Chapter 3
Emilia
T he yacht gleamed in the fading sunlight, its sleek lines slicing through the waves. The air carried salt and a faint trace of cigar smoke, mingling with the sharp laughter and clinking glasses from the deck. It should have felt like a dream—luxurious, carefree, untouchable. But it didn’t.
But as I stood at the edge of the deck sipping my Aperol Spritz, the wind teasing strands of my hair loose from their pins, I couldn’t shake the tension coiling in my chest. The water stretched endlessly before me, the horizon painted in shades of orange and gold. I let the bitter-sweet taste of the drink ground me, as I watched Dante through lowered lashes.
We hadn’t spoken all day, yet his presence was impossible to ignore—and that infuriated me. Even lounging at the bar, he commanded attention, his dark suit a sharp contrast to the breezy resort wear of the other guests. Even my father had traded his usual Italian tailoring for J. Crew khakis.
Behind me, the party raged on. My family and Dante’s family mingled like predators circling the same kill, their smiles sharp and their laughter edged with something darker. Deals were being made tonight, though no one would say it outright. The kind of deals that made blood spill and fortunes grow.
I wasn’t naive—I knew this was how our world worked. But knowing it and being caught in the middle of it were two very different things .
As I scanned the crowd, my gaze landed on Luca Conti, Dante’s younger brother. He stood near the bar, a glass of whiskey dangling lazily in his hand, his sharp features softened by the dimming light. He caught my eye, and for a moment, the tension in the air seemed to pause.
Luca’s lips quirked into a faint, knowing smirk. I gave him a small nod in acknowledgment, a flicker of familiarity passing between us. We’d gone to St. Gabriel University together, though our interactions had been few and far between—aside from that one night during our freshman year.
A party hosted by the sons of a powerful cartel family, the air thick with smoke and adrenaline. I’d thought I was clever, confident enough to sit down at a poker table with Luca and a few others. I hadn’t expected him to clean me out in less than an hour, his sharp gaze and cold calculation making it impossible to bluff him.
I’d lost a month of my allowance that night, walking away with a bruised ego and a grudging respect for how effortlessly he’d played me. Luca, on the other hand, had barely reacted—just a quiet smirk as he gathered his winnings.
I straightened my posture and gave him the same polite nod I’d offered back then, refusing to let him see any hint of irritation. Luca had always been one of the more calculating ones at St. Gabriel, less interested in petty rivalries and more focused on the bigger picture. He’d spent most of his time observing, staying one step ahead of everyone else. And yet, he’d always had this quiet charisma that made people underestimate him, even when they shouldn’t.
Now, years later, he looked just as composed, just as dangerous. But there was something in his nod—a flicker of amusement, maybe even respect—that made me relax slightly. At least Luca was a familiar face in a room full of predators.
I sipped my drink, the condensation from the glass chilling my fingers. A part of me wanted to disappear into the crowd, to lose myself in the noise. But I couldn’t. Not with him here .
I didn’t have to look to know where Dante was. His presence was a gravitational pull, a weight I couldn’t ignore even if I tried. He was at the bar, flanked by a cluster of his men and my father’s associates. Their low voices carried on the breeze, too far away to catch the words but close enough to feel the tension.
I glanced over my shoulder, my gaze finding him almost instinctively. He was leaning against the bar, a glass of something dark in his hand, his posture deceptively relaxed. But his eyes—those dark, piercing eyes—were anything but. They tracked the room with the precision of a sniper, missing nothing.
And then, as if he could sense my gaze, his head turned.
Our eyes met, and the breath caught in my throat.
Dante didn’t smile. He didn’t nod or acknowledge me in any way. But the weight of his stare was enough to send a shiver down my spine.
I turned back to the water, gripping the railing so tightly my knuckles ached. The metal was cool beneath my palms, grounding me in a way I desperately needed. My breath came short and shallow, my chest tight with the weight of his stare.
Why did he always have to look at me like that? Like he was peeling me apart piece by piece, dissecting every thought, every emotion, until there was nothing left to hide. It wasn’t just unnerving—it was infuriating.
I tried to focus on the horizon, on the way the sun dipped lower and bled its colors into the waves. But I could still feel him watching me, even after I’d turned away. And the worst part? It wasn’t just anger that made my pulse race.
The thought made me grip the railing harder, as if I could crush the feeling out of existence.
“Careful,” came a voice from behind me, low and mocking. “You might fall in.”
I didn’t have to turn to know who it was.
“Wouldn’t that be convenient for you?” I shot back, keeping my gaze fixed on the horizon. “One less Ricci to worry about.”
Dante laughed. “If I wanted you gone, Emilia, you wouldn’t be standing here.”
The casual way he said it, as if it were a simple fact and not a threat, made my stomach twist.
“What do you want, Dante?” I asked, finally turning to face him.
He was closer than I expected, his broad frame blocking out the light from the setting sun. Up close, he was even more imposing, the sharp lines of his jaw and the cold intensity in his eyes making my pulse quicken.
“Just checking on you, enjoying the view,” he said, his tone deceptively mild. His eyes slid over me, lingering just long enough to send a shiver down my spine. “That dress—white, bold, and...hopeful,” he murmured, his lips curving upwards. “Not quite what I’d expect.”
I raised a brow, refusing to take the bait. “And what would you expect?”
His smirk deepened, his gaze darkening as it swept over me again. “Something with a little more...edge.” His voice dipped, smooth as velvet. “Red, maybe.”
The word hung between us, heavy with unspoken meaning.
“Why red?” I asked, my voice sharp, though I hated how the question betrayed my curiosity.
He tilted his head, the smirk softening into something almost contemplative. “Because it suits you.”
Before I could respond, the sound of raised voices broke through the hum of the party. I turned toward the commotion, my heart sinking as I saw my father and one of Dante’s men locked in a heated argument near the bar.
Dante’s expression darkened instantly, the easy charm vanishing like a switch had been flipped. He glanced at me briefly, his jaw tightening. “Excuse me,” he murmured, his tone clipped, before stepping past me, his long strides eating up the distance between him and the bar .
I followed, my heels clicking against the polished deck as I tried to catch up.
By the time I reached them, the argument had escalated. My father’s face was red with anger, his voice rising above the din of the party. Dante’s man—tall, broad, and visibly nervous—stood his ground, but it was clear he was out of his depth.
“What’s going on?” I asked, stepping closer, though I hesitated to fully insert myself into the situation.
My father barely spared me a glance. “Stay out of this, Emilia.”
“She’s fine,” Dante said, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. He stepped into the circle, his presence commanding instant silence.
The man—one of his associates, I realized—looked at Dante with a mixture of fear and desperation. “Boss, I didn’t—”
Dante raised a hand, silencing him. His gaze flicked to my father, then back to the man. “Walk with me,” he said, his voice low but firm.
The man hesitated, but Dante didn’t wait for a response. He turned and began walking toward a quieter corner of the deck, the man trailing behind him like a shadow.
I watched as they disappeared into the dimly lit edge of the yacht, where the noise of the party faded into the rhythmic lapping of the waves. My pulse was still racing, though I couldn’t decide if it was from the tension between my father and Dante’s man or the lingering charge of Dante’s proximity just moments ago.
My father muttered something under his breath, straightening his jacket as if the outburst hadn’t happened. He turned to me, his eyes narrowing. “I told you to stay out of it, Emilia.”
I crossed my arms. “What was that about?”
He waved a hand dismissively, but there was a tightness to his jaw that betrayed his frustration. “Business. Nothing for you to concern yourself with.”
He turned away, already moving toward another cluster of guests, his smile suddenly back in place like a mask. I clenched my fists, watching his retreating back. It was always the same—every time I tried to pull back the curtain on what really went on in our world, I was met with walls, secrets, and lies.
I turned my attention back to Dante. He stood at the far end of the deck, his back to the sea, talking quietly to his associate. His posture was calm, controlled, but there was something about the way his shoulders were set, the slight tilt of his head, that radiated power. Whatever he was saying, the man nodded quickly, his gaze fixed to the floor like a chastened schoolboy.
I caught fragments about real estate holdings and discrepancies in the books – boring business talk that somehow carried the weight of threat in every syllable.
"The numbers don't add up," Dante was saying, his voice carrying that dangerous edge I'd come to recognize. "Someone's been creative with accounting."
The associate – Mario, I think his name was – spread his hands in a placating gesture. "Market fluctuations, nothing more. You know how volatile real estate can be."
I started to walk past their group, heading for the bar to refresh my drink. The timing couldn't have been worse. I was close enough to hear Dante’s voice, calm but cold. “You’ve disappointed me.”
The associate stammered, his words tumbling over each other in a rush. Something about money, discrepancies in the accounts, a mistake that wasn’t supposed to happen.
Dante listened in silence, his expression cold and unreadable. But as the man continued, his eyes darkened, the glint of patience slipping away.
And then, without warning, he pulled out his gun.
Before I could fully process what was happening, the sharp crack of a gunshot split the air.
The sound of the shot was deafening, cutting through the party like a thunderclap.
I didn’t even have time to scream. Warm liquid splattered across my face and chest, staining my white sundress crimson. Mario's body crumpled, a neat hole in his forehead leaking red onto the polished deck.
One moment, the man was standing there, pleading his case. The next, he was crumpling to the deck, blood pooling beneath him.
The world seemed to tilt on its axis, the edges of my vision blurring as the reality of what had just happened sank in.
Chaos erupted. Guests scattered like startled birds, shouts in English and Italian filling the air. Someone screamed – maybe me, though I couldn't be sure. My glass slipped from numb fingers, shattering on the deck.
"Merda!" My father's voice cut through the pandemonium. "Everyone calm down!"
But I couldn't move, couldn't breathe. All I could see was Mario's vacant eyes staring past me at the sunset, all I could feel was the sticky warmth of his blood cooling on my skin. The rumors about Dante's last fiancée echoed in my head – how he'd left her bleeding out without a second glance.
"Emilia." Dante's voice was surprisingly gentle as he stepped into my line of sight, blocking my view of the body. His gun had already disappeared, tucked away as if it had never existed. "Look at me."
I did, though it took effort to drag my eyes away from the growing pool of red at my feet. His expression was unreadable, but something in his eyes made my breath catch.
He pulled a crisp white linen handkerchief from his pocket—elegant, refined, and completely at odds with the fact that he’d just shot a man dead—and brought it to my face. The gesture was almost tender as he wiped Mario's blood from my cheek. His other hand came up to steady my chin, the rough pad of his thumb grazing the edge of my jaw.
The contact was brief, but it sent a jolt through me, sharp and unwelcome, like static electricity that left my skin tingling in its wake. I should have flinched, should have pulled away from the intimacy of the touch, but I stayed rooted to the spot, my breath catching in my throat.
The scent of him—smoke and spice—filled the space between us, and for a moment, the world around us seemed to fade into silence. His fingers brushed against my cheek as he folded the handkerchief, the warmth of his skin lingering far longer than it should have.
“There,” he said softly, his voice low and steady, his hand lingering just a second too long before dropping away. “All better.”
But I wasn’t. The blood was gone, but the memory of his touch burned, leaving me unsettled in a way that had nothing to do with the violence of the evening.
I met his gaze, searching for something—an apology, an explanation, anything—but his eyes gave nothing away. They were calm, unreadable, yet I couldn’t help but feel like he knew exactly what his touch had done to me.
And I hated that he did.
"I apologize for your dress," he said, as if he'd spilled wine rather than splattered someone's brain matter across my clothes. "I'll replace it."
A hysterical laugh bubbled up in my throat. "It's Valentino."
His lips quirked slightly. "I'm aware."
Around us, the party was already settling back into its rhythm, though conversations were more subdued. My father was directing the crew to deal with Mario's body, his tone suggesting this was just another minor inconvenience to be handled.
“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice steady, almost bored.
The absurdity of the statement snapped something inside me, and I let out a breathless laugh, the sound bordering on hysteria.
“You just killed a man,” I said, my voice shaking. “And now you’re worried about my dress?”
Dante’s lips curved, a faint smile tugging at the edges. “ Priorities, princess.”
I let Dante guide me to a nearby table, my legs trembling as I sank into a chair. My half-finished cocktail sat there mockingly, condensation beading on the glass like tears.
"Drink," Dante commanded, pushing a tumbler of amber liquid into my hands. "It'll help with the shock."
I took a sip without arguing, the whiskey burning a path down my throat. When I looked up, Dante was watching me with that intense focus that made my skin prickle.
"Why?" I asked, surprised by how steady my voice sounded.
"He was stealing from me." Dante's tone was matter-of-fact. "Nobody steals from me."
I thought of his watch, still sitting in my jewelry box at home, and suppressed a shiver. "So you killed him."
"Yes." No hesitation, no remorse. Just a simple fact.
The sunset had deepened to purple and gold, beautiful and brutal like everything else about this world I'd been born into. I could feel Dante's eyes on me, assessing my reaction, waiting to see if I'd break.
"You're taking this better than expected," he said finally, something like approval in his voice.
I met his gaze steadily. "I'm a Ricci. This isn't my first execution."
"No," he agreed, reaching out to brush another spot of blood from my shoulder. "But it is the first time you've been in the splash zone."
The casual way he referenced Mario's death should have horrified me. Instead, I found myself fighting inappropriate laughter. "Is that supposed to be funny?"
"Depends on your sense of humor." His fingers lingered on my bare shoulder, leaving trails of heat in their wake.
I jerked away from his touch, suddenly angry. "Is that why you did it? To see how I'd react?"
His expression darkened. "Don't flatter yourself, Emilia. This was business. "
"Everything's business with you, isn't it?" I pushed back from the table, needing space. "Even murder."
"Especially murder." He caught my wrist as I tried to stand, his grip firm but not painful. "Where are you going?"
"To change." I gestured at my ruined dress. "Unless you'd prefer I stay covered in your business?"
His laugh was low and dark. "Careful with that mouth, princess. It might get you in trouble."
I pulled my wrist free, forcing myself to meet his gaze. "More trouble than being splattered with blood at sunset?"
"Much more." His eyes traveled down my body, lingering on the crimson stains. "Though like I said – red suits you."
I turned and walked away, feeling his eyes on me until I disappeared below deck. Only then did I let myself shake, the full impact of what I'd witnessed hitting me like a wave.
Dante had killed a man right next to me without hesitation or warning. And somehow, the most terrifying part wasn't the violence – it was how his touch had still sent shivers down my spine even with another man's blood cooling on my skin.