Chapter 5 - Elena
Chap-ter 5 - Elena
The sun is barely crest-ing over the hori-zon when I wake.
The pent-house is bathed in a soft glow, the first golden rays of morn-ing spilling through the floor-to-ceil-ing glass walls. Out-side, the city is wak-ing—cars snaking through the streets be-low, sky-scrapers tow-er-ing in the dis-tance like silent sen-tinels, their glass ex-te-ri-ors catch-ing the light and throw-ing it back in frac-tured col-ors. The sky is a mas-ter-piece of pink and gold, but in-side, the pent-house feels un-touched by warmth.
It’s cold—life-less.
Like its owner.
I shift be-neath the silk sheets, their cool smooth-ness a stark con-trast to the heat that lingers in my skin from last night’s firestorm of emo-tions. My body feels tense, coiled with some-thing un-re-solved. My mind flick-ers with the mem-o-ries—the church, the shock-ing truth about my past, the way Dante had stormed in like a force of na-ture and dragged me out with-out a word of ex-pla-na-tion. As if he had the right. As if I was his to claim.
And then there was the mo-ment here—in this very room. The way he’d cor-nered me. The way his breath had min-gled with mine, hot and un-even, be-tray-ing the cracks in his con-trol. The way he had al-most kissed me—his lips so close I could taste the re-straint, the war rag-ing in-side him. And then, just as sud-denly as he had drawn me in, he had pushed me away. As if touch-ing me would be his un-do-ing.
My fin-gers curl into the sheets as a slow, wicked smile tugs at my lips.
Oh, I see now.
Dante Russo, the cold-blooded en-forcer. The feared killer. The man who op-er-ates with bru-tal pre-ci-sion and un-wa-ver-ing con-trol.
But I make him lose that con-trol.
The re-al-iza-tion sends a dan-ger-ous thrill cours-ing through me.
I push my-self up, my gaze flick-ing across the mas-sive space. The pent-house is just as I imag-ined—ul-tra-mod-ern, all sleek steel and glass, an im-per-sonal fortress in the sky. Ev-ery-thing in its place. Ev-ery-thing cu-rated for ef-fi-ciency rather than com-fort. There’s no warmth here, no sign of life be-yond ne-ces-sity.
Ex-cept for him.
Dante is al-ready awake.
I spot him in the kitchen, stand-ing by the mar-ble counter, his broad frame out-lined against the dim morn-ing light. He’s shirt-less, loose sweat-pants slung low on his hips, his dark hair still tou-sled from sleep. His mus-cles shift as he lifts a cof-fee cup to his lips, ev-ery move-ment con-trolled, pre-cise. The kind of con-trol that takes years of dis-ci-pline to mas-ter.
The kind that I know, with-out a doubt, I could un-ravel.
He doesn’t ac-knowl-edge me. Doesn’t even glance my way.
But I feel him watch-ing.
Not with his eyes. With some-thing else.
Some-thing darker.
My pulse flut-ters, an in-vol-un-tary re-ac-tion I hate.
I push off the bed, the cool floor bit-ing against my bare feet as I make my way to-ward him. My steps are un-hur-ried, de-lib-er-ate. I don’t need to rush. I know he hears me. I know he’s aware of my ev-ery move-ment, the way his fin-gers tighten around the cof-fee cup the only be-trayal of his fo-cus.
I stop a few feet away, fold-ing my arms as I lean against the counter. “You’re up early,” I say, my voice soft but laced with chal-lenge.
His jaw ticks. He doesn’t look at me, but his body tenses just enough to tell me he’s lis-ten-ing.
“I didn’t take you for the brood-ing type,” I con-tinue, tilt-ing my head. “Or does this place just suck the life out of ev-ery-thing in it?”
That gets me some-thing. A flicker of amuse-ment, maybe. Or an-noy-ance.
Fi-nally, he turns, slowly, set-ting his cof-fee cup down with de-lib-er-ate ease. His gaze meets mine, dark and un-read-able, a storm brew-ing just be-neath the sur-face.
His si-lence stretches, thick with things un-said.
I hold his stare, re-fus-ing to back down.
He may have dragged me out of that church like I be-longed to him, but if he won’t give me the an-swers I want? I’ll make him break.
I make my way to the kitchen, my move-ments lazy, un-hur-ried. When I reach him, I brush past, just enough for my shoul-der to skim his arm, my hip to brush his thigh.
His body stiff-ens.
I bite my lip, hid-ing my smirk.
“You al-ways this broody in the morn-ing, Russo?” I mur-mur, reach-ing past him for the cof-feepot.
No re-sponse.
But the tick in his jaw tells me ev-ery-thing I need to know.
I pour my-self a cup, de-lib-er-ately lin-ger-ing be-side him, let-ting the si-lence stretch. When I take a slow sip, I hum in ap-pre-ci-a-tion.
“Damn,” I whis-per. “That’s good.”
Dante ex-hales through his nose.
“Elena.” His voice is a warn-ing.
I turn my head just enough to catch his re-flec-tion in the glass win-dow. His jaw is tight, his grip on his own cof-fee cup dan-ger-ously firm.
He’s try-ing not to re-act—try-ing so fuck-ing hard.
And he’s fail-ing.
My smile is all teeth.
Game on.
Just then, the el-e-va-tor dings.
Dante moves in-stantly, his body shift-ing from barely-con-tained ten-sion to lethal fo-cus in a blink.
Luca Ricci steps in-side, his usual smirk ab-sent. He nods at Dante, then glances at me. “Elena.” His voice is light, but there’s some-thing se-ri-ous in his eyes.
I lift a brow. “You here to fi-nally tell me what the hell is go-ing on?”
Dante shoots me a glare, but I ig-nore him.
Luca sighs, rub-bing a hand down his face. “We have a prob-lem.”
Dante moves to-ward him, their con-ver-sa-tion too quiet for me to catch. But I don’t need to hear the words.
I see it in the way Dante’s shoul-ders go rigid—the way his hand curls into a fist.
Some-thing’s wrong.
And I plan to find out ex-actly what.
Be-fore I get the chance to push for an-swers, the el-e-va-tor dings again.
Dante mut-ters a curse.
Luca tenses.
Then, a new voice. Smooth. Cal-cu-lated.
“Well, well. What do we have here?”
I turn.
An-to-nio Moretti steps in-side like he owns the place.
His sharp gaze sweeps over the room be-fore land-ing on me. A slow smirk tugs at his lips.
“Nic-colò’s lit-tle pet,” he mur-murs. “Didn’t think you’d still be breath-ing.”
Dante moves be-fore I can.
One sec-ond, he’s be-side the counter, and the next, he’s in front of me, his broad frame block-ing An-to-nio’s view.
His voice is lethal. “What the fuck do you want, An-to-nio?”
An-to-nio chuck-les. “Re-lax. Just check-ing in. But I have to say….” He shifts his gaze to the side, meet-ing mine. “You seem aw-fully pro-tec-tive of my adopted sis…I mean, sis-ter, Dante.”
I don’t think. I act.
I step around Dante be-fore he can stop me, tilt-ing my body to-ward him in a way I know will make his blood burn.
Then, I reach out and touch him. A slow, de-lib-er-ate drag of my fin-gers along his fore-arm.
A test.
A game.
I feel the in-stant snap of ten-sion in Dante’s mus-cles. The way his en-tire body locks down.
An-to-nio no-tices, too.
He lifts a brow, amuse-ment flick-er-ing in his eyes. “In-ter-est-ing.”
Dante doesn’t re-act. Not out-wardly.
But I feel it.
The storm in-side him.
The way his fists clench, the way his breath-ing changes, the way he’s hold-ing him-self to-gether by a thread.
An-to-nio chuck-les, giv-ing Dante one last know-ing look be-fore step-ping back to-ward the el-e-va-tor. “Care-ful, Russo. You al-ways get too at-tached to things you’re sup-posed to pro-tect.”
The doors slide shut, but not be-fore Luca goes out also, as if sens-ing trou-ble.
And the sec-ond the doors close, Dante snaps.
Be-fore I can re-act, Dante moves.
It hap-pens in a blink. One sec-ond, I’m stand-ing there, push-ing, teas-ing—test-ing the bound-aries of his con-trol. The next, his hand is wrapped around my wrist, his grip un-yield-ing as he yanks me against him.
My breath catches.
I col-lide with his chest, solid and un-mov-able, the force of it send-ing a shock-wave through me. His body is tense, rigid with barely con-tained re-straint, his mus-cles flexed like a coiled spring ready to snap. His skin burns against mine, even through the thin ma-te-rial of my shirt. Ev-ery in-hale, ev-ery ex-hale, is laced with frus-tra-tion, fury—some-thing darker. Some-thing dan-ger-ous.
Some-thing that makes my stom-ach twist in an-tic-i-pa-tion.
His breath-ing is un-even, his chest ris-ing and fall-ing in a way that be-trays the storm rag-ing in-side him. His fin-gers tighten around my wrist—not enough to hurt, but enough to warn. Enough to make my pulse stut-ter.
I swal-low hard.
We’re too close.
Too close to some-thing that nei-ther of us is ready to name.
His scent—smoky and rich, with hints of leather and some-thing un-mis-tak-ably him—wraps around me, in-tox-i-cat-ing. My hands, trai-tor-ous and reck-less, land on his chest, and be-neath my fin-ger-tips, I feel it. The steady, pound-ing rhythm of his heart-beat. Hard. Fast. Al-most fran-tic.
I ex-pect him to shove me away.
I ex-pect him to re-lease me like he al-ways does, to re-mind me that he’s ice and steel, un-touch-able and im-mov-able.
But he doesn’t.
In-stead, he leans in.
Slow. Con-trolled. De-lib-er-ate.
His breath is hot against my cheek, his lips just inches from my skin. Close enough that I can feel the heat ra-di-at-ing off him. Close enough that the space be-tween us barely ex-ists.
His voice, when it comes, is lethal. A sharp-edged whis-per that slides down my spine and coils low in my stom-ach.
"Are you try-ing to fuck-ing die?"
The words send a shiver through me. Not from fear. Not even close.
I wet my lips, my heart ham-mer-ing. “Maybe I just like see-ing how far I can push you.”
Some-thing snaps.
His grip on my wrist tight-ens, just enough to make my breath hitch. Then he jerks me closer—so close that I feel ev-ery tense line of his body press-ing into mine.
His lips brush against my ear. A touch so light, so fleet-ing, it’s barely there.
But my whole body re-acts.
A sharp in-hale. A pulse be-tween my legs. A tight-en-ing in my chest. A heat that spreads like wild-fire through my veins.
And then, his voice—low, rough, wrecked.
"You have no idea how close you are to get-ting ex-actly what you want."
My thighs clench.
Heat pools low in my belly, an ache so deep I can barely breathe.
Fuck.
I wanted this.
I wanted to make him lose con-trol.
But I un-der-es-ti-mated some-thing.
I am also los-ing con-trol.
Be-cause now, I’m the one trem-bling.
Now, I’m the one who feels like I’m stand-ing at the edge of some-thing dan-ger-ous, some-thing ir-re-versible.
And Dante—Dante knows it.
For a sec-ond, I think he’s go-ing to snap. That he’s go-ing to give in, to crush his mouth against mine, to fi-nally break.
But then—
He lets go.
Abruptly. Vi-o-lently.
Like touch-ing me burns him.
Like I’m some-thing dan-ger-ous.
Like he’s some-thing dan-ger-ous.
He shoves him-self back-ward, putting space be-tween us, his breath ragged. His hands curl into fists at his sides, as if he’s fight-ing to hold him-self to-gether. As if he’s barely keep-ing him-self from reach-ing for me again.
His eyes—dark, wild, des-per-ate—lock onto mine.
"Stop play-ing fuck-ing games," he rasps.
I should be scared.
I should walk away.
I don’t.
Be-cause now, I know the truth.
Dante Russo isn’t afraid of hurt-ing me.
He’s afraid of claim-ing me.
And I plan to make him do ex-actly that.