Chapter 20
Emilia
T he night air was heavy, thick with the promise of rain that never seemed to come. It clung to my skin, wrapping around me like a second layer as I slipped out the back gate of the estate. My heels clicked softly against the pavement, a deliberate rhythm that matched the racing of my heart. I shouldn’t be doing this—not when Adrianna’s wedding was only a few days away and I had a million things to handle as her maid of honor. But the weight of it all—the expectations, the suffocating rules, him—was too much. I needed a release.
Something sinful. Something reckless. Something a bad girl would do.
My mind wandered back to Dante’s words as I walked, his voice low and teasing, laced with that dangerous edge that made my skin prickle.
You might not like what happens when you play bad.
The conversation had caught me off guard, but the way he’d looked at me—like he already knew the answer—had haunted me all day. I could still feel the heat of his gaze, the way it burned through me, leaving a trail of chaos in its wake.
I shook my head, trying to banish the memory, but it clung to me like smoke. Dante Conti was a problem I couldn’t solve, a storm I couldn’t predict. He was everywhere and nowhere all at once, a constant presence in my life that I couldn’t escape. And the worst part? I wasn’t sure I wanted to .
As I rounded the corner, the neon sign of the bar came into view, its garish glow casting jagged shadows across the cracked sidewalk. It was the same seedy dive I’d snuck into a few weeks ago, the one that reeked of spilled beer and bad decisions. The kind of place where no one asked questions, where you could lose yourself in the haze of cheap liquor and even cheaper thrills.
I pushed open the door, the heavy bass of the music vibrating through my chest as I stepped inside. The air was thick with smoke and sweat, the dim lighting casting everything in shades of red and gold. It was loud, chaotic, and exactly what I needed.
Sliding onto a stool, I waved down the bartender, eager for the sharp burn of the alcohol settle my nerves. My fingers drummed against the counter as I scanned the room, my eyes lingering on the crowd. Men and women pressed together on the dance floor, their bodies moving in a rhythm that was more primal than musical. At the far end of the bar, a group of men laughed loudly, their voices cutting through the din.
Before I could look away, a man slid into the stool beside me. He was older, maybe in his late forties, with salt-and-pepper hair and a tailored suit that seemed out of place in a dive like this. His cologne was sharp and expensive, clashing with the stale beer and sweat that clung to the air.
“You look like you could use another drink,” he said, his voice smooth but edged with something I couldn’t quite place. His eyes flicked to my empty glass, then back to me. “What’s your poison?”
I hesitated for a moment, then forced a small smile. “Whiskey, neat.”
His grin widened, and he signaled to the bartender. “A woman with taste. I like that.”
As the drink arrived, I accepted it with a nod of thanks, taking a small sip. The burn steadied me, and I allowed myself to relax just enough to mirror his easy confidence. He leaned in closer, his words flowing, but I wasn’t really listening. Instead, I studied him—the way he carried himself, the way his watch gleamed under the dim light, the way his charm felt almost rehearsed.
It was easier than I thought it would be. A little laugh here, a well-placed compliment there, and he was eating out of the palm of my hand. The initial nerves I’d felt began to dissolve, replaced by a growing sense of control.
After a few minutes, I drained the last of my drink and gave him a warm, practiced smile. “Thanks for the drink,” I said, my voice light and breezy. “I should mingle—I’ll see you around.”
His smile faltered, and for a moment, I thought he might press the issue. But then his phone buzzed, and he pulled it from his pocket, muttering something under his breath before walking away.
I exhaled, relieved, and turned back to the bar, my gaze landing on the group of men at the far end. One of them caught my eye—a dark-haired man with sharp features and a cocky grin that reminded me of someone I couldn’t quite place. He was leaning back in his chair, a glass of scotch in one hand and a sleek black card holder in the other.
I watched him for a moment, the way he gestured animatedly as he spoke, the card holder flipping between his fingers like a toy. My mind buzzed with the possibilities. The trick I’d learned years ago itched at the edges of my thoughts, daring me to act.
Don’t be stupid, Emilia.
But the whiskey was warm in my veins, and the memory of Dante’s smirk—the way he’d called me a bad girl—fueled my recklessness. Before I could second-guess myself, I slid off the stool and made my way toward the group, my steps light and deliberate.
The first attempt was easy. I brushed past a man at the edge of the group, my hand grazing the back pocket of his jeans. He didn’t even flinch, too engrossed in his conversation to notice the money clip now tucked into my palm. It was small, insignificant, but it gave me the confidence to keep going.
I pretended to stumble as I reached the dark-haired man’s chair, catching myself against it as I murmured an apology. His attention barely flicked to me before returning to his friends, and by the time I straightened, the card holder was already in my hand.
I walked away quickly, my heart pounding as I slipped back to the bar. The adrenaline buzzed through me, sharp and exhilarating, but it was short-lived.
Because when I opened the card holder, my stomach dropped.
The name on the credit cards inside was unmistakable: Rocco Conti.
My breath caught, and my fingers tightened around the sleek leather as a cold wave of dread washed over me. My mind raced, piecing it together far too quickly, and the realization hit me like a punch to the gut. Rocco Conti—Dante’s cousin.
Of all of the fucking gin joints...
It wasn’t just bad luck. This was something worse. It was like the universe had decided to dangle danger in front of me, daring me to take the bait. And, stupidly, I had.
I swallowed hard, my pulse pounding in my ears. Of all the people I could’ve pickpocketed tonight, it had to be someone tied to him. Every instinct screamed at me to toss the card holder away, to leave it there on the bar and walk out like nothing had happened. But my fingers wouldn’t let go.
I glanced back at the group, my movements stiff and mechanical, my heart hammering against my ribs. They were still laughing, still oblivious. Rocco was leaning against the bar, gesturing animatedly, completely unaware that his wallet was no longer in his pocket. For now.
But they always noticed eventually. Men like him, men like Dante—they didn’t just lose things. They didn’t let things go.
Thank fuck Rocco seemed drunker than Dante had been when I took his watch. He wouldn't notice right away .
My chest tightened as a wave of panic flared. I needed to fix this—now.
Sliding the card holder back into my bag, I flagged down the bartender with a forced smile, though my fingers were already trembling. “Hey,” I said, keeping my voice light even as my throat felt like it was closing up. “I think someone dropped this. Can you make sure it gets back to them?”
The bartender barely glanced at me as he nodded, taking the card holder from my hand and tucking it behind the bar. I muttered a quick thanks and turned on my heel, leaving before anyone could stop me.
The second I stepped outside, the cool night air hit my face, but it did nothing to soothe the knot twisting in my stomach. My pulse was still racing, my breath uneven as I slipped into the shadows and disappeared into the night. But no matter how far I walked, the weight in my chest remained.
Because this wasn’t just about a stolen card holder anymore. It wasn’t about the money or the thrill of the theft. This was about him. About Dante.
I couldn’t stop the memory of his face from flashing in my mind: sharp jawline, dark, fathomless eyes, and that smirk—the one that made him look like he owned the world and everything in it, including me. He was tall, dark, and handsome in the most maddening way, but there was something more to him, something dangerous that made my skin crawl and heat all at once.
And now I’d stolen from his family.
What would he do if he found out? My stomach churned with the thought, a sickening mix of fear and something I didn’t want to name. Dante wasn’t the kind of man who forgave mistakes. He wasn’t the kind of man who accepted excuses.
I’d seen it firsthand—the way he dealt with mistakes. There was no room for second chances, no room for negotiation. The memory of his words came rushing back, sharp and unrelenting. “Killing him was the message.” That’s what he’d said about Mario. It hadn’t been about the twenty million. It hadn’t even been about loyalty. It had been about power. About sending a warning to anyone who dared cross him.
“ There’s always a cost, Emilia, ” he’d said, his voice soft but cutting. “ The question is whether you’re willing to pay it. ”
And now, I couldn’t stop myself from wondering what the cost would be for me.
“Stupid,” I muttered under my breath, my hands clenching at my sides as I quickened my pace. My heels clicked against the pavement, the sound too loud, too sharp in the quiet night. What had I been thinking?
But that was the problem—I hadn’t been thinking. I’d been reckless, letting myself get swept up in the thrill of the game, the rush of adrenaline that came with taking what didn’t belong to me. And now, I was paying the price.
I turned a corner, slipping into an alley and leaning back against the cold brick wall as I called my Uber praying the wait was enough time for my escape.
By the time I returned home, the adrenaline had worn off, replaced by a gnawing sense of dread. I kicked off my heels and collapsed onto my bed, burying my face in the pillow as a scream tore from my throat.
This wasn’t how my life was supposed to be. I was twenty-five years old, and I felt like a caged animal, trapped by rules and expectations that weren’t even my own.
And then there was Dante.
The memory of his arranged marriage surfaced, unbidden and unwelcome. Everyone whispered about how he’d killed his ex-fiancée, though no one dared to say it to his face. It was a story I’d heard a dozen times, each version more chilling than the last.
What if my father was keeping him around for me?
The thought sent a shiver down my spine. As the only daughter in the Ricci family, I’d always known my marriage would be a transaction, a way to strengthen alliances or secure power. Women in our world didn’t get to choose—not really. And at twenty-five, I was already past the age where most women were married off.
But Dante?
I couldn’t decide if the idea terrified me or thrilled me.
I groaned, flipping onto my back and staring at the ceiling. My thoughts were a tangled mess, a chaotic swirl of fear, desire, and frustration. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get him out of my head.