Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Dante
The bathroom door has been closed for eleven minutes
I know because I've been counting. Listening to the muffled sound of Marina's voice through the thin walls.
She's talking to someone. The words are too quiet to make out, but the tone shifts. Angry. Then soft. Then something that sounds almost like laughter.
I could listen. Press my ear to the wall. Catch every word.
I don't.
Whatever she's saying, she's saying it to someone who isn't me. Someone she trusts. Someone who hasn't cornered her against a wall like a jealous animal over a pair of sweatpants.
Christ.
I push myself up from the bed. The movement pulls at my wound, sends a sharp reminder through my side that I'm not healed. Not even close.
I don't care.
I can't lie here anymore. Can't stare at the ceiling and count the minutes and think about the look on her face when I grabbed her wrist. The fear. The anger.
The way she didn't back down.
I'll hit you.
She meant it. Every word.
And instead of entertaining me, it made me want her more.
I'm a sick bastard.
The hallway is dark. Marina's apartment is small enough that I can see the living room from here, the kitchen beyond it. Everything neat. Everything in its place.
Except me.
I don't belong here. In her careful, quiet life. In her apartment that smells like lavender and looks like a magazine spread.
But I'm here anyway.
I make it to the kitchen.
I open the refrigerator.
Eggs. Milk. Some vegetables that look like they're about to go bad. A container of leftover soup.
I close the refrigerator.
The sink has a few dishes in it. A bowl. A spoon. A coffee mug with a ring of dried liquid at the bottom.
I turn on the water.
The sound is louder than I expected. Loud enough to cover the muffled conversation from the bathroom. Loud enough to give her privacy.
I start washing the dishes.
It's a strange thing, doing something domestic. Something normal. My hands know the motions—I've lived alone for years. Cooked my own meals. Cleaned my own apartment. The penthouse in Chicago has a cleaning service, but I never let them touch the kitchen.
The kitchen is mine.
I learned to cook in the Sartori kitchens. Watched Giula, their maid who is more like family, make pasta from scratch when I was seventeen and angry at the world. She never asked questions. Just handed me a knife and told me to chop onions.
I cried for an hour.
Blamed it on the onions.
The bowl is clean. I set it in the drying rack and reach for the spoon.
My side protests. A dull throb that sharpens when I twist wrong.
I ignore it.
The spoon is clean. The mug is clean.
I look around for something else to do.
The counter has crumbs on it. I find a cloth and wipe them away.
The stovetop has a few spots of dried sauce. I scrub those too.
The faucet is dripping. I tighten it.
Still dripping.
I tighten it harder.
The dripping stops.
I stand there for a moment. Hands braced on the counter. Breathing through the pain in my side.
What the fuck am I doing?
I'm washing dishes. In Marina's kitchen. At eleven o'clock at night. While she hides in the bathroom and talks to someone about god knows what.
I hear the bathroom door open.
Footsteps in the hallway. Soft. Hesitant.
Then she appears in the kitchen doorway.
Her eyes are red.
She stares at me.
I stare back.
"What the hell are you doing?"
Her voice is sharp. Confused. Like she walked into her kitchen and found a stranger rearranging her furniture.
I look down at the cloth in my hand. At the spotless counter. At the dishes drying in the rack.
"Playing soccer," I say.
She blinks.
"What?"
"You asked what I'm doing." I toss the cloth onto the counter. "I'm playing soccer. Obviously."
Marina's mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
"You're supposed to be in bed."
"I was in bed." I lean against the counter, trying to look casual. Trying to hide the fact that standing this long is making my vision blur at the edges. "For days. I got bored."
"So you decided to clean my kitchen?"
"It needed cleaning."
"It did not need cleaning."
"The faucet was dripping."
She stares at me like I've grown a second head.
"The faucet has been dripping for three months."
"Not anymore."
Marina crosses her arms. The movement is defensive. Protective.
But she doesn't leave.
"You're going to tear your stitches," she says.
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're pale. You're sweating. And you're doing dishes in my kitchen at eleven o'clock at night like some kind of—" She stops. Shakes her head. "I don't even know what."
"Helpful houseguest?"
"Deranged patient."
I almost smile.
Almost.
"I've been taking care of myself for a long time, Marina." I straighten up. Ignore the way my side screams at me. "I know how to wash a dish."
"That's not the point."
"Then what is the point?"
She opens her mouth. Closes it.
For a long moment, she just looks at me. Her blue-green eyes searching my face for something. I don't know what.
"I heard you talking," I say. "In the bathroom."
Her expression shutters.
"I didn't listen," I add quickly. "I turned on the water. Gave you privacy."
"How noble of you."
"I'm a noble guy."
"You cornered me against a wall because you thought I had a boyfriend."
The words hit like a punch.
I deserve it.
"I know." I hold her gaze. "I'm sorry."
She doesn't respond.
"I shouldn't have done that," I continue. "I shouldn't have grabbed you. I shouldn't have demanded answers. I shouldn't have—" I stop. Swallow. "I was out of line."
"Yes." Her voice is flat. "You were."
"It won't happen again."
"You're right." She takes a step closer. "It won't. Because if it does, I meant what I said. I will hit you."
"I know."
"Good."
We stand there. Three feet apart. The kitchen suddenly feels very small.
"Why did you do it?" she asks.
I know what she's asking. Why did I react like that? Why did I lose control over a pair of sweatpants?
The truth is too big. Too dangerous.
Because the thought of another man touching you makes me want to burn the world down.
Because I've been wanting you for two years and the idea that someone else got close enough to leave clothes in your apartment made me insane.
Because I'm in love with you and I have been since the moment you slapped me across the face in Chicago.
I can't say any of that.
So I say something else instead.
"I don't know."
It's a lie.
She knows it's a lie.
Marina
It's a lie.
He knows it's a lie.
I know it's a lie.
And something inside me snaps.
"Sit down."
I point at the kitchen chair. The one I dragged in here weeks ago because I liked eating breakfast by the window.
Dante raises an eyebrow.
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me." I keep my finger pointed at the chair. Steady. My right hand, stays curled at my side. "Sit. Down."
He doesn't move.
"We're going to have a conversation," I continue. "A real one. And you're going to start having answers instead of 'I don't know' every time I ask you something important."
For a moment, he just stares at me.
Then he laughs.
The sound is low. Rough. It does something to my stomach that I refuse to acknowledge.
"Look at you." His dark eyes sweep over me. "Getting bossy."
"Someone has to be."
"You’ve always been, cara."
I step closer.
"Apparently you don't know me as well as you think you do."
Something shifts in his expression. The amusement fades.
"I know you better than you think," he says quietly.
"Then prove it."
He tilts his head. Watching me. Calculating.
"Prove what?"
"Prove you know me." I cross my arms. "Because from where I'm standing, you've been tracking me for two years, showing up at my door bleeding, going through my things, cornering me against walls, and giving me nothing but 'I don't know' when I ask why."
His jaw tightens.
"Marina, that's not how things—"
"That's exactly what it is." I cut him off. "You want me to believe you know me? Fine. Then talk to me. Tell me something real. Give me one honest answer."
The kitchen is silent.
I can hear the refrigerator humming. The distant sound of traffic from the street below. My own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
Dante doesn't move.
Doesn't speak.
For a long moment, I think he's going to deflect again. Make another joke. Find another way to avoid the conversation we've been circling.
Then he sighs.
The sound is heavy. Exhausted. Like he's been carrying something for a long time and he's finally too tired to hold it anymore.
"Can we at least have this conversation somewhere I can sit better than the chair?" He gestures vaguely toward the living room. "The couch. The bed. I don't care. But if you want me to talk, I'd rather not collapse halfway through."
I look at him.
He's leaning against the counter like it's the only thing keeping him upright.
He cleaned my kitchen with a bullet wound in his side.
Fixed my faucet.
Washed my dishes.
And now he's asking permission to sit down.
"You're unbelievable," I say.
"I've been told."
I shake my head. "Fine. Couch. Now."
He pushes off the counter. The movement is slow. Careful. I can see the pain in the way he holds himself, the way his hand hovers near his side without actually touching the wound.
I don't offer to help.
He doesn't ask.
We make our way to the living room in silence. Dante lowers himself onto the couch with a grunt that he tries to hide. I stand across from him, arms still crossed, waiting.
He settles back against the cushions. Looks up at me.
"You going to stand there the whole time?"
"Maybe."
"Suit yourself."
Another moment of silence.
Then he asks, "What do you want to discuss?"
The question is simple. Direct.
But the answer isn't.
I want to discuss why he tracked me for two years. Why he showed up at my door instead of a hospital. Why he looked at me like that in the hallway, like I was something precious and terrifying all at once.
I want to discuss the hospital. The days he sat beside my bed while I was unconscious. The way he left without a fight when I told him to go.
I want to discuss the way my heart races every time he says my name. The way I can't stop thinking about him even when I'm furious. The way I hesitated on that bed earlier, when I should have pulled away immediately.
I want to discuss all of it.
But I don't know where to start.
So I start with the simplest question. The one that's been burning in my chest since the moment I opened my door and found him bleeding on my doorstep.
"Why me?"
Dante's expression doesn't change.
"Why you what?"
"Why did you come here?" I uncross my arms. Let them fall to my sides. "You were shot. You were bleeding out. You had a phone. You could have called Lorenzo. Called the family doctor. Called anyone."
I take a step closer.
"But you didn't. You drove across Denver with a bullet in your side and climbed four flights of stairs to my door." My voice cracks. I hate that it cracks. "Why?"
He doesn't answer right away.
His dark eyes hold mine. Searching. Weighing.
I can see him deciding. Choosing his words. Figuring out how much to tell me and how much to keep hidden.
"The truth," I say. "I want the truth. Not 'I don't know.' Not some joke about nurses. The actual truth."
Dante is quiet for a long moment.
Then he tilts his head slightly toward me. Not meeting my eyes. Thinking.
"You want the truth?"
"Yes."
"All of it?"
"Yes."
He nods slowly. Like he's accepting something. Like he's making a decision he can't take back.
"Okay," he says. "Then sit down. Because this is going to take a while."