Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Dante
The bedroom door clicks shut behind me.
I stand there for a moment. Dripping. Half-hard. Feeling like an idiot wrapped in a towel the size of a dinner napkin.
I run a hand through my wet hair and turn toward the bed.
And freeze.
There are clothes laid out on the mattress.
Men's clothes.
A pair of gray sweatpants. A white t-shirt. Both folded neatly. Both clearly not mine.
My blood runs cold.
Then hot.
I stare at the clothes like they've personally insulted me. Like they're a threat I need to eliminate.
Whose fucking clothes are these?
The sweatpants look worn. Soft from washing. The t-shirt is plain. Basic. The kind of thing a man keeps in a drawer for lazy Sundays.
The kind of thing a man leaves at a woman's apartment.
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache.
Who the fuck has been in her apartment?
I grab the sweatpants. The fabric is soft in my fist. I want to tear it apart.
Who touched her?
The thought makes something violent twist in my chest. Something I have no right to feel. Something I feel anyway.
I don't bother getting dressed.
I storm back into the living room.
Marina is on the couch. She looks up when I appear. Her eyes drop to the towel then back to my face.
"I thought I told you to—"
I hold up the sweatpants.
"What the fuck are these?"
She blinks.
"Those?" She tilts her head. "People call them clothes."
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't be cute." I take a step toward her. "Whose are they?"
She stands up from the couch. Slowly. Like she's dealing with a wild animal.
Smart woman.
"Does it matter?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
I don't answer. I can't answer. Because the truth is ugly and possessive and I have no claim on her. No right to feel this way.
But I feel it anyway.
"Dante." Her voice is careful now. Measured. "You need to calm down."
"I'm calm."
"You're shaking."
I look down at my hands. She's right. The sweatpants tremble in my grip.
I take another step toward her.
She takes a step back.
"Who left these here?"
"That's none of your business."
"Marina."
"No." Her chin lifts. Defiant. "You're standing in my living room in a hand towel, waving a pair of sweatpants at me like I've committed a crime. What exactly do you think you're doing?"
I don't know.
I don't fucking know.
All I know is that the thought of another man in her apartment—in her bed—makes me want to put my fist through the wall.
I close the distance between us.
She retreats.
Her back hits the wall.
I plant my hand beside her head. Lean in. Close enough to see the pulse jumping in her throat.
"Who," I say, my voice low, "left his clothes in your apartment?"
Her eyes flash.
"And why the hell do you think I'm going to wear them?"
"Because you don't have anything else."
"I'd rather walk around naked."
"You're being ridiculous," she says.
"Answer the question."
"Or what?"
I lean closer. My lips brush her ear.
"Or I'll find out myself."
She shoves me.
Hard.
I stumble back. The movement pulls at my wound and I hiss through my teeth.
"They're my father's clothes, you psycho."
I go still.
"What?"
"My father." She crosses her arms. "Left some clothes here in case he came back. Which he hasn't, because I keep telling him I'm fine and he doesn't need to check on me."
Her father.
Her father.
The rage drains out of me like water from a bathtub.
I feel like an idiot.
"Oh."
"Yeah. Oh." She pushes off the wall. Steps around me. "And the next time you talk to me like that, I'm going to hit you. Bullet wound or not."
"Marina—"
"No." She holds up a hand. "I don't want to hear it. Put on the clothes. Or don't. I don't care anymore."
She walks past me.
The bathroom door slams.
I stand in the middle of her living room. Holding her father's sweatpants. Wearing a towel the size of a postage stamp.
Smooth, Castellani. Real fucking smooth.
I look down at the clothes in my hand.
Her father's.
Not some boyfriend's. Not some lover's. Her father's.
I close my eyes.
Idiot.
The jealousy that burned through me moments ago leaves ash in its wake. Shame. Embarrassment. The knowledge that I just acted like a possessive asshole over a woman who owes me nothing.
I walk back to the bedroom.
The t-shirt is soft when I pull it over my head.
The sweatpants fit well enough. A little loose in the waist. A little short in the leg. But they're warm and dry and better than the blood-soaked clothes I arrived in.
I sit on the edge of the bed.
My wound throbs.
My pride throbs worse.
Her father.
I scrub a hand over my face.
Two years of telling myself I was just checking on her. Making sure she was safe. Fulfilling an obligation.
And the moment I think another man has been in her space, I lose my mind.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I know the answer.
I've known it for two years.
Marina
I lock the bathroom door behind me.
My hands are shaking.
I press my back against the door and slide down until I'm sitting on the cold tile floor. My knees come up to my chest. My arms wrap around them.
What the hell just happened?
He looked at me like he wanted to kill someone. Like the thought of another man in my apartment was enough to make him lose his mind.
Over sweatpants.
My father's sweatpants.
I pull out my phone.
My fingers hover over Sophia's name.
I shouldn't call her.
But right now, I need my best friend.
I press call.
She answers on the second ring.
"Marina?" Her voice is worried. "What's wrong? Did something happen?"
I keep my voice low. Barely above a whisper.
"This was the worst idea I've ever had."
"What? What did he do to you?"
"Nothing." I close my eyes. "Everything. I don't know."
"Marina, you're scaring me. Talk to me."
I press my free hand against my forehead.
"I never should have let him in. I should have called 911 and let the police deal with it. I should have let him bleed out in the hallway."
"But you didn't."
"No." My voice cracks. "I didn't."
Sophia is quiet for a moment.
"Marina." Her tone shifts. Careful. Like she's approaching something fragile. "Can I ask you something?"
"What?"
"Back then. Before you left Chicago." She pauses. "Did something happen between you two?"
I close my eyes tighter.
The tears I've been holding back press against my eyelids.
"No."
"Marina—"
"Nothing happened." My voice is barely a whisper now. "Nothing at all."
And that's the truth.
We fought. We argued. We traded insults like weapons. Every interaction was a battle. Every conversation was a war.
But that was it.
That was all it ever was.
"We were always fighting," I say. "From the moment we met. He threw me over his shoulder like I was cargo. I slapped him across the face. We never stopped after that. You already know all of this."
"But?"
I swallow hard.
"But then I found out he never left the hospital."
Sophia doesn't say anything.
"He sat there for days, Soph. While I was unconscious. While I was fighting for my life. He just... sat there."
"I know."
"And when I woke up and told him to leave, he left." My voice breaks. "He actually left."
"Marina—"
"Do you know how hard that made everything?" The tears spill over now. I can't stop them. "It would have been easier if he'd argued. If he'd refused. If he'd given me a reason to hate him."
"But he didn't."
"No." I wipe my face with the back of my hand. "He just looked at me. And then he walked out. And I've been trying to convince myself I made the right choice ever since."
"Oh, Marina."
Those two words hold everything. Understanding. Sympathy. The kind of love that only comes from someone who's known you since you were five years old.
"What do you need from me?" Sophia asks. "Tell me. I'll do whatever it takes."
"Just be there." My voice is small. "Just... don't hang up yet."
"I'm not going anywhere."
I pull my knees tighter against my chest.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "For avoiding you. For not answering your calls. For disappearing."
"You don't have to apologize."
"Yes, I do." I take a shaky breath. "Every time I talked to you, I remembered. That day. Daniil in my house. The gun. The fear."
Sophia is silent.
"I couldn't separate you from what happened," I continue. "And I know that's not fair. I know you're not responsible for any of it. But every time I heard your voice, I was back there. On that floor. Bleeding. Terrified."
"I understand."
We sit in silence for a moment. Two women on opposite ends of the country, connected by a phone line and years of friendship and trauma neither of us asked for.
"I can't let him get closer," I finally say.
"Dante?"
"Yes." I wipe my eyes again. "He's dangerous, Sophia. He's killed people. He's hurt people. He's exactly the kind of man I should stay away from."
"Marina—"
"He's a killer." The word tastes bitter on my tongue. "Just like Daniil was."
"No."
The word is sharp. Immediate.
"Sophia—"
"No," she repeats. "Dante is not like Daniil."
"They're both—"
"Dante has never harmed a single innocent person."
I go still.
"Yeah okay—"
"In all the years I've known him. In everything Lorenzo has told me about him." Sophia's voice is firm. "Dante has never hurt anyone who didn't deserve it."
"That's not—"
"The people he's killed? They were threats. Enemies. Men who would have hurt the family. Hurt innocent people." She pauses. "Hurt you."
I don't know what to say.
"Daniil was a monster," Sophia continues. "He enjoyed causing pain. He targeted people who couldn't fight back. He would have—" Her voice catches. "He would have done terrible things to you if we hadn't stopped him."
"I know."
"Dante is not that man." Sophia's voice softens. "He's dangerous, yes. He's done things that would make most people sick. But he has a code. A line he won't cross."
"And that makes it okay?"
"No." She sighs. "It doesn't make it okay. But it makes him different. It makes him someone who would die before he let anyone hurt you."
I press my hand against my chest.
My heart aches.
"I don't know what to do with that," I whisper.