16. Dante
DANTE
A fter a long day of work, I make it back to the south wing, at a time when the guards posted at intervals along the estate have relaxed into a silent, nocturnal rhythm, somehow alert even in their somnolence.
My jacket is slung over my shoulder, and my tie hangs loose, the knot tugged down hours ago.
Business today was worse than usual—intel filtering in about a shipment intercepted near the docks, rumors of a local capo growing too bold for his own good, and word from Luca that one of our long-standing allies might be reconsidering their loyalties.
The city is shifting.
I can feel it in my bones.
I’ve never had much patience for politics, but lately, I’ve had no choice but to learn.
And tonight, for the first time in a long time, I felt every ounce of the weight that comes with our name.
I don’t know if I’m ready for all of it, but I’m here now. No more running.
The suite door is half-open when I reach it, and for a second, I pause.
A flicker of golden light spills out from within.
I almost knock, almost say her name, but something tells me not to.
When I step inside, the space smells like lavender and something sweeter, faintly familiar.
Gianna is there, curled up on the couch near the window, still in her evening dress from dinner, but her feet are bare.
She must have heard me come in because she looks up without surprise.
"Late night?" she asks, her voice quiet but clear.
I nod, dropping my jacket on the armchair. "Long day."
She studies me for a beat, and I know she’s not just looking at the disheveled state I’m in.
She’s watching me the way she always has, as if she’s trying to understand what changed, what stayed the same.
I’m not even sure I know the answer.
"I didn’t think you’d be back this late," she says, not accusing, just observing.
I cross the room slowly, letting the silence stretch as I sit on the ottoman across from her. "Did the girls go down easy?"
"They were nervous about school. But yes, eventually." Her smile is soft, a little proud. "Arietta insisted on laying out her uniform. Alessia was too busy lecturing her stuffed bunny about stranger danger."
I laugh, and it surprises me.
"You named them well."
Another quiet moment passes.
The light from the lamp makes her hair look darker, warmer, like something rich and rare.
Her legs are tucked beneath her, the hem of her dress sliding a little as she shifts her weight.
I can’t look away.
"They asked about you again," she says, lifting her eyes to meet mine. "They’re trying to understand what you are to them."
That’s the one thing I haven’t figured out myself. I lean forward, bracing my elbows on my knees. "And what did you say?"
"That you’re their father. That you’re trying."
I nod slowly. "I am."
"I know."
Her answer doesn’t come with any sort of demand or expectation, but it feels heavier than anything I heard at today’s meetings.
Maybe because she says it without pushing me.
Maybe because she still doesn’t trust me fully, but she’s offering something anyway.
She nods.
"We should get some rest."
But neither of us moves.
Instead, I reach out and touch the back of her hand.
It’s not planned.
I just do it.
She looks down, not pulling away, her fingers twitching lightly under mine.
Her skin is warm, soft, a little cooler than mine from the air.
The contact is simple.
What happens after is not.
I follow the line of her wrist with my thumb, then her forearm.
She watches, motionless, her breath slower now.
When I lean in, brushing a kiss to her knuckles, her lashes flutter and fall.
I’m not sure which of us moves first, but a second later, our mouths meet in a kiss that doesn’t feel tentative. It feels inevitable.
Her hands slide up my chest as I reach for her waist, pulling her onto my lap.
She comes willingly, her breath catching, her body pressing against mine as if she’s been waiting for this, too.
The kiss deepens, slow but hungry, her lips parting beneath mine.
I taste her sigh before I hear it.
Gianna shifts again, one leg draping over my thigh, her arms winding around my neck.
Her mouth trails to the corner of mine, then to my jaw.
I bury my face in her neck, breathing her in, grounding myself in the reality of her.
This isn’t some club girl I’ll never call again.
This is the woman I married, the mother of my children, the only person who has ever truly challenged me.
When I slide my hands under her dress, she makes a small sound, almost a gasp, her breath hot against my ear.
She isn’t wearing much beneath it, just silk and lace, barely there, and when I find the edge of her panties and hook my fingers beneath, she tilts her hips to help me.
"I wasn’t waiting up for you," she whispers as I push the fabric aside.
"No?" My voice is rough with desire.
"I just…couldn’t sleep."
"Good." I press a kiss beneath her ear.
Her head falls back as I touch her, slow and steady, coaxing the pleasure out of her in waves.
She’s responsive, almost too much so, as if this week of restraint has built into a storm inside her.
I watch her as I move my hand, watch the way she starts to fall apart just from my touch.
It’s addictive, seeing her like this.
And it’s more than that.
It’s intimate in a way that feels dangerous.
She moans quietly, her nails digging into my shoulders. "Dante…"
"Tell me what you want," I murmur.
"I just want to know," she says, voice low, coiled tight, "if this thing between us means anything beyond what you want to fuck when you're bored."
I raise a brow.
"That’s what you think this is? Boredom?"
She lifts her chin, defiant.
"You haven’t said anything different."
And I could.
I could tell her I’m still figuring it out, that I’m trying to be better, that I’m trying not to mess this up.
But that isn’t what she wants to hear—not from me.
She wants certainty, direction, answers I don’t have, and I’ve never handled pressure with grace.
So, I shrug.
"I didn’t realize I needed to sign a declaration of loyalty just to touch you."
Her face darkens.
She takes a breath, but her body tightens like a fuse lit at both ends.
"You smug bastard," she breathes, her voice trembling not with fear but with sheer fury. "You think this is a game? That I’m a game?"
She raises her hand, sharp and quick.
I catch her wrist before it lands.
Her breath hitches.
Her eyes widen.
The room goes still, suspended in the tension that blooms between us.
I hold her hand above her head, grip just firm enough to stop her from pulling away.
"You don’t get to hit me and then pretend you’re still in control."
Her lips part to protest.
I don’t give her the chance.
I push her back onto the bed with one hand.
She fights it, but only for a second.
Not because she wants to escape—but because she wants to make me earn it.
The robe slips off her shoulders.
I tear it away the rest of the way, dragging it down her arms.
Her dress clings to her hips, and I shove it up without care, baring her thighs to the cold air.
"You want to pretend you’re angry," I murmur, pinning her wrists above her head. "But your thighs are already wet for me."
She struggles.
Just enough.
Her eyes burn into mine.
"You’re sick."
I press my body over hers, hips locked against the heat I can feel through her ruined underwear.
"And yet you didn’t leave. You waited for me."
"I hate you."
"You hate how much you still want me."
I let go of her wrists, and she doesn’t move.
Not even when I slide my fingers beneath the thin lace and rip it off completely.
Her breath catches.
Her legs twitch.
But she still doesn’t tell me to stop.
"Say the word," I whisper into the crook of her neck, dragging my teeth across her skin. "Say it, and I’ll walk out that door."
Her nails dig into my shoulders instead.
She lifts her hips into mine.
I grab her knees and push them open, settling between her thighs like I was always meant to be there.
She’s flushed and angry and ready to kill me, and it only makes me harder.
"You can scream all you want," I say, rubbing the head of my cock against her. "But your body’s already begging."
And then I take her.
There’s no patience in it.
No hesitation.
I thrust into her with all the tension of the past week snapping loose.
She gasps, arches, claws at my back like she’s trying to punish me with pleasure.
Her teeth find my shoulder.
I thrust harder.
Every movement is rough, claiming, the air thick with her moans and the sharp thud of the headboard against the wall.
She wraps her legs around my waist and drags me deeper.
Her nails tear at my sides.
Her mouth crushes into mine.
She’s writhing under me, her thighs locked tight around my hips, slick and trembling with every grinding thrust.
Her breath is a mess of shallow pants and sharp gasps, rising high in her throat like she’s trying not to make a sound, but I hear every wet moan that slips through when I drag my cock deep and hold it there, grinding into the spot that makes her break.
Her cunt is soaked.
I can feel it on my thighs, slick squelching where our bodies meet.
Every time I pull out, I watch the way her lips cling to me, stretched around the thickness of my shaft, shiny with saliva and arousal and the mix of everything I’ve already given her.
I slam back in.
"Still hate me?" I growl against the curve of her jaw, my tongue catching the sweat pooling there, salty and hot from the heat between us.
Her voice cracks, breathless and furious. "Yes."
I fuck her harder for that.
Her fingernails rake down my back, the sting trailing fire along my spine.
"Liar."
"Fuck you," she spits again, but her voice is breaking.
Her body doesn’t lie.
She arches up to meet me every time, rocking her hips in sync, tightening around me like she wants to keep me there until we both explode.
"I’d rather fuck you," I mutter, slamming into her so hard she jolts beneath me, the bed groaning under our weight.
She gasps and tries to push me off, but I catch her wrists again, pin them above her head, fingers wrapped around both in one fist.
I grind into her, burying myself to the base, making her take all of me, making her eyes roll back with a soft, choked cry.
"Look at me," I demand.
She doesn’t, so I bite her breast.
Her back arches, and she screams, thighs clenching as her whole body pulses.
Her cunt tightens violently around me, and I know she’s close.
She’s holding it in, stubborn even now, but I feel the tremble building in her core.
Her clit is swollen, rubbing against the base of my shaft with every deep grind.
I suck the other nipple into my mouth and bite it too, hard enough to make her shiver.
"Come for me," I snarl, voice cracked and raw against her skin. "Come and admit you fucking need me."
She curses, then chokes on her breath, her head thrashing on the pillow.
And then she breaks.
Her thighs shake, her belly tightens, and she clenches so hard around my cock it pulls a groan from the bottom of my throat.
She screams, full-bodied, chest heaving as her release hits her, drenching me in her juices, slick dripping onto the sheets as I keep moving, fucking her through it until she starts sobbing my name into the space between us.
I let go of her wrists.
Her hands come to my shoulders, gripping like she’s drowning. Then she grabs my hair, yanking me down and shoving her tongue into my mouth, kissing me like she wants to tear me open and crawl inside.
Her spit slicks our mouths, dripping down to her chin, and I suck her bottom lip between my teeth, biting until she moans.
The taste of her makes me wild.
She feels too good, and I’m too far gone.
Her muscles milk me with every pulse, her slick walls dragging against every inch of my cock like velvet soaked in heat.
I grind deep, again and again, hard enough to bruise her.
I watch her face.
Eyes glassy.
Mouth open.
Breasts bouncing with each thrust, shiny from my tongue, reddened where I bit down.
Her nails dig into my arms, her body softening beneath me, pliant now, spent and wide open for me to ruin.
And I do.
My balls tighten.
My vision narrows.
I slam in one last time and stay buried there, cock pulsing hard, spilling deep inside her with a groan that scrapes up from my chest.
My seed floods her, thick and hot, and I don’t stop grinding even after I’m spent, keeping her full, dragging every last drop into her until her belly is marked with the flush of it.
We collapse together, slick bodies tangled, her leg hitched around my waist and my hand still locked on her ass.
The room is thick with the scent of sweat, sex, salt, and the lingering heat of a fight that turned into something neither of us can name.
She’s the one who speaks first, voice hoarse and rough like she smoked a pack between moans.
"You’re an asshole."
I smile against her throat, too breathless to laugh.
"Takes one to know one."
We fall into silence.
Her leg is still hooked around my waist, her pulse steady beneath my lips as she drifts in and out of a light sleep.
Part of me wants to embrace this life and the contentment that comes with it, but I can’t compel my mind to quiet.
Closing my eyes, I breathe her in.
The walls of this room have seen more truth in one night than most men face in a lifetime.
And still, I can’t shake the feeling that it’s not enough.
That no matter how tightly I hold her, how deeply I bury myself in this life we’ve built, something’s coming.
Something I won’t be able to fuck or fight my way out of.