Chapter 13
Emilia
T he night buzzed with energy, the kind of forced cheer that only came from people trying too hard to appear relaxed. Voices overlapped in rapid-fire Italian, laughter punctuated by the clink of crystal glasses and the scrape of silverware. The dining room was alive with conversation, but I felt like I was watching it all through a pane of glass. Present, but not part of it.
Why did my family have so many fucking functions? Exhausting.
Even more exhausting was the reason for tonight’s gathering—it was Dante’s party, a celebration of some vague “business success” that no one dared to question. The room practically pulsed with his presence, even if he wasn’t speaking at that moment. He sat at the head of the table, perfectly at ease, his dark eyes scanning the room like he was cataloging every secret, every potential weakness.
I hated how aware of him I was, how I could feel his presence like a shadow pressing against my skin even from across the room. The sharp lines of his jaw, the perfectly tailored suit that emphasized his broad shoulders, the effortless way he held himself—it was maddening. He was maddening.
I caught myself glancing at him again, only to find him already looking at me. His gaze was steady, sharp, and far too knowing, like he’d caught every stray thought that had flitted through my mind. My stomach flipped, and I quickly looked away, focusing on the half-empty wine glass in front of me.
I shifted in my chair, stifling a yawn and toying with the stem of my wine glass, the rich red liquid untouched. Across the room, my brothers were deep in conversation with my father and a few of his associates. Their voices carried snippets of words—business, shipments, alliances—but I tuned it out. It was always the same. Deals made over expensive wine and under the guise of familial unity.
And then there was Romero.
I could feel his gaze on me from across the room, heavy and intrusive, like a hand pressing against my skin. He was leaning casually against the bar, a glass of whiskey in his hand, his posture deceptively relaxed. But his eyes...they were anything but. They followed me wherever I moved, dark and calculating, like he was already planning the next move in a game I hadn’t agreed to play.
He had accosted me earlier, commenting again on the prospect of a fated match. His comments still echoed in my mind, his voice dripping with entitlement as he’d leaned in too close, his hand brushing against mine under the guise of politeness. “We’d make a good match, don’t you think?” he’d said, his smile sharp and predatory. “Your father knows it. You’ll see soon enough.”
The thought made my stomach churn. My father hadn’t said anything outright, but the way he’d looked at me when Romero had spoken—calm, expectant—had been enough. The idea that he might be considering an arrangement with Romero made my skin crawl.
I needed air.
Slipping away from the table, I made my way through the throng of guests, offering polite smiles and murmured excuses as I went. No one stopped me. They were too engrossed in their own conversations, their own machinations. The patio doors were open, the cool evening air spilling into the stuffy dining room like a lifeline. I stepped outside, letting the door close softly behind me.
The patio was bathed in the soft glow of string lights, their warm light casting gentle shadows across the stone tiles. A single candle flickered on the small table near the edge of the space, its flame dancing in the slight breeze. The garden beyond was quiet, the only sound the faint rustle of leaves and the distant hum of cicadas. It was a stark contrast to the chaos inside, and for the first time all evening, I felt like I could breathe.
I sank into one of the chairs by the table, pulling a book from my clutch. It was an old habit, one I’d never quite outgrown. Books had always been my escape, my way of disappearing from a world that felt too heavy, too confining. Tonight, though, even the familiar comfort of words couldn’t quiet my mind.
I tried to focus on the page in front of me, but the words blurred together, their meaning lost as my thoughts wandered. Romero’s voice echoed in my head, his leering smile, the way he’d looked at me like I was something he already owned. My fingers tightened around the book, the cover cool against my palms.
And then there was Dante.
He hadn’t spoken to me all evening. Not a word. It was as if the moment we’d shared at Adrianna’s engagement party hadn’t happened at all. But I could feel him, just as I could feel Romero. His presence was a weight in the air, a pull I couldn’t ignore no matter how hard I tried.
I hated it. Hated him. Hated the way he got under my skin, the way he made me feel things I didn’t want to feel. He was dangerous, not just because of who he was, but because of what he made me want. And yet, despite everything, I couldn’t stop thinking about him.
I turned the page of my book, though I hadn’t read a single word, and stared at the text as if it held the answers to questions I didn’t know how to ask.
The sound of footsteps behind me broke the stillness, and I stiffened, my heart skipping a beat. I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. The air shifted, the faint scent of smoke and whiskey wrapping around me like a second skin. Dante.
“Reading?” His voice was low, smooth, with that edge of amusement that always made my pulse race. “How very...quaint.”
I closed the book slowly, my fingers brushing the cover as I turned to face him. He was standing just inside the patio, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of whiskey. The light from the candle flickered across his face, casting shadows that only made him look more dangerous.
“What are you doing out here?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.
He shrugged, taking a sip of his drink. “Needed some air.”
“So you followed me?”
“Maybe.” His lips curved into a faint smirk, but his eyes were serious. “Or maybe I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
I scoffed, crossing my arms over my chest. “I don’t need you checking on me, Dante.”
“Maybe not,” he said, stepping closer. “But I’m here anyway.”
The tension between us was suffocating. I hated how easily he got under my skin, how effortlessly he seemed to dismantle the walls I’d spent years building.
“Why do you do that?” I demanded, my voice trembling with frustration.
“Do what?”
“Act like you care.”
His smirk faded, replaced by something darker, more serious. “Who says I don’t?”
The words hung between us, heavy and unyielding. I wanted to argue, to tell him he was lying, but the look in his eyes stopped me. There was no mockery there, no trace of the smug arrogance that usually defined him. Just quiet intensity and something I couldn’t quite name.
“I don’t need your pity,” I said finally, my voice quieter now.
“It’s not pity,” he said, his tone firm. “It’s understanding.”
I looked away, my chest tightening. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Then don’t,” he said, his voice softer now. “But you don’t have to keep running, Emilia. Not from me.”
“What do you want, Dante?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.
He tilted his head slightly, his gaze sweeping over me in that way that made me feel both exposed and electrified. “Can’t a man enjoy a quiet moment without being interrogated?”
I arched a brow, gesturing to the wide expanse of the patio. “Plenty of quiet moments to be had. Somewhere else.”
His lips curved into a faint smirk, and he took a step closer, his presence filling the space like a storm rolling in. “But this one has you in it.”
The words hung in the air between us, heavy and charged. I hated the way my breath caught, the way my skin prickled under his gaze. I should have told him to leave, should have stood up and walked away. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
Instead, I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms over my chest as I met his gaze head-on. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
He chuckled, the sound low and dark, as he moved to the chair beside mine and sat down with a casual grace that belied the tension in the air. “Avoiding you? Or giving you space?”
“Is that what you call it?” I shot back, my tone laced with sarcasm. “Because it felt more like pretending I don’t exist.”
His smirk widened, but there was something in his eyes—something sharp and unreadable—that made my chest tighten. “You’re hard to ignore, Emilia.”
The way he said my name sent a shiver down my spine, and I hated him for it. Hated the way he could unravel me with just a few words, a single look.
We sat in silence for a moment, but I could feel his eyes on me, tracing every line and curve, and it made my skin burn. I focused on the candle instead, watching the flame flicker and dance, trying to ignore the way my heart raced.
“You’re staring,” I said finally, my voice quieter now, though I didn’t look at him.
“And you’re pretending not to notice,” he replied, his tone teasing but with an edge that made my pulse quicken.
I turned to him then, meeting his gaze, and the intensity in his eyes stole the breath from my lungs. He was looking at me like I was the only thing in the world worth seeing, and for the first time in my life, I felt truly seen. It was thrilling and terrifying all at once.
“You’re impossible,” I muttered, tearing my gaze away.
“And you’re fascinating,” he countered, his voice low and steady.
The tension between us crackled like a live wire, and I hated how much I wanted to reach out and touch him, to see if he felt as real as he looked. But before I could act on the thought, he stood, his movements slow and deliberate.
He moved closer, his shadow falling over me as he leaned down, his hand brushing against my cheek. The touch was light, almost hesitant, but it sent a jolt through me that left me breathless.
“Brave little thing, aren’t you?” he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw, his voice a low rumble that made my skin prickle. “Walking into dark corners…”
He leaned closer, his breath warm against my ear, and I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.
“But bravery gets pretty girls killed in this world.”
“Are you going to kill me?” It was supposed to be a brave question, but all I could muster was a whisper.
His fingers slid into my hair, tangling gently as he tilted my head back, forcing me to look at him. His eyes burned with something dark and unrelenting, and my heart pounded against my ribs. My pussy clenching on nothing as my body reacted.
“There are worse things than death, tesoro,” he said, his voice a whisper that sent a shiver down my spine.
“Like what?” I challenged, though my voice wavered.
“Like me.”
The words hung in the air between us, heavy with promise and threat, and I hated how much I wanted to close the distance between us, to see if his lips tasted as dangerous as his words.
But he pulled back, his hand falling away as he straightened, leaving me cold and aching in his absence. He didn’t say another word, didn’t look back as he walked away, his glass of whiskey abandoned on the table.
I stared after him, my thoughts a whirlwind of confusion and desire. He was dangerous, a storm I couldn’t control, and yet I couldn’t deny the pull he had over me.
With a shaky breath, I reached for his glass, the amber liquid glinting in the candlelight. I hated whiskey, hated the burn of it, but I raised the glass to my lips and drank it down in one gulp, the fire in my throat matching the fire in my veins.
Because no matter how much I wanted to deny it, Dante Conti had already set me ablaze.