Chapter 7 - Elena
Chap-ter 7 - Elena
The mem-ory of Dante’s kiss still lingers on my lips.
It’s been hours.
I should be fo-cused on some-thing else—any-thing else—but my mind keeps be-tray-ing me, drag-ging me back to that mo-ment. The way he pressed me against the desk, his grip firm and un-yield-ing, his touch brand-ing me like fire.
The way his breath hitched when I moaned against his mouth.
The hunger in his kiss. The way he de-voured me like he was drown-ing and I was his only life-line.
I squeeze my eyes shut, press-ing my fin-gers against my lips as if I can erase the ghost of his touch.
But it’s still there.
My pulse still races when I think about the way his hands moved over me—pos-ses-sive, des-per-ate, like he didn’t want to stop but had to.
And then he did stop.
He pulled away like he’d been burned.
Like I burned him.
I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t want more.
But my body is still thrum-ming, still rest-less, still want-ing some-thing I know I shouldn’t.
I shake my head, in-hal-ing deeply, try-ing to force the thought away.
I need a dis-trac-tion.
Some-thing nor-mal.
Some-thing that isn’t Dante Russo.
The mo-ment I step into the open-air mar-ket, I take a deep breath, let-ting the crisp morn-ing air fill my lungs.
The scents hit me all at once—freshly baked bread, rich espresso, the cit-rusy tang of ripe lemons stacked in wooden crates.
Ven-dors call out to passers-by, their voices warm and fa-mil-iar, sell-ing ev-ery-thing from vi-brant bou-quets of wild-flow-ers to wheels of creamy cheese.
It’s bustling, alive, nor-mal.
And for the first time in days, I feel like I can breathe.
Like I’m not a woman trapped in a world of blood and be-trayal.
Like I’m not the daugh-ter of two crime fam-i-lies who see me as noth-ing more than a pawn in their power games.
I pause at a stall where an el-derly woman is slic-ing fresh fruit into neat, glis-ten-ing cubes. She hums softly as she works, her wrin-kled hands mov-ing with prac-ticed ease.
It’s so sim-ple. So or-di-nary.
It feels like a dif-fer-ent world.
A world that isn’t mine.
A world that I could have had—if I were some-one else. I think of my bak-ery, but I can’t go back there now…not af-ter that at-tack.
I reach out, brush-ing my fin-gers over a plump straw-berry, feel-ing its cool firm-ness un-der my touch.
But be-fore I can pick it up, I sense it.
Him.
Dante.
He stands a few steps be-hind me, a shadow in black, his pres-ence as in-escapable as ever.
I don’t have to turn around to know he’s watch-ing me. He al-lowed me to go out with his men, but he never men-tioned that he would be fol-low-ing me him-self.
I can feel the weight of his gaze, burn-ing into my skin, track-ing my ev-ery move-ment.
His body is re-laxed—ca-sual, even—but I know bet-ter. Be-neath that ef-fort-less stance is a man al-ways on guard, al-ways ready.
He’s here for one rea-son.
Be-cause I’m not al-lowed to go any-where alone. I’m a pris-oner.
The idea should suf-fo-cate me.
But strangely, it doesn’t.
I should hate the way he fol-lows me, the way he hov-ers like an ever-present storm cloud, dark and brood-ing.
I should hate that I can’t step foot out-side with-out his pro-tec-tion.
I left the house be-cause I wanted to be free from him for a while. Yet he is here fol-low-ing me. I am an-gry, I want to turn around and shout at him.
But I don’t.
And that scares me more than any-thing.
I let my fin-gers skim an-other piece of fruit be-fore pulling my hand back.
I don’t fight Dante’s pres-ence.
I don’t try to run.
But I do take a small step for-ward, putting a lit-tle space be-tween us.
Pre-tend-ing—for just a mo-ment—that I’m free.
Pre-tend-ing that I’m not un-der his pro-tec-tion.
Pre-tend-ing that I don’t still feel the ghost of his lips on mine.
“Elena?”
The fa-mil-iar voice makes me spin.
Sofia stands in front of me, blink-ing in shock, a bas-ket of fresh fruit hang-ing from her arm.
A rush of warmth spreads through my chest. “Sofia!”
I barely have time to re-act be-fore she throws her arms around me.
“I was start-ing to think you were dead,” she mut-ters half-jok-ingly, squeez-ing me tighter.
I ex-hale shak-ily. “Not dead.”
Her arms drop, and she pulls back, scan-ning me from head to toe.
She must have no-ticed the ten-sion in my pos-ture be-cause her brows knit to-gether. “You have to tell me what’s go-ing on. Where have you—”
Her gaze shifts over my shoul-der.
And just like that, the mo-ment changes.
She crosses her arms, tilt-ing her head as she looks Dante up and down. “Well. Hello, Tall, Dark, and Broody.”
I groan. “Sofia.”
“What?” She smirks, then turns back to me. “You’ve been miss-ing for days, and now you show up with him?” She gives a slow, know-ing nod. “I knew some-thing was go-ing on be-tween you two.”
Dante re-mains silent, but I feel the heat of his glare.
“There is noth-ing go-ing on,” I hiss, grab-bing Sofia’s wrist. “Let’s go.”
But be-fore we can take a step—
The air around us changes.
A rip-ple of ten-sion spreads through the mar-ket, the back-ground noise dip-ping just slightly.
Like peo-ple know some-thing is com-ing.
Like they sense dan-ger be-fore it ar-rives.
Then—
A woman’s voice. Smooth. Con-fi-dent.
“Ele-na Mo-ret-ti.”
I turn.
And my stom-ach drops.
She walks to-ward us like she owns the world.
And maybe she does.
Is-abella Ro-mano moves with the kind of ef-fort-less grace that comes from be-ing un-touch-able. From know-ing you be-long at the top of the food chain. Ev-ery step she takes is de-lib-er-ate, heels click-ing against the un-even cob-ble-stones with an ar-ro-gant rhythm, like a queen de-scend-ing from her throne to sur-vey the un-wor-thy.
She’s a vi-sion of sleek con-fi-dence and sharp edges, wrapped in a jet-black dress that clings to her curves like it was painted on. Her lips, blood-red and smirk-ing, part just slightly as if she’s al-ready amused by some-thing we haven’t re-al-ized yet.
She’s stun-ning.
She’s dan-ger-ous.
And I know ex-actly who she is. I’ve only heard about her and seen pic-tures of her, but now that I’m see-ing her in the flesh, it’s even more ob-vi-ous.
My half-sis-ter.
The real Ro-mano heir.
The daugh-ter who wasn’t stolen away in the dead of night. The daugh-ter who grew up in power and priv-i-lege while I was hid-den, erased from the world like a mis-take that never should have been made.
My chest tight-ens, but I don’t flinch. I can’t.
She doesn’t even look at me.
Not once.
Her gaze flick-ers over me, barely reg-is-ter-ing my pres-ence be-fore slid-ing past, un-in-ter-ested. As if I’m just an-other face in the crowd. As if I don’t even ex-ist.
In-stead, she locks onto Dante.
And when she does, her en-tire ex-pres-sion shifts, dark amuse-ment flick-er-ing in her eyes.
“Well, well, well,” she purrs, step-ping closer.
Her voice is like honey laced with venom. Sweet enough to fool you—un-til it kills you.
Dante’s body stiff-ens be-side me, draw-ing my at-ten-tion.
He must have got-ten closer the mo-ment he saw Is-abella.
His ex-pres-sion hard-ens into some-thing un-read-able.
But Is-abella isn’t fazed. She closes the dis-tance, her per-fume—some-thing rich, dark, and suf-fo-cat-ing—wrap-ping around him like a net.
She drags a sin-gle man-i-cured fin-ger down his fore-arm, the glossy red of her nails stand-ing in stark con-trast against his skin. A touch meant to re-mind. A touch meant to claim.
“You’ve been hid-ing from me, amore.”
I hate the way she says it.
Like she knows him.
Like she’s had him.
My stom-ach twists, a sour taste ris-ing in my throat.
Dante doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away, but I see the shift. A dark-en-ing in his gaze. A flicker of some-thing sharp and dan-ger-ous.
“Get your fuck-ing hand off me, Is-abella.”
She pouts, tilt-ing her head like a cat toy-ing with a wounded bird. “Oh, Dante, don’t be so cold.” Her fin-gers trail higher, teas-ing along the mus-cles of his chest. “We used to be friends, re-mem-ber?”
Some-thing ugly un-coils in-side me.
Not fear. Not dis-gust.
Some-thing worse.
Some-thing hot-ter, sharper.
Some-thing pos-ses-sive.
I burn.
Sofia nudges me with her el-bow, whis-per-ing un-der her breath, “I knew some-thing was go-ing on be-tween you two.”
I shoot her a glare.
But she’s not wrong.
Be-cause my hands have al-ready curled into fists, my nails bit-ing into my palms as I fight the over-whelm-ing, ir-ra-tional urge to rip Is-abella’s per-fect fuck-ing hand off of him.
“I’m not in-ter-ested,” Dante mut-ters, step-ping back.
The move-ment is small but de-ci-sive. A de-lib-er-ate line drawn be-tween them.
Is-abella’s lips curve into a slow, know-ing smile. “That’s not what you said last time.”
Some-thing snaps in-side me.
Be-fore I can think, I move.
I step for-ward, right be-tween them, forc-ing Is-abella to take a step back.
She blinks, mo-men-tar-ily caught off guard.
Then, amuse-ment flick-ers in her dark eyes, slow and preda-tory.
I feel Dante tense be-hind me.
I lift my chin, my voice sharp. “I don’t know what game you’re play-ing, but he’s not in-ter-ested. So maybe take your des-per-ate act some-where else.”
The mar-ket goes silent.
Sofia sucks in a breath be-side me.
Dante mut-ters, “Je-sus Christ.”
And Is-abella….
Is-abella smiles.
Then she laughs. Slow. Low. De-lighted.
Like she’s en-joy-ing this.
Like I just proved some-thing to her.
She tilts her head, study-ing me the way a sci-en-tist stud-ies a spec-i-men un-der glass. “Well, that’s in-ter-est-ing.” Her voice low-ers, barely above a whis-per. “Tell me, Elena: Does he know?”
The blood in my veins turns to ice.
Be-fore I can re-spond, she leans in just slightly, her voice smooth as silk but laced with poi-son. “Does he know what you re-ally are?”
My stom-ach clenches, my breath catch-ing in my throat.
Dante steps for-ward, his voice sharp, cut-ting through the ten-sion like a blade. “You’re done.”
But Is-abella lingers for just a sec-ond longer.
And when she pulls back, her smirk deep-ens. “I’ll be see-ing you, sorel-lona.”
Big sis-ter.
She knows.
She’s known all along.
And she wants me to know it too.
Then, with one last amused glance at Dante, she turns and dis-ap-pears into the crowd, leav-ing be-hind noth-ing but the scent of ex-pen-sive per-fume and the prom-ise of some-thing dark on the hori-zon.
Dante doesn’t speak as we leave the mar-ket.
Nei-ther do I.
The ten-sion be-tween us is thick, suf-fo-cat-ing, an un-spo-ken storm brew-ing in the space that sep-a-rates us.
My mind is rac-ing.
With anger. With jeal-ousy.
With con-fu-sion.
And with one un-de-ni-able fact: I wanted to claw Is-abella Ro-mano’s per-fect fuck-ing face off.
And the worst part?
I don’t even know if it was be-cause of what she said—
Or be-cause she touched him.