Chapter 12
Dante
T he first time I saw her soaking wet, I knew I was in trouble.
It wasn’t the kind of trouble that came with a gun pressed to your temple or a deal gone south. No, this was worse. This was the kind of trouble that dug its claws into you, crawled under your skin, and made itself a permanent part of you. It was the kind of trouble you couldn’t outrun, couldn’t fight, and couldn’t forget.
She hadn’t noticed me that day, standing in the shadows of her father’s estate, my meeting with Vincent delayed by some minor inconvenience. I’d stepped outside to escape the suffocating weight of his study—the cigar smoke, the sharp tang of whiskey, the endless talk of power plays and alliances. But what I found outside was far more dangerous.
She was by the pool, emerging from the water like some kind of siren sent to test the limits of my self-control.
Her hair clung to her shoulders in dark, wet waves, droplets of water trailing down her skin like they had a purpose—like they were trying to draw my eyes to every curve and hollow of her body. The sunlight danced across her, catching on the line of her collarbone, the dip of her waist, the smooth stretch of her legs. Her swimsuit, simple and black, left just enough to the imagination, but it was what it didn’t hide that made my throat tighten.
She moved with an unintentional grace, wringing out her hair as if she hadn’t just stolen the breath from my lungs. Barefoot, her toes curled slightly against the hot stone tiles, and I found myself fixating on the smallest details. It wasn’t just lust. It was something worse, something deeper.
She was laughing at something one of her brothers had said, the sound light and carefree, cutting through the heaviness of the estate like a blade. That laugh—it didn’t belong here, not in a world of shadows and blood and power. It was too pure, too unguarded, and it made me ache in ways I didn’t want to acknowledge. For a moment, I forgot who I was. Where I was. Why I was there.
All I could think about was her.
The way her lips curved when she smiled, full and soft, like they were meant to be kissed. The way her eyes sparkled in the sunlight, shining brighter than any kind of wealth her family could claim. She didn’t look like she belonged in this world of ours—the world of men like me, where danger was currency and trust was a weakness. She looked like something meant to be cherished, protected.
And yet, all I could think about was ruining her.
It was maddening. She was maddening.
I’d turned away before she could notice me, retreating to the shadows like the predator I was. But even as I left, I couldn’t shake the image of her—the way the water had clung to her skin, the way her laughter had echoed in my ears like a melody I didn’t deserve to hear. It stayed with me, vivid and unrelenting, haunting me in the quiet moments when I let my guard slip.
And now, standing in the grand dining room of the Conti estate, surrounded by the hum of familiar voices and the clinking of crystal glasses, I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
She was across the room, but it didn’t matter. I could feel her, like the pull of gravity, like something primal and instinctual I couldn’t fight. My gaze found her without meaning to, drawn to her like a moth to a flame. That dress. That body. God. Damn .
The dress she wore hugged her figure in all the right ways, the deep red fabric clinging to her curves like it was made for her. Her hair was swept back, revealing the elegant line of her neck, the kind of detail that made my fingers itch to run along her skin. Every movement she made, every shift of her body, was hypnotic. She didn’t even know the power she had, and that was the most dangerous part.
I hated it. Hated her for looking like that, hated myself for wanting her the way I did. I was supposed to be better than this—sharper, more controlled. But when it came to her, I felt like a man on the edge of losing everything.
She wasn’t mine. She couldn’t be. And yet, the thought of anyone else touching her, seeing her the way I did, made something dark and possessive coil in my chest.
I tore my gaze away, forcing myself to focus on anything else, anyone else. But it was useless. She was burned into me now, a permanent mark I’d never be able to erase.
Trouble. That’s what she was. Trouble wrapped in beauty, laughter, and temptation. And I was already in too deep.
The Riccis and the Contis rarely mingled outside of business, but tonight was an exception. My brothers had insisted on hosting a dinner, a show of unity between the families that was as much for appearances as it was for strategy. The room was filled with the usual suspects—my brothers, my cousins, Vincent Ricci, his wife and his sons. And then there was her.
Emilia.
She was seated at the far end of the table, her posture straight, her expression carefully neutral as she listened to one of her brothers recount some story about a botched shipment. Her hair was pulled back tonight, exposing the delicate curve of her neck, and the soft amber light of the chandelier cast a golden glow on her skin. She could have been wearing a burlap sack, and I still wouldn’t have been able to keep my eyes off her.
That was the problem.
I forced my gaze away, focusing instead on the glass of whiskey in front of me. The conversation around the table was a dull hum, the kind of meaningless chatter that filled the spaces between more serious discussions. My brothers were laughing at something my cousin Rocco had said, their voices loud and boisterous, but I couldn’t bring myself to join in. My thoughts were elsewhere—on her.
She was a distraction I couldn’t afford, and yet, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to get her out of my head. It wasn’t just her looks, though God knew she was beautiful. It was the way she carried herself, the quiet strength that radiated from her even when she was surrounded by men who thought themselves her betters. It was the way she challenged me, the way she looked at me like she wasn’t afraid of what she saw, even though she should have been.
It was infuriating.
“Dante.” My brother’s voice cut through my thoughts, sharp and commanding. He was seated to my left, his expression as unreadable as ever. “Have you spoken to Vincent about the discrepancies?”
I nodded, setting my glass down. “I’ve provided him with all the necessary documentation. My forensic accountant will begin the investigation tomorrow.”
Vincent, seated across from me, inclined his head slightly, his expression carefully neutral. “I appreciate your thoroughness, Dante. Rest assured, my team is already looking into the matter.”
“Good,” I said, my tone clipped. “Because the numbers don’t lie, Vincent. Someone’s been skimming, and it’s only a matter of time before we find out who.”
The tension in the room thickened, the air practically crackling with unspoken accusations. Vincent’s sons shifted uncomfortably in their seats, their gazes darting between their father and me. Emilia, however, didn’t move. Her expression remained calm, her gaze steady as she sipped her wine.
I hated how much I admired her composure.
Vincent's expression remained carefully blank. "My people are looking into it."
"Are they?" I set my glass down with deliberate precision. "Because my forensic accountant is ready to start tomorrow. Unless you'd prefer to handle it internally?"
The threat in my words was clear. Vincent might be a don in his own right, but we both knew who held the real power here.
"That won't be necessary." He spread his hands in a placating gesture. "We appreciate your...thoroughness in this matter."
My laugh held no humor. "Appreciate it enough to stop the bleeding, or should I expect more creative accounting?"
"Perhaps we should discuss this in private," Vincent suggested, following my gaze to his daughter.
"Perhaps you should get your house in order." I picked up my whiskey again, dismissing him. "Before someone else does it for you."
He retreated with as much dignity as he could muster, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
The conversation shifted after that, moving on to safer topics—real estate ventures, supply chain logistics, the usual business talk that dominated these gatherings. I tried to focus, tried to push thoughts of her out of my mind, but it was no use. Every time she moved, every time she laughed softly at something one of her brothers said, my attention snapped back to her like a moth to a flame.
It wasn’t just desire, though that was certainly part of it. It was something deeper, something I couldn’t quite put into words. She unsettled me in a way no one else ever had, and I hated it. Hated the way she made me feel...unbalanced.
Possessive.
Jealous.
What the fuck.
I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to look away as one of my cousins leaned in to whisper something in her ear, earning a rare smile from her. It wasn’t my business. She wasn’t my business. And yet, the thought of anyone else making her smile like that made my blood boil.
“Relax, brother,” Luca said from beside me, his voice low enough that only I could hear. He was nursing a glass of red wine, his posture as casual as ever, but his dark eyes gleamed with mischief. His expression was amused as he followed my gaze to Emilia, who was across the room, laughing at something one of her friends had said. “You look like you’re about to murder someone.”
“Mind your own business,” I muttered, taking another sip of my whiskey.
Luca chuckled, leaning back in his chair with the kind of ease only he could pull off. He had always been like this—unbothered, irreverent, always toeing the line between charm and recklessness. “You’ve got it bad, don’t you?” he teased, tilting his glass toward me. “I can’t blame you, though. She’s a knockout—always has been. But you don’t need me to tell you that, do you?”
“Watch it,” I warned, my tone sharper than I intended.
He smirked, clearly enjoying himself. “Relax, Dante. You know I’m just messing with you.” He took another sip of his wine, his gaze flicking back to Emilia. “But seriously, you should probably work on that poker face of yours. It’s a little too obvious.”
I shot him a glare, but Luca only shrugged, unbothered by my irritation. That was Luca for you—untouchable, or so he liked to believe.
“You’re lucky I don’t kick your ass,” I muttered under my breath.
“Please.” He grinned, his teeth flashing white against his tanned skin. “You’d miss me too much. Besides, you know I’m right.”
Luca was the youngest of us, just a few years older than Emilia, and our father’s favorite son. He had a way of getting away with things the rest of us couldn’t—a sharp tongue, a quick wit, and a devil-may-care attitude that made him infuriatingly likable.
But there was more to Luca than most people realized. He was the charmer, the one who could talk his way out of any situation, but beneath the surface, he was sharp, calculating. He had a knack for reading people, for figuring out what made them tick—and for using that knowledge to his advantage.
As much as he annoyed me, I couldn’t deny that he had a point. I’d been staring at Emilia for too long, and Luca had caught me.
“Don’t worry,” he said, raising his glass in mock surrender, his tone dripping with fake innocence. “Your secret’s safe with me. But you’re playing a dangerous game, fratello. A Ricci? Really?”
“There’s no secret,” I snapped, my voice harsher than I intended. “Drop it.”
Luca raised an eyebrow, his grin fading slightly, but he didn’t push further—yet. “Sure, sure. Whatever you say.” He swirled his wine lazily, his gaze flickering back to Emilia. “But for someone who doesn’t care, you’re doing a terrible job of hiding it.”
“You’re awfully chatty tonight,” I said, keeping my tone casual as I swirled the whiskey in my glass.
“Just calling it like I see it,” he replied with a shrug. “And what I see is you staring at Emilia like she’s the last drink at the bar.”
I clenched my jaw, my grip tightening on the glass. “She’s none of your business, Luca.”
Before I could respond, Rafe appeared at my other side, his expression as sharp as ever. “Subtle,” he commented dryly, nodding toward the far end of the room. “Think he caught the threat?”
“If he didn’t, he’s more stupid than I thought.” I watched as Emilia moved through the crowd, drawing attention like a flame draws moths. “And Vincent Ricci isn’t stupid.”
“No.” Rafe’s tone turned serious. “But someone in his organization is either very stupid or very brave. ”
Or very desperate, I thought but didn’t say. Twenty million didn’t just disappear without reason, and the patterns we’d uncovered suggested someone who knew exactly what they were doing.
Rocco, already several drinks into the evening, sauntered over and leaned close, cutting into the conversation. “Why so serious, cugino? This is supposed to be a party.”
“Some of us have actual work to do,” I said, but without heat. Rocco’s carefree attitude was both irritating and oddly refreshing.
“Work, work, work,” Rocco drawled, rolling his eyes dramatically. “When was the last time you actually had fun? And killing people doesn’t count,” he added quickly, grinning when I shot him a glare.
“I have fun.” The defense sounded weak even to my ears.
“Right.” His grin turned wicked. “Is that why you keep staring at the Ricci princess like you want to eat her alive?”
“Careful,” I warned, the edge in my tone unmistakable.
“What? I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking.” He gestured with his drink, nearly spilling it. “The great Dante Conti, brought low by a pretty face and a sharp tongue.”
“Nothing’s brought me low.” But even as I said it, my gaze betrayed me, drawn back to Emilia. She was laughing at something her brother had said, the sound carrying across the room like music.
“Sure. That’s why you nearly took Romero’s head off at the engagement party. Because you’re completely unaffected.”
The reminder of Romero’s hands on Emilia made something dark and possessive curl in my chest. “He needed to be reminded of his place.” As part of the Ricci syndicate, he was currently in attendance at this soiree. Something I vehemently was against, but my brothers ever the politicians insisted.
“His place?” Rocco laughed. “Or yours?”
I turned to face him fully, letting him see the danger in my eyes. “Do you have a point to make, or are you just enjoying the sound of your own voice? ”
“Just making observations.” He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Like how you’ve barely looked at anyone else all night. Or how your hand keeps twitching toward your gun whenever someone gets too close to her.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But I forced myself to relax my fingers, which had indeed been inching toward my weapon.
“No?” His smile was knowing. “Then I guess you won’t care that Romero’s been making inquiries about a marriage arrangement.”
The glass in my hand cracked before I realized I was gripping it too tightly. “What?”
“Thought that might get your attention.” Rocco plucked the damaged tumbler from my grasp. “Relax, cugino. Vincent may be ambitious, but he’s not stupid enough to tie his only daughter to that stronzo.”
“He better not be.” The words came out as more of a growl than I intended.
“And there it is.” Rocco’s expression turned serious, his teasing tone fading. “You can pretend all you want, but we both know you’re in deep. Question is: what are you going to do about it?”
What could I do? Emilia Ricci was off-limits for a dozen different reasons, not least of which was the investigation into her family’s finances. Getting involved with her would complicate an already delicate situation.
But even as I thought it, my body betrayed me, turning toward her like a flower seeking sun. She must have felt my attention because she looked up, meeting my gaze across the crowded room. Something electric passed between us, making my pulse jump.
“Nothing,” I said finally, tearing my eyes away from her. “I’m not going to do anything about it.”
Rafe snorted. “Right. Because you’re so good at ignoring what you want.”
“I’m good at doing what needs to be done.” I signaled for another drink, needing the distraction. “The family comes first.”
“The family.” Rocco's voice turned mocking. “Is that what you tell yourself when you’re lying awake at night, thinking about her? That the family is more important than what you feel?”
I turned on him with barely contained violence. “Careful, cousin. Even you can push too far.”
But Rocco just laughed, acting immune to my threats after years of familiarity. “Save the scary act for someone who doesn’t remember you crying over skinned knees, cugino. We both know you’re not as cold as you pretend to be.”
He was right, damn him. The carefully constructed walls I’d built around myself seemed to crumble whenever Emilia was near. One look from her and I was back to being that boy who wanted things he couldn’t have, who felt too deeply for his own good.
“It doesn’t matter what I feel.” I drained my fresh whiskey in one burning swallow. “There are bigger things at stake.”
“There always are.” Luca’s voice softened slightly. “But maybe that’s the problem. Maybe you’ve spent so long putting everything else first that you’ve forgotten how to want things for yourself.”
The truth in his words hit harder than any physical blow. I looked at Emilia again, unable to help myself. She was everything I shouldn’t want – a complication, a distraction, a potential weakness. But God help me, I wanted her anyway.
I needed to get a grip. This fixation on her was dangerous, something I couldn’t afford. There were bigger things at stake—business deals, alliances, the mole who was threatening the integrity of my operation. I couldn’t let myself be sidetracked by a woman, no matter how captivating she was.
And yet, as the night wore on, my thoughts kept drifting back to her. The way her fingers brushed against the stem of her wine glass, the way her lips curved when she smiled, the way she held her own in a room full of men who underestimated her.
She was a Ricci, for God’s sake. Off-limits. Untouchable.
But that didn’t stop me from wanting her.
By the time dessert was served, I was ready to crawl out of my own skin. The tension in the room was suffocating, the weight of my own thoughts pressing down on me like a vice. I excused myself, retreating to the study under the guise of taking a phone call. The truth was, I just needed a moment to breathe.
The study was dim and quiet, the faint scent of leather and aged whiskey filling the air. I poured myself another drink, watching the amber liquid swirl in the glass before knocking it back in one go. It burned, but not enough. Not enough to chase her from my mind or cool the heat simmering beneath my skin.
The walls felt closer with every second. The silence pressed against me, amplifying the thoughts I was trying to drown out. My grip tightened around the empty glass before I set it down with a sharp clink.
I needed air.
Pushing open the door, I stepped onto the patio. The cool night breeze hit me like a shock, the salt in the air sharp and cleansing. Beyond the railing, the sea stretched out into the darkness, waves crashing faintly against the cliffs below. For a moment, I just stood there, my hands braced on the cold metal, my shoulders rising and falling with each breath.
But even here, under the open sky, she lingered.