The Mafia king's obsession

The Midnight Kitchen

By the time Elena finished with Leo, a heavy New York fog had rolled in, swallowing the Long Island coastline. Pietro was nowhere to be found, and the house felt unnervingly empty. Her stomach gave a sharp, painful growl she hadn't eaten since a granola bar at lunch.

She wandered downstairs, her footsteps muffled by thick Persian rugs, until she found the kitchen. It was a chef’s dream: stainless steel, white marble, and enough space to feed a small army.

She was standing at the open industrial refrigerator, debating the ethics of stealing a piece of artisanal cheese, when a voice came from the shadows of the breakfast nook.

“The prosciutto is better. Top shelf, left side.”

Elena jumped, nearly knocking over a jar of imported olives. Dante was sitting in the dark, a single glass of amber liquid on the table in front of him. He had changed into a charcoal sweater, the sleeves pushed up, looking less like a king and more like a ghost.

“You have a habit of lurking,” Elena said, her heart rate slowly returning to normal.

“It’s my house. I call it ‘reflecting.’” Dante gestured to the stool across from him. “Eat, Elena. You look like you’re ready to faint, and I can’t have my brother’s tutor collapsing on the job. It’s bad for morale.”

She hesitated, then grabbed a plate and sat. The slow-burn tension from earlier hadn't dissipated; it had just settled into the marrow of the house. For a long time, the only sound was the hum of the refrigerator.

“Leo is smarter than you give him credit for,” she said, tearing off a piece of bread. “He knows what you're doing. He knows the ‘consulting fee’ is a cover.”

“Of course he knows,” Dante said, his voice weary. “The Moretti curse is that we are all cursed with too much sight. We see the trap, but we walk into it anyway because the alternatives are worse.”

“Is that how you feel? Trapped?”

Dante looked at her then, really looked at her. In the dim light, the harshness of his face softened into something achingly human. “I took over when I was twenty-four. My father was… less precise than I am. He left a trail of debt and enemies that stretched from the Bronx to Sicily. If I hadn't stepped up, Leo wouldn't be studying history. He’d be a memory.”

He reached across the table. For a second, she thought he would touch her hand, but he stopped just short, his fingers hovering over the marble.

“You think I'm the villain in your story, Elena. And maybe I am. But in Leo’s story, I am the only thing standing between him and the dark.”

“And who stands between you and the dark?” Elena whispered.

The question hung in the air, heavy and dangerous. Dante’s gaze intensified, his eyes dropping to her throat, then back to her lips. The air between them felt pressurized, like the moment before a lightning strike.

He stood up abruptly, the legs of his chair scraping against the floor. “I’ll have Pietro drive you home. The fog is getting worse.”

He walked away, but as he reached the door, he paused. “And Elena? Tell your brother if he touches a deck of cards this week, the arrangement is over.”