Chapter 7
Dante
Matteo’s irritating laughter echoes through the empty apartment Lucia calls home. If you can even call this a home. It has four walls, a mattress on the floor, and a kitchen that’s never held more than a cup of coffee and a single plate.
She lives here, sleeps here, and breathes in this air, yet there isn’t a single spark of her personality in the dimly lit studio apartment.
A pang of regret slices through my chest.
I hate seeing how she lives. Lucia, the woman with so much fire in her eyes that she destroyed my emotional armor with one sultry swing of her hips, has reduced herself to a bare-bones existence.
Her mattress is on the floor, for fuck’s sake. It’s wrong. It’s beneath her. And the worst part—the part that makes that ugly thing inside me coil tighter—is knowing she chose this.
During negotiations to purchase Pepenero Privè, I reviewed staff earnings.
Before I made staff turn away any customer who wanted to see Cici, Lucia was the club’s highest-paid dancer.
Her wage alone, minus tips, should have her living in a luxury penthouse with views for miles, so why does she choose to live a disposable life?
She deserves better.
How can she not see that she deserves safety, comfort, and more than four walls behind a lock that was kicked in with one blow?
The ease of access to her space makes me feel primal and possessive. She should have more. I could give her more. But instead, she ran.
That memory burns hotter than I care to admit.
It isn’t solely anger singeing through my veins. It isn’t even frustration. It’s the sickening realization she’s surviving, not living.
And she’s doing it alone.
She was so fucking scared she couldn’t trust me to stay when I accidentally used the name I got from her dental records. That’s what curls my hands into fists. Not the emptiness of the apartment, but the emptiness she must feel living in it.
Matteo wheezes again, doubling over as he points at the hem of my trousers, which are a good four inches above my ankles.
“Shut the fuck up, Matteo.” I tug at my pants, praying they’ll magically stretch. “It isn’t my fault.”
“It absolutely is,” Nico says, because someone has to be the voice of reason in this circus. “You let her take your pants.”
“I didn’t let her,” I snap. “She stole them.”
Matteo loses it again. He slides down the wall until he’s sitting on the dusty floor, wiping tears from his eyes. “She took them because she thought it would slow you down. And look at you. She was right.”
I glare at him, but it does nothing to ease his chuckles. “You could’ve gotten me pants that fit.”
“I could have,” Matteo agrees, grinning like the devil himself. “But where’s the fun in that?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, fighting not to fracture Matteo’s. “If you had walked a little further down the corridor, I wouldn’t look like an idiot. Elio is a foot shorter than me, so why the fuck did you bring me his pants?”
Matteo shrugs, all innocent. “I didn’t want to wake Camille.”
“Bullshit.”
I don’t elaborate on my reply. He knows he’s full of shit. He doesn’t even bother pretending for more than a second. Matteo thrives on chaos. He’s the definition of the wild middle child—born to stir trouble, poke bears, and set fires just to see what burns.
And the worst part? He’s good at it.
“You live in a separate wing of the compound as Camille and me,” I remind him. “You could’ve grabbed a pair of your pants. You wear the same size as me, and you wouldn’t have disturbed Camille.”
He smirks. “I guess I could have, but again, where’s the fun in that?”
I don’t dignify that with a response. I mostly refuse because I can’t be fucked wasting my breath, but also because Camille is the one thing in this world I’d drop everything for without hesitation. If his loud stomps had awoken her, I wouldn’t be here, rummaging through Lucia’s minimal belongings.
I look around, the ache in my chest heightening. Her “home” was abandoned before she even moved in. A single chair, a mattress, a duffel bag in the corner, and a cracked mirror.
That’s it.
She didn’t leave a trace behind. There’s no perfume or lotion on the vanity sink.
No trace of her except the faintest hint of the citrus truffle she stole at the sweets store, and that might be my imagination playing tricks on me.
I purchased every single truffle that matched the scent of her breath when she sighed in surprise to Camille’s declaration of thanks.
Matteo stands, dusting off his trousers on the way. “So…” He stretches out the word, bored. “What’s the plan, Brother?”
I don’t answer right away because the truth is, I don’t have a plan. Well, I do. Just not one I can articulate without sounding unhinged.
I want to find Lucia, toss her over my shoulder, and demand an explanation as to why she left. I want to understand why I feel like I know her when we’ve barely spoken.
I want her.
And that last want is the issue.
I spent the past week convincing myself that if I took my time this time, I wouldn’t repeat the mistakes of my past. That part of my downfall with Camille’s mother came from us being strangers, riding the high of biting into the forbidden fruit.
I’d recently closed the deal of the century, and I wanted to celebrate my victory as every red-blooded male does.
Beneath the sheets with a bevy of women.
All my plans went to shit when I saw Anna. She was the most beautiful and captivating woman in the room. It was a given that she’d be the center of attention. It was, after all, her masquerade-themed hen’s party.
The “wife-to-be” sash is a beacon for horny single men. I should have seen it as a warning. She was engaged to someone else, so I should have walked away.
I didn’t.
Recalling the mistakes I made slowed my roll the past week. I tried to think logically instead of with my dick.
Again, all cognitive thoughts vanished the second my eyes landed on Lucia. The thrill of the chase ran rampant through my veins. The Caruso men aren’t known for yearning. When we want something, we go after it lock, stock, and fucking barrel.
My tactics worked on both Anna and Lucia.
I’m just praying like fuck for a different outcome this time.
Nico studies me with that too perceptive gaze he pretends he doesn’t have. “You’re fixated.”
I try to deny his claim, but I can’t.
My head refuses to shake, so there’s no way I will vocalize a denial.
He whistles low. “You need to tread carefully, Dante. The last time you were this hooked on a woman, it didn’t end well.”
My stomach flips. He doesn’t have to say her name. The ghost of that mistake still lingers in every corner of my life.
For almost five years, I searched for the nameless woman who had occupied my dreams every night, convinced fate would bring us back together.
Every time I thought I caught a glimpse of her in a crowd, my heart would race, only to crash when I realized it was someone else. I began to wonder if she existed at all, or if I’d conjured her from a loneliness I didn’t realize I had.
Then, one rainy afternoon, Anna showed up at my door.
She didn’t resemble the woman I’d spent years searching for. It could have been because a large feathered mask no longer covered her face, but it felt deeper than that. Her spark was gone, replaced by exhaustion and another emotion harder to name.
With a suitcase in one hand and the other clutching the waist of a little girl, she said, “She’s yours.”
I laughed, thinking it was a cruel joke. My brothers and I have faced multiple attempts to infiltrate the Caruso realm with illegitimate children. But DNA doesn’t lie. As it had proved others fraudulent over a dozen times, it confirmed, without a doubt, that Camille is my daughter.
I tried to make it work with Anna. For Camille’s sake, I wanted us to be a family. I had already missed the first four years of her life, so I didn’t want to waste a single moment fighting about something I couldn’t undo.
Anna swore she searched for me when she found out she was pregnant, that she scoured New York streets for months on end, so how could I blame her for keeping my daughter from me?
Our reunion didn’t even last a month.
Trying to make Anna happy was the equivalent of pulling a hen’s teeth. It was painful, awkward, and ultimately pointless. We had nothing in common except the child we had created.
The woman I’d spent years searching for was a stranger, and the magic of that one night was just that—one night of tricks.
Sometimes, I wonder if that’s how it’s supposed to be. Not every story needs a happy ending. Some nights are meant to become memories that will never touch the harsh light of day.
I still wouldn’t change a thing, though. That night gave me Camille, and I’d walk through fire again if it meant she’d still be here.
“I’m not walking the same route this time,” I say quietly.
“Are you sure?” Matteo asks, backing up the silent accusations beaming from Nico. “Because you’ve got that look again.”
“What look?”
“The one where you’d burn down the city to get to her.”
I meet his eyes, my lips pursed to pfft, but the noise that comes out sounds nothing close to a dismissal. “If that’s what it takes, that’s what it takes.”
Nico whistles again, softer this time. “You’re so fucking gone.”
I don’t respond. There’s no need for me to. The truth is evident on my face.
Something about Lucia has dug in deep and refuses to let go. And tonight her routine, taste, and smell made it worse.
I’ve never been so immediately obsessed.
Well… except that one time, but I’m done talking about that.
“Dad always said once Giovanni fell off the single wagon, you’d be next.
” Matteo moves into the cramped kitchenette, shuddering as he recalls how much he mimics Giovanni’s and my actions.
“Before you fall balls over dick for this girl, can you scratch my name off the list? I ain’t built for monogamy, and I don’t see many women willing to share all I’ve got to offer. ”