Dante set his glass down on the side table, the crystal clinking softly against the wood as his phone buzzed. He swiped to answer, already recognizing the number.

“Sir,” his assistant’s voice came through, tight with urgency. “Two transactions just hit your account. One for two hundred twenty-five thousand, and another for three hundred seventy.”

A pause.

“Would you like me to call the bank? I can flag them as potential errors—”

Dante let out a low chuckle, reclining deeper into the leather armchair, one arm draped lazily over the side, legs comfortably sprawled.

“No need,” he drawled, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That’s just my wife throwing a tantrum. Let it go through.”