These were the captains of the Vitale family, the men who ran the docks and the construction yards.

They did not look like mobsters; they looked like businessmen in expensive, ill-fitting suits.

At the head of the table sat a man named Gianni, an older cousin with scarred cheeks.

Gianni watched us enter, his eyes locking onto my hand where the ruby ring caught the light.

“So it is true,” Gianni said, his voice echoing in the high-ceilinged room.

“You have married the American girl.”

“She is my wife,” Alessandro said, taking his seat at the head of the table.

I sat to his right. Matteo sat to his left.

The servants began to bring out plates of roasted meats and bowls of dark pasta.

Nobody ate.

The tension in the room was thick enough to taste.

“This is an insult to the council,” Gianni said, leaning forward.

“We have rules about foreign blood holding family interests.”

“The interests are mine to dispose of as I see fit, Gianni,” Alessandro said coldly.

A servant poured dark red wine from a heavy crystal decanter into Alessandro’s glass.