The Chefs Obsessive Don

The Wolves at the Feast

By noon, I had tried on seven dresses.

Dante's staff had arrived at the fortress with armfuls of garments silk and velvet, lace and linen, colors ranging from blood red to midnight black. A woman named Signora Conti, silver-haired and sharp-eyed, had taken my measurements without asking permission and proceeded to dress me like a doll.

"The Don is particular," she said, holding up a gown the color of burnt amber. "He wants you to shine, but not to blind. To intimidate, but not to threaten."

"I don't need a dress to intimidate," I muttered.

Signora Conti's lips twitched. "No. I don't suppose you do."

We settled on a gown of deep emerald silk, sleeveless, with a neckline that plunged between my breasts and a skirt that flowed like water to the floor. It was the most expensive thing I had ever worn. It made me feel like a queen.

Or a weapon.

Dante came to find me as Signora Conti was fastening the last hook. He stood in the doorway of the bedroom, still in his shirtsleeves, his tie loose around his neck. His eyes traveled over me slowly, from the exposed curve of my shoulders to the slit in the skirt that showed a flash of thigh.

"Signora Conti," he said, his voice rough. "Leave us."

The older woman smiled a knowing, ancient smile and slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Dante crossed to me in three strides. His hands settled on my bare shoulders, warm and calloused, and he pulled me against him.

"You are trying to kill me," he said.

"Should I change?"

"No." He kissed my forehead, my cheek, the corner of my mouth. "You should let me take this dress off you. Slowly. With my teeth."

My breath caught. "The dinner”

"Can wait." His hands slid down my back, over the silk, cupping my backside. "You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, Sofia. And I am going to spend the rest of my life proving it to you."

He kissed me then—deep and thorough—and I forgot about the dinner, the capos, the wolves waiting in the hall. There was only his mouth, his hands, the hard length of him pressing against my hip.

But when his fingers found the zipper of the dress, I caught his wrist.

"Tonight," I said, pulling back. "After. You promised me a room full of wolves. I want to see them. I want them to see me."

His eyes darkened. "You're enjoying this."

"Maybe." I straightened his tie, smoothing the silk. "Or maybe I just like the idea of every man in that room knowing that you're mine."

He stared at me for a long moment. Then he laughed that rare, surprised sound that I had already come to crave.

"God help me," he said. "I've created a monster."

"No." I rose on my toes and kissed his jaw. "You've unleashed one."

Dante’s POV

The dining room had been transformed.

My men and their wives filled the long table forty chairs, each one occupied by a soldier or a strategist, a consigliere or a capo. They had come from Palermo and Catania, from Messina and Agrigento. They had come to see the woman who had captured their Don's heart.

And to decide whether she was a weakness to be exploited or a strength to be respected.

I stood at the head of the table, my hand resting on the back of the empty chair beside me. Sofia was not yet in the room. I had sent Enzo to fetch her, to give her a moment to compose herself, to remind her that she could still walk away.

I hoped she wouldn't.

"Don Gallo." The voice belonged to Franco Rizzuto, my oldest capo, a man who had served my father and my grandfather before me. His eyes were shrewd, his mouth set in a hard line. "We heard you had a new… companion."

"Not a companion." I met his gaze without flinching. "My woman."

A murmur ran through the table. Franco's wife, a thin woman with diamonds at her throat, leaned forward with interest.

"And does this woman have a name?" Franco asked.

"Sofia De Luca."

The name landed like a stone in still water. I watched their faces curiosity, suspicion, calculation. They were already measuring her, weighing her, looking for the angle.

They would not find one. She had no family in the life. No connections. No debts. She was just a chef who had looked at me and seen a man.

The doors at the far end of the room opened.

Sofia walked in.

The emerald gown caught the candlelight, shimmering with every step. Her hair was loose, falling in dark waves past her shoulders. Her chin was lifted, her spine straight, her eyes scanning the room with a calm that belied the rapid pulse I could see beating in her throat.

She was terrified. I knew her well enough now to see it.

But she did not show it. She walked the length of the room like a queen approaching her throne, and when she reached me, she did not curtsy or bow. She simply looked up at me and smiled.

"You're late," I said, loud enough for the table to hear.

"I was choosing my weapons." She slid into the chair beside me, arranging her skirts with a flick of her wrist. "A woman should always be armed."

A few of the wives laughed nervous, testing. The men exchanged glances.

Franco Rizzuto leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Sofia. "Signorina De Luca. You are a chef, I understand."

"I am."

"And how did a chef come to catch the attention of our Don?"

Sofia picked up her wine glass and took a slow sip. Then she set it down and met Franco's gaze directly.

"I cooked for him," she said. "He liked my scallops."

The table erupted.

Not in anger in laughter. Genuine, surprised laughter that seemed to crack the tension like a hammer striking ice. Even Franco's stern face relaxed into something that might have been a smile.

"Sofia De Luca," he said, raising his glass. "Welcome to the family."

Sofia’s POV

The dinner lasted three hours.

I ate course after course food that would have made Chef Rizzo weep with envy and answered question after question. Where was I from? Rome. Where had I trained? A small school in Tuscany, then stages in Florence and Naples. Did I know what kind of man I was involved with?

I paused at that one. The question came from a woman named Carmela, the wife of a capo from Catania. Her eyes were kind but worried, and I understood that she was not judging me. She was warning me.

"Yes," I said quietly. "I know exactly what kind of man he is."

"And you're not afraid?"

I glanced at Dante. He was speaking with Franco, his profile sharp against the candlelight, his hand resting on the table inches from mine.

"I'm terrified," I admitted. "But I'm more afraid of not being with him."

Carmela nodded slowly. Then she reached across the table and squeezed my hand.

"Good," she said. "Fear keeps you alive. Stupidity gets you killed." She released my hand and sat back. "You're not stupid, Sofia De Luca. I can see that."

After the meal, the men retreated to the study for cigars and business. The women gathered in the sitting room, and I found myself surrounded by a dozen curious faces.

"His first wife," one of them said a young woman with a diamond choker and anxious eyes. "She was… not like you."

"Tell me about her," I said.

The women exchanged glances. Finally, Carmela spoke.

"She was a good woman. From a good family. But she didn't understand the life. She thought she could change him." Carmela shook her head. "You cannot change a man like Dante Gallo. You can only stand beside him or get out of his way."

"And if I want to stand beside him?"

"Then you learn." Carmela leaned forward, her voice dropping. "You learn to read a room. You learn to spot a threat. You learn to smile at the wives of your enemies and memorize the faces of their children. This is not a game, Sofia. This is war. And in war, the women fight just as hard as the men."

I looked down at my hands at the calluses, the small burn scars, the evidence of a different kind of battle.

"I've been fighting my whole life," I said. "I just didn't know it."

Carmela smiled. "Then you'll fit right in."

Dante’s POV

I found her on the terrace an hour later, alone.

The moon was full, casting silver light over the sea. She had wrapped a shawl around her bare shoulders, and she was staring out at the water with an expression I couldn't read.

"You survived," I said, joining her at the railing.

"Barely." She leaned into me, and I wrapped an arm around her waist. "Your people are intense."

"My people are dangerous." I kissed her temple. "And they like you."

"Do they?"

"Franco asked me when the wedding would be."

She stiffened in my arms. "What did you say?"

"I said that was between you and me." I turned her to face me, my hands on her hips. "But for the record, Sofia I would marry you tomorrow. If you'd have me."

Her eyes widened. "Dante”

"I know it's too soon. I know you need time. I know this is insane." I cupped her face in my hands. "But I have never been more certain of anything in my life. You are the one. The only one. And I will wait as long as it takes for you to be ready."

She stared at me for a long moment. Then she rose on her toes and kissed me soft and sweet, nothing like the desperate passion of last night.

"Ask me again," she whispered against my lips. "In a month. When I've survived your world a little longer. When I've proven to myself that I belong here."

"A month," I agreed.

"Not a day less."

"Not a day less."

She smiled that radiant, defiant smile that had undone me from the first moment and turned back to the sea.

I held her close, watching the moonlight dance on the waves.

One month.

I could wait one month.

But I would spend every day of it making sure she knew exactly how much I loved her.