Chapter 9 - Dante
Chap-ter 9 - Dante
The fire crack-les softly, the only sound in the oth-er-wise silent room. Shad-ows flicker across the wooden floors, stretch-ing and shift-ing with ev-ery move-ment of the flames. This place was built for sur-vival, not com-fort. Re-in-forced walls, bul-let-proof win-dows, a kitchen stocked more with am-mu-ni-tion than ac-tual food.
And yet, some-how, the scent of freshly baked cook-ies lingers in the air.
It doesn’t be-long here.
She doesn’t be-long here.
Elena steps into the dim light, her pres-ence some-thing soft and warm in a space that was never meant for ei-ther. She’s wear-ing one of my shirts, the fab-ric hang-ing loosely off her frame, brush-ing just high enough on her thighs to test ev-ery shred of my re-straint. The fire-light dances over her skin, her bare legs, and her hair falls in loose waves around her face.
I grip the glass in my hand tighter, the am-ber liq-uid swirling as I take an-other slow sip of whiskey.
She made the cook-ies.
She clears her throat, and I look up, my gaze lock-ing onto hers.
“You haven’t eaten,” she says, her voice softer than I ex-pect.
I ex-hale, shak-ing my head. “Not hun-gry.”
Her eyes drop to the plate in her hands, hes-i-ta-tion flick-er-ing across her face be-fore she steps closer. “I made these.”
She sets the plate down on the ta-ble be-side me, her fin-gers lin-ger-ing just long enough that I could reach out and touch her if I wanted to. If I let my-self.
I don’t.
In-stead, I lean back against the couch, rest-ing an arm along the back of it, my other hand dan-gling my whiskey glass from my fin-ger-tips. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Her jaw tight-ens. “And where ex-actly should I be, Dante? Out there? Run-ning for my life?”
I don’t an-swer. Be-cause I don’t fuck-ing know.
She’s safer here. But be-ing close to me? That’s not safe, ei-ther.
I toss back the rest of my drink, let-ting the burn set-tle deep in my chest as I set the empty glass aside. My fin-gers drag through my hair, and when I glance up again, she’s still watch-ing me.
“I know why you’re push-ing me away,” she says, her voice quiet but steady.
My gaze sharp-ens. “Do you?”
She nods.
And for a mo-ment, nei-ther of us move.
The air be-tween us crack-les with some-thing heavy, some-thing in-evitable.
Then I’m on my feet.
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t step back. Just watches as I close the space be-tween us, my body coil-ing with ten-sion I can’t seem to shake.
“Go to bed, Elena,” I mut-ter, turn-ing away.
But she doesn’t move.
She shouldn’t be here.
Not like this.
Not in my shirt, the over-sized fab-ric slip-ping off one shoul-der, re-veal-ing smooth, bare skin that makes my fin-gers twitch. Not with her scent—vanilla and sugar—fill-ing my lungs, mak-ing me dizzy with need. Not with those wide, de-fi-ant eyes, dar-ing me to cross a line I’ve been cling-ing to with bloody fin-gers.
But I’m al-ready fall-ing.
The mo-ment she steps closer, my re-straint snaps like a brit-tle wire.
One sec-ond, she’s stand-ing there, star-ing at me with those soft, chal-leng-ing eyes. The next, she’s pinned against the wall, my body caging her in, my hands grip-ping her waist, thumbs press-ing into the curve of her hips.
A gasp leaves her lips, sharp and breath-less.
I drink it in.
"You drive me fuck-ing crazy," I growl, my mouth so close to hers I can feel the heat of her breath.
Then I crush my lips to hers.
She moans into my mouth, and I swal-low the sound, deep-en-ing the kiss, my tongue slid-ing against hers, hot and des-per-ate. Her hands are ev-ery-where—grip-ping my shoul-ders, dig-ging into my hair, yank-ing me closer like she can’t get enough.
She doesn’t hes-i-tate. She meets my hunger with her own, press-ing her body flush against mine, her soft curves mold-ing to my hard edges.
I drag my hands down her back, over the swell of her ass, grip-ping tight as I roll my hips against her. She gasps, her nails rak-ing down my arms, and fuck—she feels so good. Warm and soft and fuck-ing per-fect against me.
I need more.
I grab the hem of my shirt and yank it over her head, leav-ing her bare in front of me, her breath hitch-ing as the fire-light casts golden shad-ows across her skin. My gaze trails down, tak-ing in the full, round swell of her breasts, the way her nip-ples harden un-der my stare, the curve of her waist lead-ing to those sin-ful hips that fit so per-fectly in my hands.
“Fuck-ing gor-geous,” I mut-ter, my voice rough.
She shiv-ers, but it’s not from the cold.
I palm her breasts, rolling her nip-ples be-tween my fin-gers, lov-ing the way she arches into my touch, her lips part-ing on a needy whim-per.
"Dante," she breathes, her voice shak-ing with want.
I dip my head, tak-ing one taut peak into my mouth, swirling my tongue over the sen-si-tive bud be-fore suck-ing hard. She gasps, her fin-gers tan-gling in my hair, tug-ging as I move to the other breast, giv-ing it the same at-ten-tion, nip-ping, lick-ing, tast-ing.
Her thighs press to-gether, des-per-ate for fric-tion.
I smirk against her skin.
"Pa-tience, princess," I mur-mur, trail-ing kisses down her stom-ach, my hands al-ready push-ing her panties down her hips.
She steps out of them, com-pletely bare be-fore me, her body flushed with de-sire.
I drop to my knees, my hands grip-ping her thighs as I press my mouth to the soft skin just above her hip bone.
Her breath stut-ters.
I kiss lower, down the in-side of her thigh, my lips teas-ing, tast-ing, inch-ing closer to where she's al-ready slick and ready for me.
"Dante, please," she whim-pers, her hips shift-ing, beg-ging for more.
I groan, drag-ging my tongue over her in-ner thigh be-fore fi-nally—fi-nally—part-ing her folds with my fin-gers, press-ing a slow, teas-ing stroke against her clit.
She gasps, her head fall-ing back against the wall, her en-tire body trem-bling.
"Fuck," I mut-ter, watch-ing the way she re-acts, the way she melts un-der my touch.
I press my tongue to her, flick-ing, cir-cling, suck-ing, and she moans, her thighs squeez-ing around my head as I de-vour her.
She’s fuck-ing drip-ping.
I slide two fin-gers in-side her, curl-ing them just right, stroking that per-fect spot, and she cries out, her body jerk-ing as plea-sure crashes over her.
"That's it, baby," I growl, my mouth never leav-ing her. "Come for me."
She does.
Hard.
Her en-tire body shud-ders, her moans raw and des-per-ate, her hands grip-ping my hair like she’s afraid I’ll stop.
I don’t.
I lap up ev-ery drop, sa-vor-ing the way she tastes, the way she feels, the way she com-pletely un-rav-els for me.
And when she fi-nally stops shak-ing, when her breath-ing evens out just enough—
I stand.
She barely has time to re-cover be-fore I’m kiss-ing her again, let-ting her taste her-self on my lips as I press my cock against her stom-ach, hard and aching.
She reaches down, her fin-gers wrap-ping around me, stroking through the fab-ric of my pants, and my en-tire body tenses.
"Je-sus, Elena," I groan, my head drop-ping to her shoul-der.
She smirks, squeez-ing me through the ma-te-rial, teas-ing, tor-tur-ing.
"You're still wear-ing too many clothes," she mur-murs, her fin-gers slip-ping to my belt, un-do-ing it with slow, de-lib-er-ate move-ments.
I let her.
Let her push my pants down, let her stroke me, let her drive me right to the fuck-ing edge—
Then I see it.
That mark.
Small. Barely no-tice-able.
Just above her hip bone.
A birth-mark.
I freeze.
My blood turns to ice.
My fin-gers still on her skin.
Elena whim-pers, shift-ing against me, her body still burn-ing, still want-ing. But I can’t move.
Be-cause this mark—this tiny, in-signif-i-cant mark—
I’ve seen it be-fore.
And sud-denly, ev-ery-thing changes.
CHAP-TER TEN
Dante Russo
The old pho-to-graph sits on the ta-ble in front of me, its edges worn and curl-ing with age.
Alessan-dra Ro-mano.
A ghost from the past. A name whis-pered in dark cor-ners. A woman who was sup-posed to be dead.
I stare at the im-age, my pulse ham-mer-ing against my skull. The grainy black-and-white photo cap-tures a mo-ment frozen in time—a woman stand-ing near the edge of a grand es-tate, the wind tan-gling through her long, dark hair. Her face is strik-ing. Fa-mil-iar. Too fa-mil-iar.
But it’s not just the shape of her lips or the sharp an-gles of her cheek-bones that send ice down my spine.
It’s the small, al-most im-per-cep-ti-ble mark just above her hip.
The same mark I saw on Elena.
My gut clenches. My fin-gers tighten around the pho-to-graph as my mind races through ev-ery pos-si-ble ex-pla-na-tion. Co-in-ci-dence? A trick of the light? A mean-ing-less sim-i-lar-ity?
No.
I know bet-ter.
Co-in-ci-dences don’t ex-ist in our world.
I shove a hand through my hair, ex-hal-ing slowly through my nose, try-ing to think past the roar-ing in my head. If my in-stincts are right—and they’re never wrong—then Elena isn’t just an-other pawn caught in the bloody war be-tween the Moret-tis and the Ro-manos. And that would ex-plain why they keep call-ing her the Ro-mano girl.
She’s some-thing else en-tirely.
Some-thing far worse.
She’s the miss-ing piece of a se-cret that was never sup-posed to resur-face.
A se-cret buried in blood and be-trayal.
A se-cret that, if un-cov-ered, could bring ev-ery-thing crash-ing down.
The room feels smaller, the air heav-ier. I press my palms against the ta-ble, star-ing at the pho-to-graph like it might blink first. My breath comes slow and mea-sured, but my heart is a jack-ham-mer in-side my chest.
I need to be sure.
I need an-swers.
A sharp knock on the door jerks me out of my thoughts.
I straighten, my ex-pres-sion hard-en-ing as I turn to-ward the en-trance.
Luca steps in-side, his stance rigid, his ex-pres-sion carved from stone. “Nic-colò wants you in his study.” His voice is clipped, a thread of ten-sion weav-ing through each word. “Now.”
I nod, slip-ping the pho-to-graph into the in-side pocket of my jacket be-fore fol-low-ing him out.
My world has just tilted off its axis.
And I have a feel-ing it’s about to get a hell of a lot worse.
The weight of the con-ver-sa-tion ahead presses against my ribs as I walk to-ward Nic-colò’s study. My foot-steps echo through the long, mar-ble-floored cor-ri-dor, each step slow and mea-sured. The Moretti es-tate is silent at this hour, but it’s never truly empty. The air is thick with un-spo-ken threats, with the ever-present hum of power shift-ing be-neath the sur-face.
I reach the heavy oak doors and pause for half a sec-ond be-fore push-ing them open.
In-side, the study is dimly lit, bathed in the flick-er-ing glow of fire-light. The scent of aged whiskey and burn-ing wood clings to the air, mix-ing with the faint musk of old books lin-ing the ma-hogany shelves. Heavy vel-vet drapes block out what lit-tle day-light re-mains, cast-ing deep shad-ows across the room.
Nic-colò Moretti stands by the fire-place, his back par-tially turned to me, one hand swirling a glass of am-ber liq-uid. He doesn’t ac-knowl-edge me right away, too deep in thought.
But An-to-nio does.
He’s al-ready loung-ing in one of the leather chairs, his usual smirk play-ing on his lips. Re-laxed, com-fort-able, like he owns the room. Like he wants me to know he owns the room.
I don’t ac-knowl-edge him.
I fo-cus on Nic-colò in-stead.
The head of the Moretti fam-ily is a man of few wasted words. When he speaks, you lis-ten. And when he sum-mons you to his study, it’s never for some-thing triv-ial.
Nic-colò fi-nally turns, his sharp, cal-cu-lat-ing gaze lock-ing onto mine. “Sit.”
I don’t.
In-stead, I step for-ward, keep-ing my stance firm. “What’s this about?” My voice is even, con-trolled.
Nic-colò sighs, rub-bing a hand over his jaw. “We need to talk about Elena.”
I tense up be-fore I can stop my-self.
An-to-nio chuck-les from his seat. “Oh, now he’s in-ter-ested.”
I shoot him a glare. He smirks, set-tling back as if he’s en-joy-ing a pri-vate joke at my ex-pense. I don’t take the bait.
Nic-colò sets his glass down on the pol-ished wooden desk, fold-ing his hands in front of him. “I’m send-ing her away.”
The words land like a gut punch.
I take a step closer. “That’s not an op-tion.”
Nic-colò’s ex-pres-sion doesn’t change. His gaze re-mains steady, un-read-able. But there’s a warn-ing there—a silent re-minder of the line I’m toe-ing. “It’s not your call.”
I ex-hale slowly, forc-ing down the im-me-di-ate surge of anger ris-ing in my chest. Los-ing con-trol won’t get me any-where. Not with Nic-colò. Not with him watch-ing.
“You’re mak-ing a mis-take,” I say, keep-ing my voice level. “Some-one in-side the fam-ily is leak-ing in-for-ma-tion. If you send her away now, she’ll be an even eas-ier tar-get.”
Nic-colò leans back slightly, study-ing me with that un-nerv-ing pa-tience of his. “And you have proof of this mole?”
I hes-i-tate.
And that’s all the an-swer he needs.
His mouth tight-ens as he shakes his head. “You don’t.” He ex-hales, pinch-ing the bridge of his nose. “What I do have proof of is that Elena’s life is in dan-ger ev-ery sec-ond she’s here.” His voice low-ers, more to him-self than to me. “I should’ve sent her away the mo-ment the bak-ery was at-tacked.”
My fists clench at my sides. “She won’t be safer out there.”
Nic-colò nar-rows his eyes. “Then what do you sug-gest? Keep-ing her locked in that safe house for-ever?”
“Yes,” I snap, be-fore I can stop my-self. “Un-til we fig-ure out who the fuck is hunt-ing her.”
Nic-colò’s gaze sharp-ens. “She is not our pris-oner, Dante.”
An-to-nio lets out a low laugh, shak-ing his head. “No,” he mur-murs, his smirk widen-ing. “But she sure as hell seems to be yours.”
My jaw tight-ens.
I don’t look at him.
Be-cause if I do, I might break his fuck-ing nose.
Nic-colò ex-hales. “The de-ci-sion is made.”
A slow wave of rage rolls through me, sim-mer-ing just be-neath my skin. “You can’t do this.”
Nic-colò’s face hard-ens. “You for-get your-self, Dante. You’re not a Moretti. You don’t get to de-cide.”
The words hit harder than I ex-pect them to.
An-to-nio leans for-ward slightly, the amuse-ment in his eyes turn-ing cruel. “You’ll al-ways be a hired gun, Russo. Noth-ing more.”
The si-lence that fol-lows is thick. Dan-ger-ous.
For a mo-ment, I imag-ine it—how easy it would be to close the dis-tance, to slam his smug face against the desk, to let my rage take over.
But I don’t.
I force my hands to stay at my sides.
I force my breath to stay even.
Be-cause los-ing con-trol won’t help Elena.
I take a slow step back, my voice qui-eter now. More lethal. “Send-ing her away won’t stop this war.” I let the words sink in, meet-ing Nic-colò’s gaze head-on. “It’ll only paint a big-ger tar-get on her back.”
Nic-colò doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t wa-ver. “That’s a risk I’m will-ing to take.”
I shake my head, back-ing to-ward the door. “Then I hope you’re will-ing to deal with the con-se-quences.”
I don’t wait for his re-sponse.
I turn and walk out, my mind al-ready made up.
I’m not let-ting them take her.
Not when I still don’t know who the fuck she re-ally is.
And not when I al-ready know—
I’ll kill any-one who tries.