Forced To Be The Mafia King's Bride (by Oma Green) novel Chapter 212

Dante's POV

"Dante, please!" Gianna's voice cracked behind me. "Don't..."

"He's my son, Dante!"

Roberto's voice cut through the garden. I turned my head, the gun staying level.

Roberto charged toward us, his shoes pounding against the stone path. Behind him, Cesare's hand went to his weapon.

"You shot my fucking son!" Roberto's face went purple, veins bulging at his temples. "Have you lost your goddamn mind?!"

My hand stilled on the trigger.

His son.

I looked down at Matteo, blood seeping between his fingers, then back to Roberto. The jaw, the eyes, the same shape.

"I didn't know." The words ground out between my teeth.

"That's not a fucking excuse!" Roberto's hands flew up. "So you just shoot first and ask questions later?!"

My chest heaved, the gun refusing to shake.

"He tried to forcefully kiss my wife." Each word came out unforgiving. "What the hell was I supposed to do?"

"Talk!" Roberto threw his arms wide, his voice echoing across the garden. "Use your fucking words before you use your gun!"

My finger pressed closer to the trigger, hovering there, not pulling, not yet.

"Dante." Cesare's voice came low behind me, edged with warning. "Put it down."

"Dante, please." Gianna moved forward, her hand stretching toward me, trembling. Her eyes locked on mine, wide and wet, glistening with unshed tears.

I stared back, my breath coming harder. She wasn't afraid for herself.

She was afraid for him.

My grip tightened, knuckles going white around the handle.

But her lips were moving, no sound escaping, just the shape of one word forming again and again.

I swung the gun back to Matteo's head, the barrel inches from his skull.

Metal clicked behind me, around me, the sound of safeties releasing.

I glanced over my shoulder. Roberto had a pistol aimed at my skull, his hand rock steady.

Cesare stood two feet back, his weapon pointed at Roberto's chest, his stance wide and grounded. More men on both sides, hands on holsters, fingers on triggers, the air thick with the promise of violence.

One squeeze, and this garden would run red, bodies dropping, screams filling the night.

Matteo deserved it, deserved the bullet, deserved to bleed out on this grass for touching her, for leaning in, for trying to take what was mine.

But Roberto had the location, the date, the warehouse, Lorenzo Giovanni's head on a fucking platter.

And I'd just put a bullet in his son.

The deal was hanging by a thread, fraying with every second that passed.

I turned back to Gianna. Her hands were clasped together, pressed against her chest, shaking like leaves in a storm.

Tears streaked down her cheeks, catching the lantern light. Her mouth formed that word again, silent and desperate.

My breath came out slow, controlled.

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