In Love With The Mafia Kings Son

Chapter 9

The drive to the Rossi compound was short, tense, and silent, the powerful roar of the Shelby GT500 engine the only sound filling the intimate space. The higher they climbed into the hills, the more the world fell away. Dante drove with a casual confidence that spoke of absolute ownership.

The car slowed, not for a grand entrance, but for a fortified barrier. The Rossi compound was not merely a house; it was a fortress. It was shielded from the world by a ten-foot-high concrete wall topped with razor wire, running the perimeter of the enormous estate. Behind the wall, the mansion itself was a sprawling, pale structure of glass and stone, utterly massive and chillingly impersonal.

The imposing main gate was solid wrought iron, guarded by two large, stern men dressed in matching dark tactical gear. Just inside the gate, Letty could see the restless pacing of two massive guard dogs.

Dante stopped the Shelby precisely at the intercom.

The driver-side window hissed down.

A guard approached the car. He looked directly at Dante with a respectful nod, then his eyes snapped to Letty. His professional composure wavered slightly.

“Morning, Mr. Rossi. You know the drill, sir. Anyone who hasn’t been documented has to be checked. It’s your father’s orders.”

Letty’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Checked. Her mind immediately conjured images of invasive, humiliating procedures. She shrank deeper into the leather seat.

Dante didn’t raise his voice, but the shift in the atmosphere was immediate and cold. His eyes, usually softened by amusement when he looked at Letty, were now hard steel.

“That won’t be necessary,” Dante said, his voice quiet but infused with absolute authority. “She’s fine. She’s with me.”

The guard hesitated, his loyalty warring with his fear. “But sir, your father’s specific orders are anyone who’s never been here must—"

Dante turned his head, looking directly at the guard. The look he gave was predatory and non-negotiable, the pure essence of the Mafia Prince.

“I said I don’t give a f**k about the orders,” Dante stated, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low gravel.

“No one’s putting their hands on her.” He paused, his intense gaze sweeping over Letty before returning to the guard. The silence was thick, charged with power.

Letty felt the implication of his possessive statement settle over her like a heavy, velvet cloak. She wasn’t sure if she imagined it or not, but she could have sworn that beneath the surface, the unspoken completion of his sentence hung in the air: …but me.

The guard straightened quickly, his defiance completely extinguished. He nodded once, stiffly.

"Understood, Mr. Rossi. Welcome home."

The heavy iron gates began to slide open with a grating sound of submission.

Dante accelerated, driving them up a sweeping, circular driveway. He parked the Shelby in a vast, pristine underground garage filled with a fleet of expensive, silent vehicles—a museum of disposable wealth.

He immediately stepped out, his large figure filling the opening. Letty, still reeling from the encounter at the gate and the terrifying implication of his defense, followed his lead and quickly stepped out of the passenger seat.

Dante slammed his door and walked around the front of the car, his eyes fixed on her. The smirk was back, but now it held a definitive lesson.

“Next time, you wait for me to open the door for you,” he commanded, his voice soft, a reminder that obedience was expected, even in small acts.

Letty looked up at him, her heart thudding. She understood the gesture. It wasn't about politeness; it was about control. All she could do was nod, her voice useless.

Dante accepted her compliance. He reached out and placed a gentle, heavy hand on the small of her back. The heat of his palm through her leggings felt like a brand, a physical signature claiming her.

Without another word, he steered her through the cool, marble expanse of the mansion’s interior, the hand firmly guiding her small body. He led her out through massive sliding glass doors and into the dazzling sunlight of the backyard, where Isabella and the rest of the squad were already stretching, ready to practice.

Dante’s warm, heavy hand guided Letty across the immaculate stone patio surrounding a vast, glittering infinity pool. Beyond it, a perfectly manicured lawn stretched to a low fence. Isabella and the rest of the squad—a collection of perfectly toned, expensively dressed teenagers—were already stretching.

Dante removed his hand only when they reached the edge of the group, and he immediately retreated to the shade of a large cabana, where he leaned against a pillar, arms crossed over his chest, his presence a silent, immovable anchor.

Isabella ignored her brother and focused her sharp gaze on Letty. “Okay, scholarship girl. You said you have some gymnastics skills. Show me.”

The one-on-one session was immediate and intense.

Isabella was a ruthless coach, demanding perfection with clipped, precise instructions. Letty, reverting to her instinctual need to obey any clear command, found herself responding automatically. The fear of failure was a powerful motivator, and she quickly demonstrated her flexibility and balance.

“That’s good. You’re light and you hold tension well,” Isabella grudgingly conceded, watching Letty execute a clean heel stretch. “Where did you learn the extension? You’re not stiff enough to have just done floor work.”

Letty hesitated, but the compliance held firm. “I… I did ballet when I was younger. Just for a few years.”

Isabella’s eyes widened slightly in a rare display of surprise. Ballet explained the effortless grace and extreme flexibility. It was the perfect, invaluable background for a flyer. Isabella’s smirk turned into a genuine, professional assessment.

“Ballet and brains. You’re wasted on the scholarship table, Nicolette.” Isabella snapped her fingers. “Fine. Get with Dylan and Marcus. We’ll run the toss-up.”

The group practice began. Letty, still reeling from the shift in social dynamics, was placed in the center.

Dylan and Marcus, two of the male cheerleaders, were assigned as her bases.

The moment Dylan's hands wrapped around her waist for the first lift, the atmosphere in the cabana shifted.

Dante had been watching, his massive frame a picture of bored patience. But when Dylan easily lifted Letty above his head, the blood immediately ran hot in Dante's veins. His hands clenched into fists, the veins standing out on his forearms.

He was used to girls being physically conquered by him, after he didn't care what they did or who they f****d next. But watching another man touch his little one—seeing Dylan’s hands too close for comfort on her thighs and waist, holding her small body with such casual possession—lit a slow-burning fuse of jealousy and volatile possessiveness that Dante had never experienced.

He’s just touching her like she’s a tool. A piece of equipment.

Dante rationalized the feeling, dismissing it as territorial annoyance, but the feeling was sharper, darker, and entirely focused on the contact. Every time Dylan’s muscular biceps supported Letty’s hips, or his large hands adjusted her position, Dante’s proprietary anger escalated. The boy was breathing her air, claiming her gravity.

He forced himself to stay still, the effort costing him a visible jaw tension.

Isabella noticed the shift. She glanced from her brother's rigid posture to Dylan's hands on Letty, and the amused confusion from the cafeteria returned.

"Hmm. That’s new."

The practice continued, with Isabella yelling critiques and Letty executing perfect, graceful extensions thanks to her forgotten ballet training. But for Dante, the practice had become a private war. He was no longer watching his sister's squad; he was watching a stranger touch something that, in his mind, he had already claimed as his own.