, voice smooth and soft. “But you and I both know what you are underneath it.”

He paused, his voice dipping lower. “And here I thought I’d never see you again. That you’d keep hiding.”

Isabella froze. Slowly, she turned. Her face was blank. Her spine straight.

“I’m a Mancini now,” she said. “You can’t hurt me ever again.”

“You sure about that, Isa?”

Her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass, but she didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

He walked away without another word.

But her hands were still trembling. He doesn’t know, she told herself. He can’t know.

Because if Leo ever found out the truth—

He wouldn’t just come for her.