Chapter 11 – Dante
Chap-ter 11 – Dante
I wake up to warmth.
It’s un-fa-mil-iar. Dan-ger-ous. A sen-sa-tion that shouldn’t be al-lowed in this world, yet here it is, sink-ing into my skin like a brand.
Elena is sprawled across my chest, her bare leg hooked over mine, her soft breaths tick-ling my col-lar-bone. The golden light of dawn spills into the room, cast-ing long shad-ows and high-light-ing the tan-gle of limbs and the un-de-ni-able truth of last night’s de-struc-tion.
My fin-gers in-stinc-tively tighten on her hip, trac-ing lazy cir-cles against her skin, but then—
My breath stops.
My hand freezes on the ex-act spot where I saw it last night.
The birth-mark.
Small, dis-tinct, just above her hip bone. A mark I had barely no-ticed in the heat of their pas-sion but now—
Now, it de-mands my full at-ten-tion.
A cold rush of re-al-iza-tion slams into my chest.
My heart pounds.
The mem-ory crashes into me like a freight train.
It was years ago.
A long-for-got-ten pho-to-graph buried deep in the ar-chives of my mind. A relic of a war that had shaped my world long be-fore I had any power to change it.
Alessan-dra Ro-mano—Nic-colò Moretti’s most hated en-emy’s wife.
The woman who had al-legedly died in an or-ches-trated car ac-ci-dent nearly thirty years ago.
But in that pho-to-graph—
There it was.
That ex-act birth-mark, etched onto her hip, par-tially hid-den un-der a silk gown as she stood be-side her hus-band, Alessan-dro Ro-mano.
I swal-low hard, and I can feel my pulse ham-mer-ing against my throat.
It isn’t just some ran-dom birth-mark.
It’s proof.
A damn-ing link.
Elena is Alessan-dra Ro-mano’s daugh-ter.
Which means she is the blood of the man my fam-ily swore to de-stroy.
“Elena.”
My voice is rough, barely a whis-per, but she stirs against me, her body press-ing closer, seek-ing warmth. The in-ti-macy burns like acid now.
My chest tight-ens as she blinks up at me, sleep still cloud-ing her eyes. For a sec-ond—just a sec-ond—I al-most for-get why I’m fu-ri-ous. Al-most for-get why ev-ery-thing be-tween us has just been rewrit-ten in blood.
Then the rage slams back into me, sharper than a blade.
Her wrist is small be-neath my grip, but I don’t loosen it. My pulse is a drum in my ears, my breath-ing sharp.
“Elena.” My voice is harder this time, cut-ting through the quiet. “Wake up.”
She frowns, stretch-ing like a cat, blink-ing at me in the dim light. “What—”
I don’t let her ease into it. I don’t have the pa-tience.
“The mark on your hip.” My voice is ice, sharp enough to draw blood. “It’s the same as Alessan-dra Ro-mano’s.”
Si-lence. A long, suf-fo-cat-ing si-lence.
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t gasp. Doesn’t fuck-ing re-act the way she should.
She just stares at me.
Then, slowly, she shifts.
No shock. No con-fu-sion.
Just…ac-cep-tance.
Some-thing twists, vi-o-lent and ugly, in my stom-ach.
“You al-ready knew.” My voice is too quiet, too cold.
Elena swal-lows, then nods once. “Yes.”
It wrecks me.
A hot surge of anger burns be-neath my skin, too fast, too much. I shove the cov-ers back and sit up, drag-ging a hand through my hair, try-ing to keep from los-ing it com-pletely.
“You knew?” My voice is lethal now, ra-zor-sharp.
She watches me, her face un-read-able. “It doesn’t change any-thing, Dante.”
I snap, “The fuck it doesn’t!”
The rage comes fast, un-con-trol-lable. I shove off the bed, pac-ing like a god-damn an-i-mal, my mind rac-ing through ev-ery con-se-quence, ev-ery threat, ev-ery fuck-ing way this could de-stroy us.
“You’re Ro-mano blood.” My fists clench so tightly they shake. “You’re his daugh-ter. You know what that means? What it fuck-ing means for us?”
Her lips part like she’s go-ing to say some-thing, but noth-ing comes out.
She doesn’t deny it.
Doesn’t try to fix it.
And that si-lence—
That si-lence drives a knife straight into my chest.
I turn away, brac-ing my hands against the dresser, my head hang-ing be-tween my arms. I need to breathe. Need to fuck-ing think.
“Elena.” My voice is rough, splin-ter-ing un-der the weight of it all. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
A quiet breath. Sheets shift-ing. “Be-cause it doesn’t change us.”
I let out a hol-low laugh. A bit-ter, empty fuck-ing laugh. “The fuck it doesn’t.”
She moves then, sit-ting up, the sheets slip-ping down her body, her eyes burn-ing into me.
“You know Nic-colò would kill me if he found out.” Her voice is steady, but I hear it—that small, frag-ile crack be-neath it.
And it fuck-ing kills me.
Be-cause she’s right.
I drag a hand down my face, forc-ing my-self to look away. If I don’t, I’ll do some-thing stupid.
Like for-give her.
Like pull her against me and kiss her un-til noth-ing else fuck-ing mat-ters.
So in-stead, I grab my pants and shove my feet into my shoes, my move-ments sharp, des-per-ate.
I need space. I need to get the fuck out of here.
“I need air.”
And then I’m gone.
Be-cause if I stay—
If I stay, I might never leave her at all.
It is al-ready evening by the time I step out. My mind is a fuck-ing mess as I step out-side into the brisk morn-ing air. Ev-ery mus-cle in my body is coiled tight, wound like a spring ready to snap. The rage sim-mer-ing be-neath my skin is un-bear-able, a volatile storm re-fus-ing to be tamed.
Anger rolls off me in waves. At Elena. At my-self. At the world that re-fuses to let me es-cape my past. But more than any-thing—at the fact that I care. Care too fuck-ing much.
I drag a hand through my hair, tug-ging at the roots, hop-ing the sharp sting will ground me. It doesn’t. My breath is ragged, my pulse a deaf-en-ing roar in my ears. I need space. Air. Dis-tance from the woman who just turned my en-tire ex-is-tence on its head.
The chilly air isn’t enough to cool me off, so I walk. Fast. Di-rec-tion-less. My boots scrape against the pave-ment as I move through the streets, in-stincts guid-ing me while my mind spi-rals. I need clar-ity. Need to fig-ure out what the hell I’m go-ing to do about Elena. About the truth that just det-o-nated be-tween us like a god-damn bomb.
Then I hear it.
Voices. Low. Ur-gent. Com-ing from the side al-ley near the safe-house.
Fa-mil-iar voices.
My body goes rigid, in-stincts sharp-en-ing, senses kick-ing into over-drive. I slow my steps, mov-ing to-ward the sound, keep-ing to the shad-ows. Years of train-ing make my move-ments ef-fort-less, silent. I blend into the shad-ows, in-vis-i-ble.
Then I see them.
An-to-nio Moretti.
And Is-abella Ro-mano.
My stom-ach drops. A cold sweat breaks across my spine.
The two most dan-ger-ous peo-ple to ever be in the same room to-gether—stand-ing there, so close to the safe-house, speak-ing in hushed voices.
I press closer, ev-ery mus-cle coiled, ev-ery nerve on high alert. The weight of my gun is re-as-sur-ing at my hip, but I don’t move for it. Not yet. First, I lis-ten.
“She won’t even make it to the plane,” Is-abella mur-murs, her voice cool, al-most bored. There is no hes-i-ta-tion, no re-morse. Just cal-cu-lated pre-ci-sion.
My blood freezes in my veins.
“She dies be-fore that,” An-to-nio con-firms, ad-just-ing his cuffs like he’s dis-cussing a busi-ness trans-ac-tion rather than a hu-man life. His tone is de-tached, im-per-sonal, like he’s or-der-ing a hit on a stranger in-stead of some-one who mat-ters.
In-stead of Elena.
Is-abella’s lips tilt up in a slow, know-ing smirk. “Then let’s make sure it’s a beau-ti-ful farewell.”
My pulse slams against my ribcage. A sharp, vi-cious stab of fear claws at my chest, fol-lowed in-stantly by white-hot rage.
They’re plan-ning Elena’s as-sas-si-na-tion.
Be-fore she even has the chance to leave.
My hands curl into fists at my sides, nails bit-ing into my palms. Ev-ery in-stinct screams at me to act. To step out of the shad-ows and put a bul-let be-tween their eyes be-fore they can carry out their fuck-ing plan.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
I make a choice.
I walk away—at least for now.