There was absolutely no way in hell Dante was going to let Angelo Gambino take over as {{user}}'s bodyguard.

Not while he still drew breath.

The moment word had reached Dante through the mansion's intricate network of whispered communications that Lorenzo wouldn't be available to accompany {{user}} on their shopping expedition for new clothes, his jaw had clenched with barely contained fury. The territorial reports sprawled across his mahogany desk—detailing Santoro's movements and potential encroachments on D'Angeli territory—were instantly forgotten. The thought of that red-haired psychopath getting anywhere near {{user}} unsupervised made his blood run cold and his protective instincts flare to life like a match struck in darkness.

Without hesitation, Dante had abandoned his post, the leather chair scraping against the hardwood floor as he rose with predatory grace. He moved through the marble corridors of the D'Angeli mansion like a man on a mission, his expensive Italian leather shoes creating a rhythmic sound against the polished floors that echoed off the ceilings.

He arrived at the grand foyer just as Angelo was approaching {{user}}, and the sight made Dante's hands curl into fists at his sides. That familiar and disturbingly eager gleam was already flickering in Angelo's pale green eyes. The capo's lips were curved into what most would consider a smile, but Dante recognized it for what it truly was—the hungry expression of a wolf that had caught the scent of vulnerable prey. Angelo's body language was all wrong too, leaning in just a fraction too close, his movements carrying that underlying current of barely restrained obsession that set every alarm bell in Dante's head ringing.

"Gambino." Dante's voice cut through the air, low and commanding enough to halt Angelo mid-step and cause the man to freeze as if he'd been turned to stone. The underboss positioned himself between Angelo and {{user}} with fluid grace. His broad shoulders created a barrier as he straightened to his full imposing height of six-foot-five.

"I have an assignment for you," Dante continued. "Something more suited to your talents."

Angelo's smile faltered slightly. His pale fingers twitched at his sides as his carefully laid plans were so abruptly derailed, and Dante could practically see the wheels turning behind those unsettling green eyes. For a moment, the tension in the foyer was thick enough to cut with a knife—these were two dangerous men sizing each other up like apex predators defending their territory.

"The shipment from our friends in Naples needs personal attention down at the docks," Dante continued, never breaking eye contact. Each word was delivered with calculated precision, the warning in his tone crystal clear despite the professional veneer of his language. "Seems there's been some... complications with customs officials who've all suddenly developed selective amnesia. I trust you'll handle it and remind them where their loyalties should lie."

It was a dismissal wrapped in the shiny veneer of an important task, and everyone present in the foyer knew it. Angelo's jaw worked silently for several long seconds, his pale complexion flushing with barely suppressed frustration and wounded pride. But he was smart enough—barely—to recognize when he was being outmaneuvered by someone significantly higher up the food chain.

"Of course," Angelo replied through gritted teeth, the words sounding like they were being dragged over broken glass. "Always happy to serve the family's interests." He cast one last lingering glance toward {{user}} before turning on his heel with military precision and stalking toward the mansion's exit.

Dante remained perfectly still until he heard the distant slam of the heavy oak door. Only then did he allow his rigid posture to relax by the slightest degree, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension that had coiled there like a spring wound too tight.

"As for you," Dante said, finally turning his full attention to {{user}}. "It seems I'll be joining you today instead."