Chapter 5
Emilia
T he morning after the yacht incident, I sat at our kitchen island, nursing a cappuccino and trying to chase away the dull throb behind my eyes. Sleep had eluded me, my dreams haunted by gunshots and dark, unrelenting eyes that seemed to strip me bare.
From the other side of the room, the low murmur of voices carried over—the usual morning debrief between my brothers. Their words were sharp-edged, every syllable laced with the weight of business that never stopped, not even after what had happened yesterday.
"Did you hear about the Irish?" Marco's voice was clear, louder than the others as he spoke.
"The Irish," Tony repeated, his tone dry with a hint of disdain. "When are they not making a mess of things?"
"This was different," Marco said, his voice lowering slightly, as if even saying it out loud required caution. "You remember the port in Wilmington? The Irish tried to take it last week. They came in heavy—men, weapons, the whole nine yards. The Conti brothers had to send a message."
I stilled, the rim of my mug brushing my lips as the words sank in.
Tony gave a low whistle from the other room. "A message, huh? What kind of message are we talking about here?"
"The kind you don’t recover from," Marco replied. His tone was grim now, all traces of levity gone. "Two of their ships were found burned out, drifting in the bay. No cargo, no crew. Just fire and ash."
Giuseppe's voice cut through, light and full of amusement, like he wasn’t talking about charred bodies and scorched deals. "And the crew?"
"Rafe left one alive," Marco said. "Barely. Made him crawl back to their boss with the warning."
Tony snorted. “The Contis don’t play around when it comes to the ports.”
"Yeah, well, they’re still pushing," Marco said. "They’re trying to tighten their grip on every port from here to Boston. Dante knew they wouldn’t listen, but Rafe’s the one who really wanted to make it hurt."
“That’s Rafe for you,” Tony muttered. “Man enjoys his work a little too much.”
Giuseppe laughed. "You think the Irish got the message now?"
Marco let out a low, humorless chuckle. "They got the message, but that doesn't mean they're backing off. If anything, they'll come at us harder. You know how they work—prideful bastards. They’ll take this as an insult, and they’ll make it personal."
The air in the house felt heavier as Marco’s words settled. Pride. Revenge. Blood. It was a vicious cycle, one I’d seen too many times before.
"Speaking of personal," Tony said, his voice dropping slightly. "Did you see how fast Dante took that shot yesterday? Didn’t even blink. Ruthless, like everyone says."
I gripped my coffee cup tighter, the ceramic warm beneath my fingers as if grounding me to the moment. But my thoughts were anything but steady. Marco’s words echoed in my ears, dragging me back to the yacht, to the deafening crack of Dante’s gunshot, to the way the world had gone still in its aftermath.
Blood had bloomed across my dress, spreading like a grotesque flower, and yet, I hadn’t moved. I hadn’t screamed. I’d simply stood there, rooted to the ground, watching the life drain from Mario’s eyes.
I’d watched Dante step forward, calm and deliberate, like he’d done this a hundred times before. And maybe he had. But then he’d turned to me—the ruthless, detached man who had just ended someone’s life—and gently wiped the blood from my cheek. His touch had lingered, just for a moment, his thumb brushing my skin with a softness that didn’t make sense.
The memory made my stomach twist, a strange warmth blooming in my chest that I tried to smother.
“Emilia.” Marco’s voice pulled me back, sharp and probing. I blinked, realizing his eyes were on me, his espresso cup poised halfway to his lips. “You’re awful quiet this morning. Yesterday didn’t shake you up too much, did it?”
I forced a scoff, leaning back in my chair with as much indifference as I could muster. “Please. You forget who you’re talking to. I’ve seen worse.”
“Worse?” Tony’s snort was almost derisive. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Dante executed his business partner in the middle of a party, sorella. What exactly have you seen that’s worse than that?”
“Associate,” I corrected automatically, the word slipping out before I could stop it. “Not partner.”
The second the words left my mouth, I knew I’d made a mistake. The room went quiet, the kind of silence that felt louder than any accusation. Marco’s eyes narrowed slightly, his espresso forgotten.
“You seem very well-informed about Dante’s business arrangements,” he said slowly, his tone laced with suspicion.
I shrugged, trying to look bored, though my pulse quickened beneath his scrutiny. “I pay attention.”
“To Dante?” Giuseppe piped up, his grin wicked and teasing. “I mean, I don’t blame you. Half the women in New York would kill to get his attention.”
“The smart ones run the other way,” Tony said, his voice dry. “You heard what happened to the last girl who caught his eye.” He paused for effect, his gaze flicking to me with a pointed sharpness. “Ended up in a body bag.”
The words hit harder than I wanted to admit, the weight of them settling in my chest like a stone. I shouldn’t have cared, shouldn’t have even flinched, but the image of Dante’s almost-smile flashed through my mind. The way he’d moved on the yacht—calm, lethal, and yet somehow protective.
He’d stepped between me and Mario’s body like it was second nature, like keeping me safe was as instinctive as pulling the trigger.
“Maybe she should have run faster,” I said, forcing a casual disdain into my voice.
Marco’s laugh came unexpectedly, breaking the tension. “Careful, sorella. You almost sound impressed.”
“By what?” I stood, carrying my empty cup to the sink, my movements sharp and deliberate. “His ability to ruin designer dresses with blood spatter? Please. I think I’ll stick to men who don’t treat murder like a party trick.”
The words came easily enough, but the image of Dante wiping blood from my skin lingered in my mind, refusing to be dismissed. There had been something in his eyes—something I couldn’t name, something that made me feel…
“Earth to Emilia.” Tony’s voice cut through my thoughts. “You’re going to flood the kitchen.”
I blinked, realizing the tap was still running, water spilling over my hands and pooling in the sink.
I turned it off quickly, grabbing a towel to hide the trembling in my fingers. “Sorry. Just tired.”
“Uh-huh.” Marco’s tone was light, but the way he studied me made my skin prickle. “Nothing to do with a certain dangerous capo who seems very interested in our little sister?”
I dried my hands with more force than necessary, turning to glare at him. “Don’t be ridiculous. Dante Conti doesn’t interest me at all. ”
The lie tasted bitter on my tongue, but I held my ground, forcing my expression into one of bored indifference. Let them think yesterday had left me shaken, that I was just another socialite uncomfortable with the violent reality of our world.
Better that than letting them see the truth—the truth that every time I closed my eyes, I saw Dante’s dangerous smile, felt the ghost of his touch on my skin. That instead of being repulsed by his casual violence, some dark, shameful part of me had been fascinated by it.
“Whatever you say, sorella,” Giuseppe said, his grin widening as he leaned back in his chair. “Just remember—guy’s got a body count higher than your shoe collection.”
Their laughter followed me as I left the kitchen, echoing in the hallway and chasing me up the stairs.
My bedroom felt like a sanctuary, quiet and still, but even here, Dante lingered, a shadow in the corners of my mind. My ruined Valentino dress still hung in the bathroom, the bloodstains stark against the pale fabric, a reminder of everything I wanted to forget.
Sinking onto my bed, I pulled out my phone, the screen glowing in the dim light. My thumb hovered for a moment before typing his name into the search bar.
Headlines filled the screen, each one worse than the last. Ruthless. Dangerous. A man to be feared.
I stared at the words, my stomach twisting. That’s what he was: a man to be feared, not desired.
So why couldn’t I stop thinking about the way his voice softened when he said my name?