Chapter 2 - Dante
Chap-ter 2 - Dante
The drive is silent, ex-cept for Elena’s sharp, fu-ri-ous breath-ing.
I can feel her eyes burn-ing holes into the side of my head, but I keep my fo-cus on the road. She’s sit-ting stiffly in the pas-sen-ger seat, arms crossed, knuck-les white. Her scent—vanilla and warm sugar—fills the con-fined space, a cruel con-trast to the blood still dry-ing on my cuffs.
I should have let Luca han-dle her. Should have let any-one else deal with the mess that is Elena Moretti.
But the sec-ond I saw her pinned against that counter, fear flash-ing in those hazel eyes, some-thing in me shifted.
Some-thing I don’t fuck-ing like.
The weight of what hap-pened back there hasn’t fully hit her yet. She’s still run-ning on adren-a-line, too busy be-ing pissed at me to process what she just went through. That’s fine. She’ll break down even-tu-ally. They al-ways do. And when that mo-ment comes, I don’t know if I want to be around to see it.
Her chest rises and falls rapidly, each breath sharper than the last. Her fin-gers tighten around her arms as if she’s hold-ing her-self to-gether, and I know the mo-ment the fight leaves her, she’ll re-al-ize how close she came to dy-ing. The re-al-ity of it will set in, seep into her bones, and then? She’ll ei-ther shat-ter or re-build her-self into some-thing new.
I’ve seen it hap-pen be-fore. I’ve even been the cause of it.
But for some rea-son, I don’t want to see it hap-pen to her.
“Where are you tak-ing me?” she snaps, voice sharp enough to slice through the ten-sion.
I don’t an-swer.
Elena huffs, shift-ing in her seat. “Dante. I swear to God—”
“You swear to God, what?” My grip tight-ens on the steer-ing wheel. “You’ll kick my ass?”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “Damn right, I will.”
I fight the smirk threat-en-ing to pull at my lips. She’s got fire. Even af-ter nearly get-ting killed in her own bak-ery, she’s still got the nerve to fight me.
I shake my head, forc-ing my ex-pres-sion back to in-dif-fer-ence. “You’d have to get past me first, princess.”
“Stop call-ing me that,” she seethes.
I take the next turn harder than nec-es-sary, mak-ing her grip the dash-board. The streets blur as I nav-i-gate the back roads, weav-ing through the city like a ghost, al-ways ahead, al-ways un-seen.
She doesn’t re-al-ize it yet, but she’s not Elena Moretti any-more.
And if she keeps push-ing me, she won’t sur-vive long enough to fig-ure out who she re-ally is.
The sec-ond I un-lock the door, Elena bolts in-side.
Like a god-damn deer, she launches down the hall, her bare feet pound-ing against the wooden floor. Her breath comes in sharp gasps, her hair a wild blur as she pro-pels her-self for-ward. She doesn’t hes-i-tate. Doesn’t even glance back. Just pure, blind in-stinct drives her for-ward.
I sigh.
Pre-dictable.
Three long strides and I catch her, wrap-ping an arm around her waist just as she reaches the next door-way. She shrieks, twist-ing vi-o-lently, her body writhing against my hold like a live wire. Her nails dig into my fore-arm—sharp, des-per-ate—but I don’t let go.
“Let me go, you ass-hole!”
She thrashes harder, her knee jerk-ing up in an at-tempt to land a hit. I shift at the last sec-ond, barely dodg-ing the blow. She’s fast, but I’ve han-dled worse. I tighten my grip, pulling her back against my chest.
“Not hap-pen-ing,” I growl.
She tries again, her body arch-ing as she fights me with ev-ery-thing she has. For a mo-ment, I think she might ac-tu-ally slip free. Her el-bow slams into my ribs—hard enough to sting but not enough to make me let go. I catch her wrists, twist-ing her body in one sharp mo-tion, forc-ing her back against the cold wall.
My fore-arm presses against her front, pin-ning her in place.
She stills, her breath ragged, chest ris-ing and fall-ing in quick, un-even pants.
The only sound be-tween us is the rough drag of our breath-ing.
Her pulse ham-mers be-neath my fore-arm. I can feel it—er-ratic and wild.
I ex-pect fear, but what I get is some-thing else en-tirely: de-fi-ance.
Elena glares up at me, hazel eyes burn-ing. Her lips part, and her skin is flushed from the strug-gle. She doesn’t cower, doesn’t beg. In-stead, she squares her shoul-ders, tilts her chin, and meets my stare like she’s dar-ing me to make the next move.
“If you’re go-ing to kill me,” she says, her voice low but steady, “just get it over with.”
The words shouldn’t hit me the way they do.
I lean in, let-ting the si-lence stretch be-tween us. “If I wanted you dead,” I mur-mur, my voice barely above a whis-per, “you’d al-ready be in the ground.”
She swal-lows hard.
Her throat works as she pro-cesses that, her breath-ing un-even. “Then why am I here?”
I hes-i-tate, just for a sec-ond.
Be-cause I don’t have an an-swer that won’t make this even more com-pli-cated than it al-ready is.
I pull back, my ex-pres-sion cold, un-read-able. With-out an-other word, I shove open the door to the room I set up for her.
“In-side,” I or-der.
She doesn’t move.
“Elena.” My voice drops lower, a warn-ing laced with steel.
Her jaw tight-ens, eyes locked on mine like she’s weigh-ing her op-tions. Then, fi-nally, with a frus-trated ex-hale, she steps in-side.
I lock the door be-hind her.
A sec-ond of si-lence.
Then—
A scream of rage.
She pounds against the wood, her fists slam-ming over and over, the force of it vi-brat-ing through my palm where it rests against the door.
I let my eyes close briefly, forc-ing out a slow breath.
It’s bet-ter this way.
For both of us.
I barely make it to the kitchen be-fore I hear the win-dow creak open.
Of course.
I don’t run, just take my time climb-ing the stairs, wait-ing un-til she’s just about to drop down be-fore I wrap an arm around her waist and yank her back in.
Elena gasps, strug-gling, but this time, I don’t let her go. I pull her against the wall, one hand fist-ing in her hair, the other grip-ping her hip.
“Are you fuck-ing kid-ding me?” My voice is rougher than I in-tended.
“Get off me, you son of a—”
I press in closer. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make her stop.
She does.
But now we’re too close.
Her breath fans against my throat. The scent of flour and sugar clings to her skin, in-tox-i-cat-ing, mak-ing my grip fal-ter for a split sec-ond.
A mis-take.
Be-cause in that split sec-ond, she moves.
Her knee comes up fast, aimed right for my groin.
I dodge at the last sec-ond, barely miss-ing the hit. “Je-sus, woman.”
She glares at me, still breath-ing hard.
I ex-hale through my nose, pin-ning her wrists above her head. “If you try that again, I’ll tie you to the fuck-ing bed.”
Her lips part.
And fuck me, but I wasn’t sup-posed to say that.
The air shifts. Some-thing darker moves be-tween us.
Her pulse ham-mers against my grip, her body tense and heated be-neath mine.
She swal-lows again. Licks her lips. And I swear to God, it’s the most dan-ger-ous thing she’s done all night.
I should step back.
I don’t.
In-stead, I move closer, un-til my mouth is just over hers. “If you run, I won’t chase you. But the men who find you next?” I let my lips graze her ear. “They won’t be as kind as me.”
She shiv-ers.
Fuck.
I let her go and step back. “Stay in-side.”
She watches me, eyes burn-ing, but she doesn’t say a word as I walk out.
Luca is wait-ing in the hall, arms crossed, his broad frame cast-ing a shadow against the dimly lit cor-ri-dor. He doesn’t speak at first, just watches me with that sharp, as-sess-ing gaze—the one that sees too much, that has al-ways seen too much.
“She’s a hand-ful,” he mut-ters fi-nally, voice low but edged with some-thing un-read-able.
I let out a sigh, rolling the ten-sion from my shoul-ders. “She’s alive.”
His mouth tight-ens. “For now.”
I don’t need the re-minder.
Luca has been my clos-est friend for years—long be-fore blood and vi-o-lence bound us to-gether. He’s my sec-ond-in-com-mand, the only per-son I trust to have my back when ev-ery-thing goes to hell. And right now, he’s look-ing at me like he al-ready knows ex-actly where this is head-ing.
“Dante.” His voice shifts, the hard-ness giv-ing way to some-thing qui-eter. “Tell her the truth.”
I glance back at the door, at the space that sep-a-rates me from Elena. In-side, she’s pac-ing, no doubt scour-ing ev-ery inch of that room for a way out. She’s stub-born. Smart. De-ter-mined. And if I know her at all, she’s al-ready plan-ning her next move.
“What truth?” I re-tort. “No one knows the truth. All ev-ery-one ex-cept Nic-colò Moretti knows is that she’s adopted. I’m not even sure he knows her true par-ents.”
She’s cer-tainly not ready for the truth.
And nei-ther am I.
“She’s safer not know-ing,” I say, keep-ing my voice steady, even as doubt coils in my gut.
Luca doesn’t look con-vinced. He stud-ies me for a long mo-ment, then ex-hales, rub-bing a hand down his face. “Yeah?” His tone is quiet. Know-ing. “Or are you?”
The words hit harder than they should.
I hold his gaze, but I don’t an-swer.
Be-cause the truth is, I have no fuck-ing idea.
In-stead of dwelling on it, I turn on my heel and walk away, my foot-steps echo-ing against the wooden floor. I force my mind to shift—to fo-cus on the next step, on the de-ci-sions that still need to be made. But just as I reach the end of the hall, some-thing makes me stop.
A sound—soft, muf-fled.
A sob.
It comes from be-hind her door, barely au-di-ble, but some-how, it slams into me like a god-damn bul-let.
My jaw clenches.
I don’t turn around.
I don’t move.
Be-cause this was al-ways in-evitable.
She’ll give up even-tu-ally.
This is for her safety.
She’ll let down her guard soon.
And when she does, I need to be ready.
Even if I’m not sure I want to be.