Chapter 5: First Taste of Power

Chapter 5: First Taste of Power

Dante’s promise to show her the advantages of her new position came sooner than Elena expected. Two nights later, he didn't summon her for another performative dinner but simply appeared at her suite door, holding a fine cashmere coat.

“We’re going out,” he stated, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“Am I permitted to ask where?” she asked, her voice laced with the cool irony that had become her primary shield.

“To a business meeting,” he replied, his grey eyes glinting with a challenge. “You were raised to be a decoration. Let’s see if you’ve learned to be a weapon.”

The words were a deliberate echo of her father’s lessons and her own recent triumphs, a reminder that Dante saw every part of her—the polished surface and the churning darkness beneath. She took the coat without another word, her heart beginning a slow, heavy thrum of anticipation and dread.

He led her not to one of the sleek, black sedans she was used to, but to an unmarked SUV that descended into the city’s underbelly. They ended up in a supposedly abandoned warehouse district, the air thick with the smell of salt from the nearby port and decay. He escorted her through a rusted steel door and down a flight of concrete stairs into a haze of smoke and tension.

It was a poker room, but no one was playing cards. A group of grim-faced men sat around a large, circular table littered with glasses of amber liquid and half-empty ashtrays. The air was thick with the low murmur of Russian and the clinking of ice. These were not the polished, corporate criminals of her father’s circle. These were hard men with scarred knuckles and eyes that had seen real violence.

At their entrance, all conversation ceased. Every gaze fell upon them, first on Dante with a mixture of fear and respect, and then on Elena with open, dismissive curiosity. She was a dove in a pit of vipers, an anomaly they immediately categorized as a distraction, a plaything. She felt the weight of their judgment, the instant dismissal she had fought against her entire life, but this time, it felt different. Beside Dante, their disdain seemed… impotent.

“Dante,” a large, bear-like man with a florid face and a thick silver beard grunted. This was Sergei Volkov, a brute who controlled a significant portion of the city’s illicit shipping. His eyes flicked over Elena. “You bring your pretty little thing to a men’s discussion?”

Elena’s spine stiffened, but Dante’s hand on her back was a steady, warning pressure. “Elena is my fiancée,” Dante said smoothly, his voice a blade cutting through the smoky air. “She goes where I go. She is here to observe. She won’t be a problem, will you, cara?”

The endearment was for their benefit, a mark of ownership. Elena merely gave a serene, icy nod, allowing Dante to seat her in a chair slightly behind his, placing her perfectly in the role of a silent, beautiful accessory. The men relaxed, turning their attention back to the matter at hand. Elena, ignored and underestimated, began to listen.

The argument was about shipping lanes. Volkov felt the Davenports were encroaching on his turf, undercutting his prices on a lucrative route from the Baltic. He was loud, belligerent, and working himself into a rage, accusing Dante of breaking a previously agreed-upon boundary.

“This is an insult!” Volkov boomed, slamming a meaty fist on the table. “You think you can just take what is mine?”

Dante was the picture of calm, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “Business evolves, Sergei. Your methods are… traditional. Inefficient. We are offering a more streamlined service. The market decides.”

This was the lesson Dante was teaching her. He wasn’t just negotiating; he was goading the older man, pushing him, enjoying the controlled chaos. He was demonstrating how to turn an enemy’s anger into a weakness. But as Volkov grew redder, his threats becoming more explicit, Elena saw that Dante was walking a fine line. A deal collapsing was one thing; a new turf war was another.

As they argued over percentages and ports, a memory surfaced in Elena’s mind. A long, boring afternoon two years ago, when her father had been complaining about new international shipping tariffs, drilling the details into her head as part of her "education." He’d said it was important for a wife to understand her husband’s concerns. At the time, she had dismissed it as useless information meant to fill her pretty, empty head.

Now, listening to Volkov stubbornly insisting on his preferred, traditional route, Elena realized the old man was making a colossal mistake. He was so focused on the perceived slight from Dante that he was blind to the bigger picture. He was arguing for a route that was about to become significantly less profitable.

She felt Dante shift slightly, a minute signal that the game was reaching its climax. He was going to let Volkov walk away, severing the ties and likely starting a conflict. And in that moment, something inside Elena snapped. It was not a decision born of loyalty to Dante, but of an infuriating refusal to sit silently while arrogant men made stupid, destructive decisions.

“Mr. Volkov,” she said.

Her voice, clear and feminine, sliced through the masculine growl of the room. Every head turned to her, their expressions ranging from shock to annoyance. Sergei Volkov looked at her as if a piece of furniture had just spoken.

Dante didn’t look at her, but she felt his stillness, his sudden, sharp attention. This was her moment, the one he had engineered. The test.

She stood, moving to stand beside Dante’s chair, no longer the decoration behind him, but his partner at his side. “My apologies for interrupting,” she said, her tone polite but firm. “But I believe your anger is misdirected. You are fighting to protect a route that will lose twenty percent of its value in the next quarter.”

Volkov blinked. “What is this nonsense?”

“The new EU Maritime Tariffs,” Elena explained, the information flowing with surprising ease. “They take effect in two months. Your beloved Baltic passage will be subject to them. Dante isn’t trying to steal your most valuable asset; he’s taking on a liability before the news becomes common knowledge.” She paused, letting that sink in.

Then she went on the offensive, turning the abstract knowledge into a concrete proposal. “However,” she continued, her gaze unwavering, “if you were to divert your smaller, high-value cargo through the secondary Adriatic port—the one my fiancé’s family controls—you not only bypass the new tariffs entirely, you gain a new, faster route to southern markets that your competitors haven’t considered.” She looked directly at the stunned Russian. “Dante isn’t trying to take a slice of your pie, Mr. Volkov. He’s offering you a way to a whole new bakery, and you are too proud to see it.”

The room was utterly silent. Volkov stared at her, his mouth slightly agape, the gears turning behind his bloodshot eyes. He looked at Dante, who gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod of confirmation, a gesture that ceded the victory entirely to her.

Elena had not only averted a disaster, but she had also done it by offering the brutish man a solution that made him look smart, not weak. She’d saved his profits and, more importantly, his pride.

A slow, rumbling laugh started in Volkov’s chest. He looked at Elena with a newfound, grudging respect. “The girl has claws,” he grunted, then looked at Dante. “You are a lucky man. Fine. We will discuss these new terms.”

As the meeting wrapped up, the tension replaced by a grudging partnership, Elena felt a strange, unfamiliar sensation. It was a thrill, a jolt of pure, unadulterated power that started in her chest and spread like fire through her veins. It was the feeling of being seen, not for her beauty, but for her mind. The feeling of shaping events, rather than being shaped by them. It was intoxicating. And it terrified her.

On the silent ride back to the mansion, Dante finally spoke, his voice a low murmur in the dark intimacy of the car.

“You see, Elena?” he said, his gaze fixed on the passing city lights. “Pain is a weapon. The years you spent feeling ignored, useless, forced to listen to things you thought were beneath you… they gave you the knowledge to win a war today.”

He reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out not a weapon, but a thin file. He handed it to her.

“This,” he said, “is a list of every financial asset Daniel Corrigan holds that is not tied to his father. Bank accounts, stocks, a few minor properties. Everything.”

Elena stared at the file in her hands. It felt heavier than a block of gold. It wasn’t just information. It was ammunition. It was a key.

“You taught me to be a weapon,” Elena said, her voice barely a whisper. “Now you’re pointing me at a target.”

“I am merely showing you the advantages of your new position,” Dante replied, finally turning to look at her, his grey eyes gleaming in the dark. “What you do with those advantages… is entirely up to you.”

She clutched the file, her knuckles white. The gilded cage was still a cage, but tonight, Dante had shown her that its bars could be sharpened. And for the first time, she felt a burning desire to see just how deep they could cut.