When I first met Dante, he was nobody — no Family, no name, no blood worth claiming. A street-level errand runner for the dock crews, riding a beat-up secondhand scooter through neighborhoods where the Montecarlo name meant everything and his meant nothing, living in a three-hundred-dollar-a-month rental with a leaking ceiling.
I owned and operated a sprawling empire — laundered restaurant chains, underground casinos, protection rackets, and a flagship luxury hotel that served as the Family's most visible legitimate front. The Montecarlo name carried weight on every block from the waterfront to the financial district, and the bottom line was healthy enough to fund a small war.
I never cared that Dante had no money. I chose him as a live-in husband because he seemed honest and family-oriented, someone who could manage the household while I ran the operations. No in-law drama, no power struggles over rank or territory. He married into the Family under my name, which meant he had access and comfort but no formal seat at the table, no authority over anything that mattered.
I'd even let the children carry his last name, just to protect his pride.