Chapter 18
Emilia
“F ather, this is ridiculous,” I say, pacing the length of his office. The heels of my shoes click against the polished wood floor, a sharp, staccato rhythm that matches the irritation bubbling in my chest.
My father barely glances up from his desk, the faint glow of his laptop reflecting off his glasses. “What’s ridiculous, Emilia? That your brothers are conveniently unavailable, or that you’re making a fuss over something so trivial?”
“Both,” I snap, throwing my hands up in frustration. “I just need a ride to a few appointments before Adrianna’s bridal shower. Why is that such a production? I can call an Uber—”
“No.” His voice is firm, cutting through my protest like a knife. “You know how things are right now. You’ll have a guard, and that’s final.”
I groan, resisting the urge to stomp my foot like a petulant child. “I don’t need a guard. It’s a salon appointment, not a hostage negotiation.”
“It’s not up for debate, Emilia,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Your safety is non-negotiable.”
Before I can respond, the door to the office swings open, and my heart sinks as Dante Conti steps inside. Of course. Because the universe clearly hates me.
He’s dressed in his usual uniform of dark slacks and a tailored button-up, the sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the corded muscles of his forearms. His tie is slightly loosened, giving him an air of calculated dishevelment that’s entirely too appealing.
“Am I interrupting?” he asks, his voice smooth and velvety, with just the faintest hint of mockery.
“Yes,” I say sharply, crossing my arms over my chest.
“No,” my father says at the same time, motioning for Dante to step inside.
Dante’s lips twitch into a smirk as he closes the door behind him, his gaze flicking to me with a glint of amusement. I narrow my eyes, resisting the urge to throw something at him.
“Father,” I say, my voice tight with irritation, “did you know Dante beat a man bloody yesterday? Over a sandwich.”
Dante raises an eyebrow, his expression unbothered. “Actually, Vincent” he says, his voice calm and measured, “The man made inappropriate comments about your daughter.”
My father’s head snaps up, his eyes narrowing. “Is that true?”
“Yes,” Dante says simply, his gaze never leaving mine. “And I handled it.”
“Good,” my father says, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied nod. “That’s exactly what I expect from you.”
I gape at him, my mouth falling open in disbelief. “Good? Are you serious? He nearly killed the guy!”
“And he deserved it,” my father says, his tone matter-of-fact. “You know how we handle disrespect, Emilia. Dante did exactly what needed to be done.”
I throw my hands up in exasperation. “Unbelievable. You’re both insane.”
Dante’s smirk deepens, and I can feel his gaze on me, heavy and unrelenting. “I overheard you need a driver,” he says, his tone casual but with that infuriating edge of amusement. “I’m free today. I’ll take her.”
“No,” I say immediately, my voice sharp. “Absolutely not.”
“It’s settled, then,” my father says, ignoring me completely. “Dante, you’ll escort Emilia to her appointments. Make sure she’s back in time for the bridal shower.”
“I don’t need an escort!” I protest, glaring at both of them. “I can handle myself.”
“Emilia,” my father says, his tone a warning.
Dante chuckles softly, the sound low and infuriatingly smug. “Relax, princess. I’ll be on my best behavior.”
I whip around to face him, my eyes narrowing. “Don’t call me that.”
“Be ready in thirty,” he says, ignoring my glare as he turns to my father. “I need a word before we leave.”
I open my mouth to argue, but my father waves me off, already engrossed in whatever conversation he and Dante are about to have.
Fuming, I storm out of the office, my heels clicking furiously against the floor. Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes to mentally prepare myself for what is sure to be the most infuriating day of my life.
Exactly thirty minutes later, I’m standing outside the estate, my arms crossed as I wait for Dante to pull the car around. The sleek black car stops in front of me, the passenger-side door swinging open with a quiet click.
“Get in,” Dante says, leaning casually against the steering wheel, his sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose.
I hesitate for a moment, debating whether to make a run for it, but the look he gives me—half amusement, half warning—makes me think better of it. With a resigned sigh, I climb into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut behind me.
There’s a certain kind of madness in wanting something you know you shouldn’t have. A dangerous, intoxicating thrill that wraps itself around your better judgment and whispers in your ear, just one more step closer . That’s what Dante Conti feels like—an addiction I can’t afford to feed.
And yet, I can’t seem to help myself.
It started subtly, at first. A lingering glance across a crowded room. A sharp retort to one of his infuriatingly smug remarks. The way his dark eyes would flicker with amusement whenever I tried to put him in his place. But now? Now it’s something else entirely.
Something I can’t control.
I catch myself doing things I shouldn’t—choosing dresses that are just a little too tight, standing just a little too close, knowing full well that his gaze will inevitably find me. It’s reckless, stupid even, but there’s a twisted satisfaction in knowing I can get under his skin, even if only for a moment.
I bite my lip, trying to keep my posture neutral, like I’m totally used to traveling at a million miles an hour with a man who radiates danger and control. But the truth is, my pulse is racing, and it has nothing to do with the speed.
“Relax, princess,” Dante says, his voice low and smooth, like he’s amused by my discomfort. “I’ve never crashed. Well...not by accident.”
“Fuck.. I forgot my water bottle. Probably because I was rushed.” I shoot him a glare, but he doesn’t even glance at me. His eyes are fixed on the road, dark and focused, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Of course, he’s enjoying this. Dante thrives on control—on knowing he’s the one pulling the strings, the one making people squirm. And right now, I’m the one squirming.
“Do you always drive like this?” I ask, my tone sharper than I intend. “Or is this just for my benefit?”
He finally spares me a glance, his smirk widening. “I like to keep things interesting. You don’t strike me as the type who enjoys boring rides.”
“Maybe I enjoy not fearing for my life,” I snap back, crossing my arms over my chest.
“You’re in a mood,” he observes, his tone light but with that ever-present edge of mockery.
“Gee, I wonder why,” I snap, crossing my arms over my chest.
He chuckles, the sound low and warm, and I hate the way it makes my stomach flip. “Relax, princess. It’s just a car ride.”
“Don’t call me that,” I say through gritted teeth .
“Why not?” he asks, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. “It suits you.”
I don’t dignify that with a response. Instead, I turn my attention to the window, watching the trees blur past as we leave the estate grounds. The city looms in the distance, its skyline a jagged silhouette against the pale morning sky. The tension in the car is thick, but it’s not the kind that makes you want to escape. It’s the kind that pulls you in, like gravity, even when you know you should resist.
“So,” Dante says after a moment, his tone casual but laced with that ever-present edge of amusement. “What’s the first stop on our little adventure?”
I hesitate, debating whether to tell him. But then again, it’s not like I have a choice. He’s my ride, whether I like it or not.
“A salon,” I say finally, pulling up the address on my phone. “Here.”
I lean over just enough to show him the screen, and his eyes flick to the address before returning to the road. He doesn’t say anything at first, but then I catch the faintest quirk of his eyebrow as he processes the name of the salon.
“‘Barely There Waxing Lounge,’” he says aloud, his voice dripping with amusement. “Subtle.”
I feel my cheeks heat, but I refuse to let him see me flustered. “It’s just a name.”
“Oh, I’m sure it is,” he says, his smirk growing. “So, what exactly are we waxing today, princess? Legs? Arms? Or…” He lets the question hang in the air, savoring my discomfort. “…something a little more personal?”
I glare at him, but that only seems to encourage him.
“Come on,” he presses, his voice light but deliberate. “Is it a bikini wax? Or…” He trails off again, his smirk sharpening. “…a Brazilian? That would make sense.”
My stomach flips. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He glances at me briefly, his dark eyes gleaming with something I can’t quite place. “You don’t strike me as the good, pure mafia daughter everyone thinks you are.” His gaze flicks back to the road. “No, you’re more...rebellious than that. You like to keep things neat, sure, but a little daring too. Maybe even bold.”
I gape at him, completely at a loss for words. My cheeks are burning now, and I’m furious with myself for letting him get under my skin.
“You’re ridiculous,” I mutter finally, crossing my arms tightly over my chest.
“And you’re blushing,” he counters smoothly, his grin widening. “Which tells me I’m right.”
I whip my head toward him, glaring. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Oh, I know plenty,” he says, his voice low and smug. “Like the fact that you’re more fun than you let on. You might play the part of the obedient little Ricci princess, but underneath it…” He shakes his head, his smirk turning almost predatory. “You’re dying to break the rules. I bet you’ve been breaking them for years.”
I glare at him, my hands curling into fists in my lap. “You’re insufferable.”
Dante’s laugh fades, but the smirk lingers, his eyes flicking toward me as he navigates the city streets with infuriating ease. He’s too comfortable, too in control, and it sets my teeth on edge. I hate that he’s so good at getting under my skin. Hate that he knows it, too.
“So, tell me,” he says, breaking the silence, his tone casual but with that telltale edge of mischief. “Do all good girls get waxes, or is that just you?”
I whip my head toward him, my mouth falling open. “What is wrong with you?”
He grips the steering wheel tightly as his eyes narrow, calculating. “Just an observation. You don’t seem like the type to do things halfway, princess. And waxing? That takes real commitment.”
I refuse to let his words get under my skin and cross my arms over my chest defensively. “You’re insufferable. ”
“Am I wrong?” he taunts, a smirk spreading across his face. “Good girls don’t usually go for the full treatment. They’re too...restrained. Too proper. But bad girls? They like to keep things interesting.”
My cheeks burn with anger and I grit my teeth, determined not to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, but I think I do,” he says, his tone dropping low and dangerous. "Naughty girls like to keep it clean and slick. Always ready for action."
I feel a surge of rage building in my chest and can’t help but snap at him. “You’re disgusting.”
“And yet, here you are,” he counters smoothly, his gaze meeting mine in a charged moment that sends shivers down my spine. “Makes me wonder...”
“Wonder what?” I shoot back, my voice sharper than intended.
He leans back in his seat, exuding confidence and arrogance as he toys with the gearshift. “Whether you’re really as good as you pretend to be...or if there’s a bad girl hiding under all that attitude.”
Our eyes lock in a battle of wills, the air thick with tension between us. My heart races in anticipation, each beat pulsing through my body like a warning sign. I know I should shut this down, demand he take me home and never speak to him again. But something inside me craves this dangerous game we're playing, and I find myself leaning closer to him, barely above a whisper when I reply.
“Sometimes.”
His smirk falters, just for a second, replaced by something sharper, hungrier. “Sometimes?”
I nod slowly, my pulse racing. “Sometimes I like being bad.”
The silence that follows is deafening. His fingers tighten on the steering wheel, his jaw clenching as he exhales through parted lips. He drags a hand through his hair, the motion pulling his shirt taut against his chest and revealing a sliver of tanned, toned skin above the waistband of his pants. The sight sends a jolt of heat straight through me, and I quickly look away, cursing myself for noticing.
Dante doesn’t say anything for a moment, but I can feel the weight of his gaze on me, heavy and unrelenting. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and rough, like gravel scraping against silk.
“Careful, Emilia. You might not like what happens when you play bad.”
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. “Maybe I’m not afraid.”
His laugh is soft, humorless, and it sends a shiver down my spine. “You should be.”
I don’t know how to respond to that, so I don’t. Instead, I stare out the window, watching the city blur past as I try to steady my breathing. The tension in the car is suffocating, but I can’t bring myself to break it. It’s like a rubber band stretched to its limit, and I’m terrified of what will happen when it snaps.
“Here we are,” Dante says suddenly, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife.
I blink, realizing we’ve arrived at the salon. The neon sign for “Barely There Waxing Lounge” glows obnoxiously bright against the gray morning sky, and I resist the urge to groan. Of all the places to have this conversation, why did it have to be here?
Dante pulls into a parking spot, killing the engine with a flick of his wrist. He turns to me, his smirk firmly back in place. “Don’t keep me waiting too long, princess. I’d hate to have to come in and see what all the fuss is about.”
I glare at him, grabbing my bag and opening the door with more force than necessary. “You’re not funny.”
“I wasn’t joking,” he calls after me, his voice laced with amusement.
I slam the door shut, cutting off whatever smartass remark he was about to make, and march toward the salon with as much dignity as I can muster. The cool morning air does little to cool the heat in my cheeks, and I silently curse Dante Conti for being the infuriating, arrogant, devastatingly handsome bastard that he is.
The receptionist greets me with a polite smile as I step inside, the scent of lavender and vanilla filling the air. The salon is sleek and modern, all soft lighting and plush chairs, but I can’t relax. Not with the memory of Dante’s smirk still fresh in my mind.
“Emilia Ricci?” the receptionist asks, her voice cheerful.
“That’s me,” I say, forcing a smile as I hand her my information.
She nods, typing something into her computer before gesturing toward the waiting area. “Your esthetician will be with you shortly.”
I take a seat, pulling out my phone in an attempt to distract myself. But my thoughts keep drifting back to Dante, to the way he looked at me, the way his voice dropped when he asked if I liked being bad. I hate the way he gets under my skin, the way he makes me feel like I’m teetering on the edge of something I can’t control.
But more than that, I hate the part of me that doesn’t want him to stop.