The Godfathers

EMILIO VALENCIA

  "You've got guts showing up here, Valencia."

Dante stood at the center of the underground room, surrounded by his men, his voice was calm, but there was danger in it. He didn't stand up. He didn't need to. The power in the room already belonged to him. 

Emilio kept walking, expression flat.

"You called. I came. That doesn't mean I'm here to obey."

  Dante smirked, swirling the drink in his glass. "I thought you'd be too proud to show up."

  Emilio sat across from him, relaxed. "And I thought you'd be bold enough to talk to me yourself instead of sending a messenger."

  The room went quiet. Hands hovered near weapons, waiting. 

  Dante chuckled. "Careful, kid. Pride can get you killed in this business."

Emilio met his gaze without hesitation, his chin lifted in quiet defiance.

  Dante exhaled slowly, then—with a lazy wave of his fingers—spoke.

  "Leave us."

  A simple command.  But no one moved.

  Tension gripped the room.  Dante's men glanced at each other, hesitant. Emilio's men didn't budge either, their fingers ghosting over the cold steel of their weapons.

  It was a standoff. And Dante... he smiled, slow and knowing.

  "I said leave." His voice carried now, smooth but edged with something lethal. "All of you."

  A pause.

Then, one by one, the men obeyed.

Reluctantly, Emilio's men gave him a final glance, waiting for a signal. He gave them the smallest nod stand down, for now—before they turned and exited.

  Dante's men did the same, though one or two lingered for a second longer than necessary, their eyes flicking toward Emilio like they were memorizing his face.

Then, the door was shut.

  Silence.   Now it was just the two of them.

Dante tilted his head, studying Emilio like he was something to be unwrapped, to be figured out.

  "Brave," he mused. "Or reckless."

Emilio didn't flinch.  "Depends on how this conversation ends."

  Dante chuckled, low and dark. "Then let's not waste time."

  He stepped forward.  So did Emilio.

  The underground room was silent now,For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, with a slow, measured movement, Emilio pulled forward the chair he sat on. The sound of wood was heard against the floor.

He tilted his chin slightly, his eyes locked onto Dante's.

  A challenge.

  Dante's lips curled—just barely. It wasn't a smirk, not yet, but something close. He didn't move fast. Instead, he took his time, letting the moment just long enough to make it clear—he wasn't the kind of man who obeyed commands.

Dante leaned back, the dim light against his face. He stretched his arms along the chair's armrests, exuding a quiet, effortless dominance. His dark amber eyes flickered in the low light, watching Emilio with an unreadable expression.

"You like giving orders, don't you?" Dante mused, voice smooth as velvet.

  Emilio didn't blink. "Only when I know they'll be followed."

  A low chuckle. "Interesting."

The air between them was thick now—something unseen pressing down, coiling tight.

Neither of them moved.

  Neither of them looked away.

  Seated at the far end of the table, Dante looked like a man who owned everything he touched—including the air Emilio was breathing. 

The dim lighting didn't soften his face. His tanned face and skin were proof of life always in the open fields...

  Dressed in a sleek black suit, he looked polished. Every inch of him was calculated, designed to command attention without asking for it.

Even the scar made him a man people do not call beautiful but handsome and made men uneasy and women second-guess their safety.

And in that underground room, he looked terrifying.

  Dante's gaze flicked over him once, slow and assessing like a predator deciding whether to toy with its prey or devour it whole.

And just like that, Emilio knew—Dante had already sized him up. He hated it.

Hated the way his pulse betrayed him, the way his body tensed under that gaze. Hated that, for the first time in his life, he felt young in the presence of another man.

But he wouldn't let Dante see it.

Emilio squared his shoulders "I assume you already know why I'm here."

Dante smirked, and it was devastating. Not because it was charming, but because it knew it was.

"I know exactly why you're here, Valencia." His voice was smooth, unhurried. "The question is... do you?"

  Emilio held Dante's gaze, steady and unflinching.

  "I didn't come here to apologize," Emilio said, voice calm but firm. 

  Dante's smirk didn't waver, but there was something sharper in his eyes now. "Is that so?"

  "It is." Emilio leaned forward slightly. "We both know Luca was the one who walked into Rossi's place, throwing his weight around. The bar owner owed a debt, and Luca decided to settle it by breaking everything in the bar. Rossi reacted. As any man protecting his own would."

  Dante exhaled slowly, tapping his fingers against the table. "And?"

  "And this—" Emilio gestured vaguely around them, "is a waste of time. Rossi and Luca are both valuable to us. This isn't necessary. A reconciliation between the two men or an apology from Luca makes more sense than escalating a fight that shouldn't have started in the first place."

  Dante studied him for a moment, his silence heavier than words. Then, he chuckled—a deep, rich sound that sent something cold down Emilio's spine.

  "You think you can walk in here and tell me how to handle my men?"

"I think you're smart enough to see reason," Emilio countered smoothly. 

  Dante's smirk didn't fade, but the air in the room shifted. A subtle shift, but one Emilio didn't miss.

  "Interesting," Dante murmured. "You don't just want to survive in this world. You want to play in it."

Emilio didn't rise to the bait. He didn't let pride cloud his judgment or allow himself to be drawn into a battle of egos. That wasn't why he was here.

  Instead, he met Dante's gaze with quiet, unwavering resolve.

  "I don't care about playing," he said, voice steady. 

Dante studied him, but there was something deeper in his gaze now. Interest. Curiosity. Maybe even a hint of approval.

Emilio didn't break eye contact.

  "Why not make it simple, Valencia." His voice was smooth, almost bored. "Apologize and we walk away from this. No war, no bloodshed. Just a handshake, and we move forward."

He tilted his head slightly, watching Emilio as if he already knew the answer. "Unless, of course, your pride is worth more than your men's lives."

  Emilio wasn't a fool. 

  He knew what this was, Dante testing him, waiting to see if he would fold if he would kneel just to keep his people safe. It would be easy. Just one word. A concession that would make all of this disappear. 

But as he looked at Dante, proud, composed, and already convinced he had won, Emilio felt something settle deep in his chest. 

  No. 

He wouldn't do it. 

Because an apology wasn't just a word here, it was submission. And if he bent now, he'd never stand again. 

  His jaw tightened slightly, but his voice remained steady when he finally spoke. 

The room felt smaller now, the weight of the decision pressing down on him. His men were counting on him. If he refused, Dante would make good on his threat, and Emilio knew the kind of war Falcone could wage—silent, ruthless, leaving nothing but ruin in its wake. 

But if he apologized... 

Would it truly end here? Or would it mark the beginning of something worse?

His throat felt tight. 

Dante watched him, unreadable, waiting. The flickering overhead light cast long shadows between them as if even the room itself knew a line was about to be crossed. 

Emilio exhaled slowly.   One word. That was all it would take to end this.  But could he bring himself to say it? He didn't know.

DANTE'S POV

  "Unless, of course, your pride is worth more than your men's lives." 

  Dante studied Emilio for a long moment, letting the silence stretch between them and his fingers tapping idly against the polished surface of the table beside his glass of whiskey.

He could see the tension in the younger man's jaw, the way his fingers curled slightly against the table. Proud.

  Dante leaned back in his chair, studying Emilio with quiet amusement.

Pretty. That was the first word that came to his mind.  It wasn't an insult. It was just the truth.

His suit fit him perfectly, showing off his slim frame, not the kind built for brute strength, but for control.

Emilio Valencia didn't look like the kind of man who belonged in this world. His features were too refined, his dark eyes too full of fire, his lips too soft for a man who dealt in blood and power. Even the way his hair fell just slightly messy, just slightly perfect