Chapter 7 - The Ghost of Greenwich Street
Two weeks had passed since Anthony Rossi’s arrival at the estate.
The transition was not without its friction—Anthony and Elena spent the first four days arguing passionately in rapid-fire Sicilian dialect over whether tomato sauce required sugar or basil, a debate that ended with Elena declaring Anthony "almost as stubborn as a mule, but with decent palate."
For Sophia, life had settled into a strange, beautiful rhythm. She no longer worked double shifts at Veluto. Her apartment in the Bronx was officially a memory, her lease broken and her few belongings moved into a sunlit suite on the second floor of the Moretti mansion.
Yet, old habits died hard.
On a crisp Tuesday afternoon, Sophia found herself standing in the massive commercial kitchen of the estate, rolling out fresh pasta dough on a marble counter. Flour dusted her forearms, and a linen apron was tied neatly around her waist.
The heavy double doors swung open, and Dante walked in. He wore a charcoal-grey suit without a tie, his jacket slung casually over one shoulder. He stopped a few feet away, leaning against the counter, watching her with a quiet, intense adoration that still made her heart flip.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” Dante said, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “We have an architect coming at three to discuss the renovations for the Manhattan penthouse.”
“I’m not resting, I’m working,” Sophia replied, cutting a strip of fettuccine with a sharp knife. “And besides, your mother threatened to disown me if I didn't make her Sunday sugo recipe before the weekend.”
Dante chuckled, stepping closer. He reached out, his thumb gently brushing a streak of flour off her cheek, just like he had on the day Vanessa first walked into their lives. Sophia leaned unconsciously into his touch, closing her eyes for a second to savor the warmth of his skin.
“You know,” Dante murmured, his voice dropping lower, “we don’t have to live in the city if you don’t want to. We can stay here. Or we can go to Italy. Anywhere you want.”
“I want to be where you are,” Sophia whispered, opening her eyes to look directly into his dark gaze. “Even if that means dodging architects and mob associates turned real estate developers.”
Before Dante could lean down to kiss her, Enzo burst through the kitchen doors, looking uncharacteristically flustered.
Dante instantly stepped back, his protective barrier snapping into place. “Enzo. What is it?”
“We have a problem, boss,” Enzo said, his voice tense. “One of our surveillance nodes near Greenwich Street picked up a tail. Someone has been watching the Veluto restaurant and following our security details.”
Dante’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. “Who?”
“Not the Genovese,” Enzo replied, handing over a tablet displaying a grainy security photo. “It’s someone from the old Chicago syndicate. A man named Marco Vane.”
Sophia’s breath caught in her throat. She looked at the tablet over Dante’s shoulder. The man in the photo had a sharp jawline, cold grey eyes, and a neat scar running along his left temple.
“Marco Vane?” Sophia repeated, the name echoing strangely in her memory. “Wait... I know that face. He was at Veluto about a month ago. He sat at Table Four. He tipped fifty dollars and asked questions about the kitchen staff.”
Dante’s whole body went rigid. He turned to Enzo, his voice turning to ice. “Why would a Chicago captain be asking about our kitchen staff?”
“Because,” a cool, unfamiliar voice echoed from the doorway of the kitchen, “he wasn't looking at the kitchen staff, Dante. He was looking at the girl.”
Everyone spun around.
Leaning against the doorframe was a woman Sophia had never seen before. She wore an immaculate camel-coat, her blonde hair pulled back into a severe chignon, and she held a small leather briefcase in one hand. But it was her eyes—sharp, calculating, and disturbingly familiar—that made Sophia’s blood run cold.
“Elena,” Dante roared, his hand instantly moving to his jacket where his weapon usually rested, cursing under his breath when he realized he was unarmed. “How the hell did you get past the gates?”
The woman smiled, a thin, humorless expression. “Your security is impressive, Dante. But old habits die hard, and I used to run these streets before you were even wearing tailored suits.”
“Who are you?” Sophia demanded, stepping out from behind the counter, clutching her flour-dusted rolling pin like a weapon.
The woman looked Sophia up and down, a look of profound amusement crossing her features.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” the woman said smoothly, stepping into the kitchen. “I am Catherine Vane. Marco’s mother. And, more importantly... I am the woman who owns the forty-thousand-dollar debt your father originally ran up before Dante bought it out from under us.”
Sophia felt the room tilt sideways.
Dante stepped in front of Sophia instantly, his voice a lethal whisper. “The Chicago syndicate sold that debt to the Genovese years ago. It was settled under the New York treaty.”
“Treaties change, Dante,” Catherine said, her smile widening into something predatory. “Especially when the collateral isn't just money anymore. My son Marco didn't come to New York for territory. He came for his property.”
She pointed a manicured finger directly at Sophia.
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“According to the original contract signed in blood by Anthony Rossi, his debts were secured not just by cash, but by familial obligation. Under Chicago rules, if the debt isn't settled in full by midnight tonight... the debtor’s eldest daughter belongs to the House of Vane.”
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