Dante stole a glance at Isabella Moretti. She was undeniably beautiful. Her black dress clung to her like smoke. Her heels didn't sink into the wet grass. She was standing at the edge of the grave.
Dante looked away.
He'd buried his father today. This wasn't the time.
The dirt hit the casket with the sound of finality.
One shovel. Then another. Then another.
Dante watched every grain fall. Watched the mahogany disappear under Brooklyn soil. Watched his father become a memory.
The crowd began to thin. Handshakes. Condolences that sounded like business cards. Promises to "stay in touch" that everyone knew were lies.
But Isabella remained.
She stood there as the last of the dirt was packed down, as the flowers were arranged, as the workers packed their tools and left them alone with the dead.
"You shouldn't have come," Dante said without turning around.
"Neither should half the people here," she replied. Her voice was silk over steel. "But we did anyway."
He turned to face her then.
"Isabella."
"Dante."
They stood there, six feet apart, a lifetime between them.
"I'm sorry about your father," she said. "He was a good man."
"You didn't know him."
"I knew what he meant to you."
That hit harder than it should have. Dante's jaw tightened.
"What do you want?"
She smiled then. Not happy. Not sad. Something else entirely.
"To pay my respects. To see if you were still alive." She paused.
The air between them shimmered slightly.
"Is that an answer?"
"It's the only one you're getting."
She stepped closer. One step. Then another.
"The families are watching, Dante. They're all waiting to see if Leon's son can fill his shoes."
"Let them watch."
"And if they decide you can't?"
"They'll decide if they wanna live,"
"Is that a joke or..."
"No."
Isabella nodded.
Of course, he meant it.
The Dante she remembered had been sharp, hot-headed, young, reckless in that charming way that made enemies underestimate him and lovers forget themselves. But this man in front of her?
He was something else.
"You've changed," she said.
"So have you."
"I wear heels now."
"You wore heels then."
"These are different."
"Oh, then, I smoke cigarettes AND cigars now."
"Oh, you weren't smoking cigars, is that it?"
"Yes, that's it," Dante said, deadpan. "I was a pure, unsullied soul before you introduced me to vice."
Isabella arched a brow. "I remember introducing you to a lot of things, Dante. Cigars weren't high on the list."
A flicker behind his eyes.
He stepped closer.
"You coming here wasn't just about respect," he said.
"No," she admitted. "It was about history."
"Which part?"
"The part where we were going to be married before the blood started spilling like wine."
He let out a humorless breath. "Good times."
She glanced at the grave.
"Your father was the one who ended the arrangement."
"He said love was a weakness."
"Was it?"
Dante didn't answer. Not with words.
Instead, he just looked at her.
"You're not here to mourn," he said finally.
"No," she said. "I'm here to see the man who replaced the boy I knew."
"And?"
"I haven't made up my mind yet."
He smirked.
"Then stay away from the matches, Moretti."
"I don't fear fire, Cavarro."
"You should. This one doesn't go out."
The air tightened between them again. That shimmer returned. Not heat, not quite—but potential.
The kind that ruins empires or starts them.
Isabella sighed, stepping back, smoothing her dress like she needed to iron out the moment.
"My father will call. Probably tomorrow. He'll say he wants peace. He doesn't."
"I know."
"He'll offer you something tempting."
"I know."
She hesitated. For the first time, she looked unsure. Or maybe she was just choosing her words carefully.
"And if he sends me instead?"
Dante didn't hesitate.
"Then I'll know he's desperate."
"And what will you do?"
He took a step forward, real close now. Close enough that she had to tip her chin up just a little to hold his gaze.
"I'll listen. The offer seems to be a bit tempting, right?"
"Tempting how?" she asked.
"Well," Dante said, his tone casual, "it comes in a silk dress, knows my worst secrets, and still shows up uninvited to a funeral."
"You're saying I'm the offer?"
"I'm saying you're part of the packaging. Pretty. Distracting. And likely to explode if shaken."
She gave a small, sharp laugh. "You think I'm here as a weapon."
"No," he said, tilting his head slightly. "I think you are a weapon. Whether you're here or not."
Another beat passed between them, this one slower. Heavy with things unsaid and far too many things remembered.
"And yet you're still listening," she said.
Dante's eyes cooled, just a touch. "I buried my father today. I've got dirt on my shoes and blood on my tongue. I'll listen to anything, once."
"Even lies?"
"Especially lies. They tell me what you're afraid to say out loud."
Isabella's lips parted, but she didn't speak.
"I won't tell you," She walked.
"Oh, come on, don't be a bitch. Tell me."
She continued to walk away.
"Oi! Stop." He called again.
No response. He sighed as he put his arm on his hips, looking into the sky.
He looked back at the grave. The flowers sat too bright against the dark soil.
"You always did have dramatic exits," he muttered to himself.
A raven landed on the wrought-iron fence nearby, croaking like it had something to say but didn't care to be polite about it. Dante gave it a look.
"What, you got an opinion too?"
The raven fluffed its feathers, turned its head sideways, and hopped once, then flew off.
Typical.
--------------------------------
Dante sat in his father's office—his office now—bourbon in one hand, Isabella's invitation in the other. The wax seal caught the lamplight like a drop of blood.
He hadn't opened it yet. Didn't need to. He knew what it would say. Time, place, the usual diplomatic bullshit about "mutual interests" and "respectful dialogue." What he didn't know was whether Isabella had written it herself or if her father's hand had guided the pen.
A soft knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.
"Come."
Vincent Torrino entered, hat in hand. He was Dante's father's oldest friend, closest advisor, and the only man in the family who could speak the truth without fear.
"You look like hell," Vincent said, settling into the chair across from the desk.
"Feel worse," Dante replied, not looking up from the envelope.
"You gonna open that or just stare at it?"
"Still deciding."
Vincent reached into his jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, tapping one out with practiced ease. He didn't ask permission - this was his house too, in all the ways that mattered.
"Your father hated the Morettis," he said, striking a match.
"I know."
"But he respected them. Big difference."
Dante finally looked up. "Your point?"
"My point is that Lorenzo Moretti doesn't send his daughter to funerals for sentimental reasons. The girl's got a head for business and a mouth like honey over razor wire. If she's here, it's because Daddy thinks she can accomplish something his soldiers can't."
"Which is?"
Vincent took a long drag, smoke coiling around his face. "Get you to the table without starting a war."
Dante leaned back in his chair, feeling the leather creak under his weight. It still smelled like his father's cologne—bergamot and authority.
"And what makes you think I'd start a war?"
"Kid, be real."
"I'm a rational kid, you won't have to worry."
"I, with good reason, and your history with anger management, doubt that. But you've been controlling it surprisingly well, until now."
"What I've been saying since the start."
--------------------------------
Across the city, in a penthouse that touched the clouds, Wilson Fisk was having his own conversation about fire.
"The funeral was today," James Wesley said, setting down a tablet displaying news footage. "Quite the showing. Half of Brooklyn, by the looks of it."
Fisk didn't turn from the window. "And young Cavarro?"
"Controlled. Composed. Made his point without bloodshed."
"Disappointing."
Wesley adjusted his glasses. "Sir?"
"I was hoping for chaos. Chaos creates opportunity. But if the boy has his father's restraint..." Fisk trailed off, finally turning from the view. "Then he's more dangerous than I anticipated."
"The Moretti girl was there."
That got Fisk's attention. His pale eyes sharpened.
"Isabella?"
"At the back of the church. They spoke privately afterward."
Fisk moved to his desk, fingers tapping once against the surface.
"Interesting. Lorenzo's been quiet since the treaties. No expansion, no aggression. But he sends his daughter to pay respects to a dead enemy?"
"Perhaps genuine condolences?"
Fisk laughed. "Wesley, my friend, in our business, there's no such thing as genuine anything. Everything is calculation. Every gesture has weight."
He picked up a crystal paperweight, turning it in his massive hands so the light fractured and scattered.
"The girl is beautiful, educated, and ruthless. Three qualities that make her either a perfect peace offering or a perfect weapon."
"And if it's the latter?"
"Then Lorenzo Moretti is smarter than I gave him credit for." Fisk set the paperweight down with care.
--------------------------------
The Moretti estate was in the hills of Staten Island, all stone walls and iron gates. Isabella had grown up here.
She stood in her father's study now, still in her funeral dress, watching him read the report from his man at St. Dominic's.
Lorenzo Moretti was built like a monument - broad shoulders, silver hair, and a jacked physique even at sixty-three
"You spoke with him," he said without looking up.
"Briefly."
"And?"
Isabella moved to the window, looking out at gardens that bloomed in perfect rows.
"He's changed. Harder. More controlled."
"His father's influence..."
"I suppose so,"
"What else?"
"He knows of your plans... to send me as an offer."
"Smarter, too, huh?"
"You're attracted to danger," he said. "Always have been. But this isn't a game, Isabella. The Cavarros are unpredictable, and he's the most unpredictable of them all. His father had been hiding him for most of his life."
"I know what I'm doing."
"Do you? Because three years ago, you were in love with him. And love makes people stupid."
Isabella finally turned, her green eyes flashing. "I was fourteen. I thought love conquered all. I've learned better." [Just to be clear, the marriage would've take place when they're adults. 🙏]
"Have you?"
Lorenzo stood, moving to the bar cart in the corner. He poured two glasses of wine.
--------------------------------