Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Bianca
I can't stop smiling.
I beat Dante Vitale at poker.
The man who controls everything, who's always three steps ahead, who never loses—I beat him.
In the car, I'm practically buzzing with it. The win. The respect I saw in those dangerous men's eyes. The way even Alessia looked impressed.
"You're pleased with yourself," Dante observes from beside me.
"I won. Against you. I think I'm entitled to be pleased."
"You are." There's something in his voice I can't quite read. "You played well."
"Well, enough to beat you."
"Yes." He's looking out the window, his profile sharp in the passing streetlights. "You did."
I study him, looking for signs of irritation or wounded pride. But his expression is neutral, almost... content?
"You're not upset you lost?"
"Should I be?"
"Most men would be. Especially men like you."
"Men like me?" He turns to face me. “What is this supposed to mean?”
"Men who need to be in control of everything." I shift in my seat. "Men who can't stand losing."
"I can stand losing to you."
The admission hangs in the air between us, weighted with meaning I don't want to examine too closely.
"Well," I say, changing the subject, "at least you're a gracious loser. That's something."
"I try."
We lapse into silence. Tony navigates through late-night Manhattan traffic, and I find myself noticing things I haven't before.
"You never drink," I say suddenly.
Dante goes very still. "What?"
"At poker night. Everyone else was drinking—wine, whiskey, beer. But you?" I gesture to the water bottle in his cup holder. "Just water. All night."
"I don't drink." His voice has gone flat.
"Ever? Or just around people?"
"Ever."
"That's weird." I'm pushing, I know I am, but the wine has loosened my tongue. "Adrian—"
"Don't." The single word is sharp enough to cut.
I blink. "Don't what?"
"Don't compare me to Adrian. Don't bring up drinking like it's some measure of masculinity." His jaw is tight, a muscle jumping. "Just don't."
"I was just—"
"I know what you were doing." He turns away again. "Subject closed."
The reaction is so visceral, so immediate, that I know I've stumbled onto something. Something raw and painful that he keeps buried.
"I'm sorry," I say quietly. "I didn't mean to—"
"It's fine." But his voice says it's not fine.
More silence. Uncomfortable this time.
I want to push, want to understand what just happened. But the look on his face tells me that would be a mistake.
Tony clears his throat from the front seat. "Traffic's bad tonight. Might be a while."
Great. Trapped in a car with Dante after I just prodded a wound I didn't know existed.
"We should play a game," Dante says suddenly.
"A game?"
"Twenty questions. We need to know more about each other if we're going to convince my family we're in love." His eyes meet mine. "Unless you'd prefer awkward silence for the next forty minutes."
"Twenty questions is fine."
"Good. I'll start." He shifts to face me more fully. "What does your mother mean to you?"
The question catches me off guard with its directness.
"Everything," I answer honestly. "She's the only family I have. The only person who's ever—" I stop, swallow. "She's everything."
"Your father?"
"Left when I was a baby. I don't remember him. Mom said he couldn't handle the responsibility." I twist the gold cross pendant. "It's always been just us."
"That's why you became a teacher."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "Part of it. I wanted to give kids what I never had—stability, attention, someone who shows up." I look out the window. "Mom worked three jobs to keep us afloat. She was never home. Always tired when she was. I raised myself mostly."
"That must have been lonely."
"It was. But I understood. She was doing her best." I turn back to him. "That's why her treatment matters so much. Why I'll do anything—even this—to keep her alive. She sacrificed everything for me. It's my turn."
Dante is quiet for a long moment. "You project that onto your students."
"What?"
"Your trauma. Your experience of being alone, of needing more attention than you got. That's why your job means so much to you. It's not just about teaching—it's about giving them what you needed."
The accuracy of it steals my breath.
"I..." I don't know what to say. "Yes. I guess I do."
"There's nothing wrong with that." His voice is surprisingly gentle. "Using your pain to help others? That's admirable. Most people just let it make them bitter."
"Like you?"
"Like me," he agrees. "I let my trauma turn me into this." He gestures to himself. "Someone who controls everything because I couldn't control what mattered most."
"Your mother."
"My mother," he confirms. "My turn for a question. Why teaching specifically? Why not social work or therapy?"
"Because kids that age still have hope. Still believe adults can be trusted, can help them." I smile slightly. "Once they hit middle school, that innocence is gone. But second-graders? They still think teachers can fix anything."
"Can you?"
"No. But I try." I study his face. "My turn. What do you actually want out of life? Besides avoiding that Caterina woman and maintaining your position?"
"That's a loaded question."
"You said anything."
He considers this. "Peace. Control. A life where I'm not constantly putting out fires or managing crises." He pauses. "And maybe someone who doesn't look at me like I'm a monster."
"I look at you like you're a monster."
"Sometimes. But not always." His hand finds my knee. "Sometimes you look at me like you're trying to figure out if I'm human."
"Are you?"
"I'm not sure anymore." His thumb traces circles on my knee, and I'm very aware of how little fabric is between his hand and my skin. "Your turn."
"Why do you touch me so much?" The question comes out before I can stop it. "You said you wouldn't make me sleep with you, but you're always touching—my back, my thigh, my face. Why?"
"Because I can't help it." The honesty in his voice surprises me. "Because every instinct I have says you're mine and I need to touch what's mine. Because when I'm near you, not touching feels wrong."
Heat floods through me. "That's..."
"Possessive? Twisted?" He leans closer. "I know. But you asked for honesty."
"My turn again," I say quickly, trying to regain footing. "You’ll ask me two questions after that. What do you think about when you look at me?"
"Dangerous question."
"You said anything."
"I think about how you taste." His voice drops. "I think about what sounds you'd make if I touched you the way I want to. I think about stripping away all that modest armor you wear and finding out if the rest of you is as responsive as your body was when I had you over my lap."
I can't breathe. "Dante—"
"You wanted to know." His hand slides higher on my thigh.
"I think about you constantly. When I should be working.
When I'm trying to sleep. When you're in the next room and I'm trying to convince myself to stay away.
" His eyes are dark, intense. "I think about what it would feel like to stop pretending this is just business. "
"It is just business."
"Is it?" He's close enough now that I can feel his breath. "Then why is your heart racing? Why are you leaning toward me instead of away?"
"I'm not—"
"You are." His hand cups my face. "And I know I shouldn’t care. Should maintain distance. Should remember this is temporary." His thumb traces my lower lip. "But I don't. I can't."
"We can't do this." But I'm not moving away. Not pushing his hand from my face. "This isn't part of the arrangement—"
"Fuck the arrangement." He's so close now our lips are almost touching. "Tell me you don't want this. Tell me you don't think about it too."
I should. I should tell him exactly that.
But I can't.
Because it would be a lie.
"I—"
"We're here," Tony announces from the front seat.
Dante and I spring apart like teenagers caught by parents.
The gates of his estate are opening. The house looming ahead, all lit windows and cold perfection.
The moment is broken.
"We should..." I trail off, not sure how to finish.
"Yeah." Dante runs a hand through his hair, looking as off-balance as I feel. "We should."
Tony parks, then a second later he opens my door. I climb out on shaky legs, hyperaware of Dante behind me.
Inside, we pause at the base of the stairs.
"Bianca," he says.
I turn.
" The party. This thing between us—we need to figure it out."
"There's nothing to figure out."
"Yes, there is." He moves closer. "Because whatever this is, it's not just business anymore. And we both know it."
He's right.
I hate that he's right.
"Goodnight, Dante."
"Goodnight."
I climb the stairs, feeling his eyes on me the whole way.
And when I reach the bedroom—his bedroom—I close the door and lean against it, trying to catch my breath.
We almost kissed.
Again.
And next time, I'm not sure either of us will stop.