Chapter 4
Dante
T he blood had barely dried, and already the vultures were circling.
I leaned back in my chair, the leather creaking softly beneath me as I surveyed the aftermath of the evening. The yacht’s dining area was quieter now, though not silent. The distant hum of the ocean filled the space, along with the occasional clink of glassware as the staff hurried to clear the remnants of a party that had ended in bloodshed. My family sat scattered around the long table, heads bowed, their gazes fixed on their drinks. No one dared look at me.
Good.
I loosened my tie, the familiar weight of my Beretta settling back against my ribs as I tucked it away. The gun was a comfort – simple, reliable, unlike the complications currently testing my control.
"Another whiskey, sir?" The bartender's hands shook slightly as he held up the bottle.
I nodded, watching the amber liquid splash into cut crystal. The irony wasn't lost on me – how quickly everyone returned to their routines after witnessing an execution. But that was our world, wasn't it? Violence wrapped in luxury, brutality hidden behind designer labels.
Once he passed it to me I swirled the whiskey in my glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light. The burn of the liquid had long since faded, replaced by something colder, sharper. Anger simmered beneath my skin, a steady thrum that refused to dissipate, no matter how many drinks I downed. It wasn’t just the betrayal that had me seething—though that was part of it. No, what truly grated was the fact that I’d let my temper get the better of me. Again.
The body had been dealt with, of course. My men were efficient, their loyalty bought and paid for with blood and fear. By now, the unfortunate bastard who’d dared to skim from my accounts was nothing more than fish food. A fitting end for a man who thought he could outsmart me.
But the stain of his failure lingered, clinging to the edges of my carefully constructed empire like a cancer. And worse, it had spilled onto her.
Emilia.
She'd cleaned most of Mario's blood from her face, but spots of red still stained her white Valentino dress like abstract art. Her father insisted everyone return to their seats, as if nothing had happened and instead of letting her get changed into something less bloody. My blood heated thinking about that. The sight stirred something possessive in my chest that I refused to examine too closely.
I closed my eyes, the image of her standing there—frozen, pale, and splattered with blood—burned into my memory. She hadn’t screamed. Hadn’t run. She’d just stood there, her wide eyes locked on mine, her breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. For a moment, I’d thought she might faint. But then she’d laughed—soft, brittle, and edged with hysteria—and something inside me had twisted.
Fuck, why did that turn me on so bad?
I hadn’t meant for her to see that. She wasn’t supposed to be there, wasn’t supposed to witness the ugliness that came with my world. And yet, I couldn’t deny the flicker of satisfaction I’d felt when she hadn’t crumbled beneath the weight of it. She’d stood her ground, despite the fear I’d seen in her eyes. Despite the blood on her skin.
She was stronger than I’d given her credit for.
“Dante.” My brother Rafe’s voice pulled me from my thoughts. He sat a few seats down, his elbows resting on the table as he nursed his own drink. His dark hair was disheveled, his tie loosened, but his sharp eyes missed nothing. “You’re brooding.”
I didn’t respond immediately, taking another slow sip of whiskey instead. The liquid burned on the way down, but it wasn’t enough to dull the edge of my frustration.
“I’m thinking,” I said finally, my voice low and measured. “There’s a difference.”
Rafe snorted, leaning back in his chair. “You’re pissed because you lost your temper. Again.”
I shot him a warning look, but he only smirked, unbothered. Of all my brothers, Rafe was the one who pushed my buttons the most. He thrived on chaos, on poking the bear just to see how far he could push before it snapped. Normally, I didn’t rise to the bait. Tonight, though, my patience was wearing thin.
“He was skimming off the books,” I said, my tone clipped. “What would you have done?”
Rafe shrugged, swirling his drink lazily, the amber liquid catching the light. “Oh, I would’ve killed him too. Just maybe not on a yacht full of witnesses. You’re losing your touch, brother.”
My jaw tightened, but I forced myself to stay calm. Rafe liked to provoke me, but he wasn’t wrong. The timing had been sloppy, the execution too public. I should’ve waited, handled it quietly, away from prying eyes. But the moment I’d seen that coward standing there, lying through his teeth, the rage had overtaken me. And now, here we were.
Rafe, of course, wouldn’t let it go.
He leaned back against the bar, the picture of relaxation, but I knew better. Rafe was never truly at ease—not in the way most people were. He was the family’s enforcer, the one who stepped in when things got messy, when the rules of the game were broken, and someone needed to be made an example of .
He cleaned up the blood, both figuratively and literally, and he did it with a smile that could make your stomach turn. The docks were his domain, our family’s pipeline for goods—both legal and illegal. If something came through the ports, Rafe knew about it. If someone tried to cheat the Ricci family, Rafe made sure they regretted it.
He didn’t just enforce the rules—he was the rules.
And yet, for all his ruthlessness, he had a way of making it look almost effortless. Like now, with that cocky grin and the way he swirled his drink, you’d think he didn’t have a care in the world. But I knew better. Behind the lazy smirk and the sharp designer suit was a man who could snap a neck without breaking a sweat.
“It’s handled,” I said, my voice hard. “That’s all that matters.”
Rafe raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t press further. He knew better than to push me too far.
The room fell into an uneasy silence, broken only by the faint clatter of dishes being cleared away. My other brother sat at the far end of the table, deep in conversation with a friend of his, their voices too low to make out. Some of my cousins lingered near the bar, their laughter forced and brittle. Everyone was walking on eggshells, waiting for the storm to pass.
I rolled my eyes and clenched my jaw. Fucking cowards.
As if that was the first execution at a Conti event?
I drained the rest of my whiskey in one swallow, the glass hitting the table with a dull thud. The burn of it did little to soothe the ache in my chest, the gnawing sense of dissatisfaction that had been growing for weeks. Months, even.
My gaze drifted to the far end of the room, where Emilia had been sitting earlier. She was gone now, no doubt retreating to some quiet corner of the yacht to lick her wounds. I hadn’t seen her since the incident, and hadn't had the chance to speak to her. Not that I would’ve known what to say .
I almost shook my head to rattle my brain because why the fuck was I acting like a schoolboy with a crush? Since when did I let anyone take up this much space in my head?
“Thinking about her, huh?” Rafe’s voice broke through my thoughts, his tone laced with amusement.
I didn’t respond, but he leaned casually against the edge of the table, watching me like I was some kind of puzzle he was determined to solve.
“You’ve got it bad, brother,” he added, a smirk tugging at his lips.
I shot him a sharp look. “Don’t start.”
“Who, me?” he asked, holding up his hands in mock innocence. “I’m just saying, it’s written all over your face. You’ve got that look—like you’re two seconds away from writing her name in a notebook with hearts around it.”
“Rafe,” I warned, my voice low and clipped.
He chuckled, clearly enjoying himself. “Relax, Dante. I’m not judging. Hell, if she’s the one who finally gets you to loosen up, we should be thanking her. It’s not like you’re easy to deal with.”
Before I could respond, Luca and Logan walked up, their voices rising as they bickered about something absurd.
“I’m telling you, it’s a completely valid strategy!” Logan argued, gesturing wildly with his drink in hand.
“It’s cheating,” Luca replied flatly, his expression unamused.
“It’s not cheating—it’s creative,” Logan shot back, his grin wide. “You’re just mad you didn’t think of it first.”
Rafe snorted, clearly entertained. “What now?”
“Logan thinks counting cards isn’t cheating,” Luca said, his tone dry, though there was a flicker of annoyance in his eyes.
“It’s a skill ,” Logan insisted. “If the casino’s dumb enough to let you do it, that’s on them.”
“You’re dumb enough to think you of all people would get away with it,” Luca muttered, shaking his head before taking a sip of his drink .
“Don’t act like you’re above it,” Logan fired back, before his gaze flicked to me. His grin widened instantly, as he turned to me and I could already tell he was about to say something stupid. “We’re just keeping the mood light. You looked like you were about to combust over there.”
Luca smirked, but Logan wasn’t done. His grin widened, a little too cocky for his own good. “Though, I gotta say, if you’re all broody like this because of Emilia, I get it.”
My jaw tightened instantly, but Logan kept going, oblivious to the warning signs.
“She’s always been a smokeshow,” he said, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “I mean, come on, half the guys were obsessed with her. I don’t blame you for—”
“Logan,” I interrupted, my voice low and steady, though there was no mistaking the edge beneath it.
He stopped mid-sentence, glancing at me with a raised brow.
“I like you, and for some reason, my brother has some sort of loyalty to your friendship,” I said, my tone calm but unyielding. “But I’m not afraid to break your nose.”
The words hung in the air for a long moment, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Logan blinked, his grin faltering as it finally registered.
Rafe chuckled under his breath, clearly enjoying the show.
“What did I say?” Logan asked, turning to Luca as I rose to my feet, my movements deliberate and controlled.
“You’re an idiot,” Luca muttered, taking another sip of his drink.
I didn’t wait for any more commentary. The sound of their voices faded as I strode toward the exit, the cooler night air a welcome relief from the suffocating heat of the room.
I exhaled slowly, running a hand through my hair. What the fuck was wrong with me? I wasn’t the kind of man who let anyone get under my skin like this.
And yet, Emilia was everywhere. In my head. Under my skin. In the air I breathed .
I cursed under my breath, shaking my head. I needed to get a grip—before the distraction became dangerous.
Rafe watched me with a knowing smirk, but I ignored him, striding toward the exit without a backward glance.
The cool night air hit me as I stepped onto the deck, the distant sound of waves crashing against the hull filling the silence. The party had mostly dispersed by now, the remaining guests too drunk or too shaken to linger. Good. I needed the quiet.
Leaning against the railing, I stared out at the dark expanse of water, my thoughts a tangled mess. Emilia’s face lingered in my mind, her wide eyes and trembling hands, the way she’d laughed despite the fear. That dark hair that I wanted to wrap around my fist so bad. She was an enigma, pulling me in when I knew better than to get too close. And for a man like me, that was dangerous.
I didn’t want to care about her. Didn’t want to feel this...pull, this maddening need to protect her. She was a complication I couldn’t afford, a distraction in a world where distractions got you killed.
And yet, I couldn’t stay away.
The sound of footsteps behind me broke through my thoughts, and I turned to find Emilia standing there, her arms wrapped around herself as if to ward off the chill. Her dress was gone, replaced by a simple sweater and jeans, her hair loose around her shoulders. She looked softer like this, more vulnerable. But her eyes were just as fierce as ever.
I wasn't sure if she looked better like this, or dressed in designer. Either way, she had a knack for making it impossible not to notice her.
“You’re brooding,” she said, her tone light but with an edge of mischief, echoing Rafe’s earlier words.
I arched an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at my lips. “And you’re not?”
She tilted her head, crossing her arms tighter as if bracing against both the cold and the conversation. “I don’t brood. I reflect.”
“Is that what you call it?” I asked, stepping closer, unable to help myself. “Because from here, it looks suspiciously like brooding.”
Her lips twitched, but she didn’t let the smile break through. “Well, excuse me if I’m not in the mood to smile and wave after the day we’ve had.”
“Fair point,” I said, nodding slowly, “but I think you’d look better if you tried. You know, smiling. Maybe even laughing. I hear it’s good for the soul.”
She rolled her eyes, finally letting a small smile slip through. “You’re hilarious. Truly. Maybe you should quit the mob and try stand-up.”
“I’ll consider it,” I said with mock seriousness, “if you promise to be my first audience member. Front row, laughing the loudest. Deal?”
She hesitated, her gaze flicking to the water before meeting mine. “I just wanted to say...thank you. For checking on me earlier.”
The words caught me off guard, and for a moment, I didn’t know how to respond. I glanced at her, trying to read her expression, but her face was calm, her eyes steady. Finally, I nodded, my voice low. “You’re welcome.”
She shifted her weight, her arms still crossed as she studied me. “You’re not exactly what I expected, you know.”
I raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “What did you expect?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted, shrugging lightly. “Someone colder. More ruthless. Someone who wouldn’t bother checking on me.”
I smirked, leaning slightly closer. “Don’t get the wrong idea, princess. I didn’t check on you out of kindness. I just didn’t want to deal with the fallout if something happened to you on my watch.”
She narrowed her eyes at me, but I caught the glimmer of amusement there. “Right. Of course. How selfless of you.”
“Always,” I said smoothly. “Selflessness is practically my middle name.”
“Somehow, I doubt that,” she shot back, her voice dry but warm.
We stood there in silence for a moment, the tension between us only growing thicker. Beneath the sharp edges of our words, there was something else—something I couldn’t quite name.
Something dangerous.
She shifted again, her arms falling to her sides as she turned toward the water. “You’re not as tough as you like to pretend, you know,” she said softly, not looking at me.
“Careful,” I warned, my tone low but teasing, “you might hurt my feelings.”
“I’m serious,” she said, glancing at me from the corner of her eye. “You act like you’re made of stone, but I think there’s more to you than that.”
I leaned against the railing, my smirk fading as I met her gaze. “And what makes you so sure?”
She hesitated, then shrugged. “Call it intuition.”
I chuckled, shaking my head. “Dangerous thing, intuition. It gets people killed.”
“Maybe,” she said, her voice light again, “but it also keeps things interesting.”
And with that, she turned and walked away, leaving me standing there with the ghost of her words lingering in the air. I couldn’t help but smile, despite myself.
She had no idea just how dangerous things were about to get.