Chapter 32
Emilia
T he hallway stretched out before me, dimly lit and eerily quiet compared to the bustling ballroom I’d just escaped. My heels clicked softly against the marble floor, the sound echoing faintly as I made my way toward the bathroom. My breath came in shallow bursts, my chest tight with a mix of embarrassment and anger. Dante’s words still rang in my ears, his possessive declaration wrapping around me like a vice.
“You’re mine, Emilia. And I will protect what’s mine.
I hated how those words made me feel. Hated the way they sent a shiver down my spine, the way they lingered in my chest like a secret I wasn’t ready to admit. He was impossible—infuriating, overbearing, and maddeningly addictive. And now, thanks to him, I was the center of attention in a room full of people who thrived on gossip.
I turned a corner, the noise of the party fading further into the background, and exhaled sharply, trying to steady myself. The dagger strapped to my thigh shifted slightly with each step, a silent reminder of the man who had insisted I carry it. My fingers twitched at my sides, itching to touch the hilt just to reassure myself it was still there.
I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t hear the footsteps behind me until it was too late.
“Emilia,” a voice called, smooth and familiar, and my stomach dropped .
I froze in place, my hand instinctively reaching for the wall to steady myself. The hallway was dimly lit, the faint hum of music and laughter from the party barely filtering through the thick walls. Slowly, I turned, my heart sinking as I saw Romero standing a few feet away, his dark eyes glinting with something that made my skin crawl.
“What do you want?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended, though the tremor in it betrayed me.
Romero’s lips curved into a slow, lazy smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He stepped closer, his polished shoes clicking softly against the marble floor. “I just wanted to apologize for earlier,” he said, his tone feigning sincerity. “It seems I may have...overstepped.”
I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to put up a barrier between us, though it felt flimsy at best. “You think?”
He chuckled, the sound low and unbothered, a predator’s amusement. Another step forward. The distance between us was shrinking too quickly, and my pulse thudded in my ears.
“Come now, Emilia,” he said smoothly. “Don’t be like that. I was just trying to have a little fun.”
“Well, I wasn’t,” I shot back, forcing my voice to stay steady despite the unease prickling at the back of my neck. “So if you’ll excuse me—”
I turned quickly, already moving to put space between us, but before I could take a step, his hand shot out. His fingers curled around my arm, yanking me back with enough force to make me stumble.
“Not so fast,” he said, his tone losing its earlier charm as his grip tightened. His nails bit into my skin, and the pressure sent a jolt of fear straight to my chest.
I tried to pull away, but his hand was like iron, unyielding. “Let go of me, Romero,” I demanded, though my voice cracked under the weight of my growing panic.
He smirked, his free hand reaching up to brush a strand of hair from my face as if he had every right to touch me. The gesture was slow, deliberate, and it sent a shiver of revulsion down my spine. “You’re even more beautiful when you’re angry, you know that?”
“Don’t touch me,” I hissed, my free hand curling tightly into a fist at my side. My nails dug into my palm as I fought the urge to swing at him, knowing it would only make things worse.
“You’re playing hard to get,” he said, his voice dripping with mockery as he ignored my warning. His body shifted closer, backing me against the cold, unyielding wall. “But I know you’re not as untouchable as Dante wants everyone to think. He can’t protect you all the time.”
The mention of Dante sparked something in me—a surge of defiance that momentarily eclipsed my fear. I glared up at Romero, my jaw tightening as the anger burned through the panic. “You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into,” I said, my voice low and steady despite the tremor in my limbs.
“Oh, I think I do,” he replied, his smirk widening. His hand slid lower, brushing against my waist, and I flinched at the unwanted contact. He leaned in, his breath warm and sickening against my cheek. “I’ve been watching you. You act like you’re untouchable, but I know better. You’re just waiting for someone to push past that tough little act.”
My stomach churned, bile rising in my throat as I shoved at his chest with all the strength I could muster. It barely budged him, but it bought me a fraction of space. “Get off me,” I spat, my heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst.
Romero chuckled darkly, his grip on my arm tightening as he pushed me back against the wall again, harder this time. The impact sent a dull ache through my shoulders, but the sharp panic in my chest drowned out the pain.
“You think Dante’s going to come running if you scream?” he sneered, his voice dropping into something darker, more menacing. “He doesn’t own you, Emilia. No one does.”
I swallowed hard, my breathing ragged as I forced myself to meet his gaze. “You’re wrong,” I said through gritted teeth, my voice trembling with defiance even as fear clawed its way up my throat.
“Oh?” he said, tilting his head like he was enjoying a private joke. His hand moved lower, and I twisted sharply, trying to break free, but he was stronger—so much stronger. “You’re all alone, sweetheart. No Dante, no guards. Just us.”
My mind raced, panic and rage intertwining as I searched for an opening, for anything I could use to get away. “Romero,” I said, forcing his name out like a weapon, my voice hardening despite the frantic pounding in my chest. “If you don’t let me go right now, I guarantee you’ll regret it.”
He laughed, a cruel sound that echoed in the empty hallway. “And what are you going to do? Call for help? Cry?”
I didn’t answer. Instead, I shifted my weight and brought my knee up sharply, aiming for his groin. The movement was quick, instinctive, and it connected just enough to make him grunt in pain and loosen his grip.
I didn’t wait. I yanked my arm free and stumbled backward, falling into an empty room. The door slammed against the wall behind me as I scrambled to regain my footing, my chest heaving with adrenaline. The room was dimly lit, barely furnished, and the stale scent of dust filled the air.
Romero stalked toward the doorway, his face twisted in anger, his earlier smugness replaced by a dark fury that made my blood run cold. He leaned against the doorframe, his hand pressed against his side as he recovered from the blow I’d landed, his teeth bared in a snarl.
“You’re going to regret that,” he hissed, his voice low and venomous.
I backed up further. “Don’t come any closer,” I warned, my voice trembling but sharp.
Romero chuckled darkly, stepping into the room with slow, deliberate movements. “Oh, come on, Emilia,” he said, his tone dripping with mockery. “You’re just making this harder on yourself.”
“Stay back,” I said again, my voice rising as I tightened my grip on the paperweight .
He ignored me, his steps closing the distance between us inch by inch. His dark eyes gleamed with malice, and I could feel the weight of his presence pressing down on me, making the small room feel suffocating.
“You don’t get it, do you?” he said, his tone almost conversational now, as if we weren’t on the verge of violence. “I'm going to feel that sweet Ricci pussy and no one is going to stop me. Dante’s been coddling you, protecting you, keeping you in this little bubble. But out here? No one’s going to save you.”
“You don’t know anything about me,” I spat in his face as he cornered me against the wall. “And you have no idea what Dante will do when he finds out about this.”
Romero’s smirk returned, cruel and condescending. “You think he cares? You’re just another pawn to him, Emilia. A pretty face he can use to get what he wants. He’s not coming for you. Not this time.”
His words stung, the venom in them cutting deeper than I wanted to admit. But I refused to let him see how much they affected me. “You’re wrong,” I said through gritted teeth. “And if you don’t leave right now, you’ll be the one needing protection.”
Romero’s patience finally snapped. With a growl, he lunged toward me, his hand outstretched, snapping around my throat and pushing me up against the wall.
My back hit the wall with a thud, and the air was forced from my lungs. His hand tightened around my throat, cutting off my breath, and panic erupted in my chest like a wildfire. I clawed at his wrist, my nails digging into his skin, but his grip was unrelenting.
I was going to die. Tears formed around my eyes as I opened my mouth desperate for air.
The room blurred at the edges, my vision narrowing as black spots began to dance in front of my eyes. My lungs burned, desperate for air, and my body jerked instinctively, trying to twist away from him. I kicked out wildly, my legs thrashing in an attempt to connect with anything—his shin, his knee, anything that would make him let go.
But he didn’t.
"I can’t wait to tear that cunt up until it’s useless by the time Dante wants his turn.”
His hand was like a vice, unyielding, and the pressure on my throat sent waves of pain radiating through my neck and chest. The cold wall behind me felt rough against my shoulders, grounding me just enough to keep the panic from completely consuming me.
My head swam, the lack of oxygen making it harder to think, harder to move. My body felt heavy, sluggish, as if it were betraying me in the most critical moment. His other hand roamed over me, grabbing, pressing, his touch invasive and cruel.
Rage bubbled beneath the surface of my fear, desperate to break free. I tried to scream, but the sound died in my throat, replaced by a choked gasp that only seemed to fuel his smug satisfaction.
The moment his fingers brushed against the silk of my dress, something inside me snapped. My hand shot down to my thigh, my fingers wrapping around the hilt of the dagger Dante had given me.
Foolish, but alive.
The words etched into the blade flashed through my mind, their meaning sharper now than ever before. Maybe I was foolish—plunging headfirst into danger, into situations I wasn’t sure I could survive. But I was still standing. Still breathing. And I’d be damned if I let this bastard take that from me.
Without thinking, I pulled the blade free and thrust it upward, the motion swift and instinctual. The blade sank into Romero’s side with a sickening ease, and his eyes widened in shock as he let go of me clutching at the wound.
I took a much-needed breath, air rushing into my burning lungs as I stumbled back against the wall, clutching the dagger with trembling hands. My chest heaved, every breath sharp and painful, but I couldn’t stop. Not yet.
Romero staggered, his hand pressed tightly to the wound in his side. Blood seeped through his fingers, staining them red and dripping onto the pristine floor. He looked down at the spreading stain with disbelief, his mouth opening and closing as though he couldn’t comprehend what had just happened.
“You...you stabbed me,” he rasped, his voice thick with shock and pain. "You fucking bitch!"
I didn’t answer, my eyes locked on him, adrenaline surging through my veins. My grip on the dagger was tight enough to make my knuckles ache, but I couldn’t loosen it. My entire body was trembling, my legs threatening to buckle beneath me, but I refused to look weak. Not now.
Romero’s shock quickly turned to fury, his dark eyes snapping up to meet mine. “You cunt,” he spat, his hand still clutching at his side as he took a step toward me.
Instinct screamed at me to fight, to run, to do something—anything—to stop him from closing the distance.
My grip tightened on the dagger as Romero took another step toward me, his face twisted in rage. The blood dripping from his side left a dark, slick trail on the marble floor, but he didn’t seem to care. His eyes burned with hatred, and the realization hit me like a punch to the gut—he wasn’t going to stop. Not until one of us was on the ground.
And it wasn’t going to be me.
He lunged, his movements slower now, hindered by the wound I’d already inflicted. But his strength was still terrifying. My heart slammed against my ribs as I raised the dagger again, the cool steel trembling in my hands.
“Stay back,” I warned, my voice shaking but firm.
Romero sneered, his lips curling into a cruel grin despite the blood staining his teeth. “You think you’re a killer, darling? You don’t have it in you.”
He lunged again, and this time, I didn’t hesitate.
I drove the dagger forward, the blade sinking into his chest with a sickening resistance. The sound it made—a wet, muffled crunch—echoed in the small room, and I felt the vibration travel up the hilt and into my arm. Romero’s eyes widened, his mouth opening in a silent gasp as he staggered back, his hands clutching at the blade now embedded in his chest.
But he didn’t fall.
My breath came in short, ragged bursts as I stumbled back, my legs threatening to give out beneath me. Romero’s knees buckled slightly, but he caught himself on the edge of a table, his bloodied hand smearing red streaks across the polished surface.
“You...bitch,” he rasped, his voice barely audible. His fingers clawed at the dagger, trying to pull it free, but his strength was fading. I could see it in the way his shoulders sagged, the way his movements grew sluggish.
I should have run. I should have turned and bolted out of the room while he was weakened. But something inside me refused to move. My feet were rooted to the ground, my gaze locked on the man before me as he struggled to stay upright.
Romero let out a guttural growl, his bloodied hand reaching toward me as he stumbled forward. My instincts screamed at me to act, and before I could think, before I could second-guess myself, I lunged forward and grabbed the hilt of the dagger.
With a sharp, desperate cry, I yanked the blade free from his chest. Blood sprayed from the wound, but I didn’t stop. I drove the blade upward, aiming for his neck. The dagger struck true, sinking into the soft flesh of his jugular with a sickening squelch. A hot, crimson torrent erupted from the wound, spraying across my face, my arms, and soaking the front of my dress. The metallic tang of blood filled the air, sharp and suffocating.
A strangled gurgle echoed out of Romero’s throat, his hands clawing weakly at his neck as blood poured through his fingers. His body convulsed, jerking violently as the life drained from him. He staggered backward, collapsing against the wall before crumpling to the floor in a lifeless heap.
I stood over him, trembling, my chest heaving as warm blood dripped from my hands and streaked down my dress in thick rivulets. The dagger hung loosely in my grip, its blade slick and glistening. Blood pooled beneath Romero, dark and sticky, spreading across the marble like ink on paper. His hands twitched once, twice, before falling limply to his sides.
The dagger slipped from my trembling fingers, clattering to the floor with a metallic ring. My knees buckled, and I sank to the ground, my back pressed against the wall as I stared at the lifeless body before me. My hands were covered in blood—his blood—and it felt warm and sticky against my skin.
I couldn’t breathe. The room spun around me, the edges of my vision blurring as the reality of what I’d just done crashed over me like a tidal wave.
I’d killed him.
The thought repeated in my mind, over and over, until it became a deafening roar. My first kill. My first kill. My first kill. The words felt foreign, unreal, like they belonged to someone else. Someone stronger. Someone colder.
The sound of footsteps snapped me out of my daze. Heavy, deliberate footsteps, growing louder with each passing second. My heart leapt into my throat as the door burst open, and there he was.
Dante.
He froze in the doorway, his dark eyes widening as they took in the scene. For a moment, neither of us moved. The silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the faint drip of blood hitting the floor.
“Emilia,” he said finally, his voice low and strained. He stepped into the room, his gaze flicking from Romero’s lifeless body to the blood smeared on my hands, my dress, my face. “Are you hurt?”
I shook my head slowly, my throat too tight to speak. He was in front of me in an instant, his hands gripping my shoulders as he scanned me for injuries, his touch firm but careful.
“Where are you hurt?” he demanded, his voice rising slightly as his eyes searched mine. “Tell me where, Emilia.”
“I’m not…” My voice cracked, and I swallowed hard, forcing the words out. “I’m not hurt.”
Dante’s hands moved to cup my face, his thumbs brushing away the tears I hadn’t realized were falling. His dark eyes burned with something I couldn’t quite place—relief, anger, fear—but his touch was steady, grounding me in a way I desperately needed.
“Then whose blood—” He stopped himself, his gaze snapping to the dagger lying on the floor beside me. Understanding dawned in his expression, and his jaw tightened. “Did he have a knife?”
I blinked at him, my mind struggling to keep up. “What?”
“Romero,” he said, his voice sharper now. “Did he have a weapon? A knife? A gun?”
I shook my head, confusion and exhaustion clouding my thoughts. “No. He didn’t…”
“Then how—” He stopped again, his eyes narrowing as realization set in. His gaze dropped to my thigh, where the leather sheath was still strapped beneath the torn fabric of my dress. “You used the dagger.”
Dante’s expression shifted, a flicker of something that looked almost like pride crossing his features before it was replaced by a cold, steely resolve. He exhaled sharply, his hands falling away from my face as he straightened, his gaze hardening as he looked down at Romero’s body.
“Good,” he said simply, his voice devoid of emotion. “You did what you had to do.”
I stared at him, my chest tightening as his words sank in. Good. He thought this was good. That I’d just taken a life—ended someone’s existence—and it was a cause for approval.
But I didn’t feel good. I didn’t feel anything except the cold, hollow weight of what I’d done pressing down on me like a vice.
Dante crouched down, his fingers brushing against the hilt of the dagger as he picked it up. He wiped the blade clean on Romero’s jacket before tucking it back into its sheath on my thigh. The motion was quick, efficient, and entirely too intimate, but I didn’t have the energy to protest.
“You’re in shock,” he said, his voice softer now as he stood. “We need to get you out of here.”
“What about…” I trailed off, my gaze flicking to Romero’s body. The blood had stopped pooling, the edges already beginning to dry against the marble. “What about him?”
“I’ll handle it,” Dante said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “But first, we’re getting you cleaned up.”
"Don’t move," Dante said firmly, his voice low but commanding. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, dialing quickly. "Rafe," he said as soon as the call connected. "Meet me in the back hallway. Tell Luca to bring the car to the staff entrance and clear the way." His tone was clipped and efficient, leaving no room for argument. He ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket, his focus returning to me immediately.
His eyes roamed over me, visibly checking for any signs of injury. "Are you hurt?" he asked again, his voice softer now but underlined with tension.
I shook my head. "No," I whispered, my voice barely audible.
Dante’s jaw tightened, and I realized his hands were trembling slightly. Fury radiated from him, barely contained, though his grip on me remained steady and protective.
Moments later, Rafe arrived, his footsteps hurried and his expression dark. He took one look at us and swore in Italian. "Che cazzo è successo?" he demanded, his eyes darting between Dante and me before landing on my trembling form on the floor.
"It was Emilia," Dante said, his voice calm but edged with steel. "Not me. "
"What the fuck?" Rafe’s eyes widened slightly as realization dawned.
"He...he tried to..." I stammered, my voice breaking. My chest tightened as the words caught in my throat.
"You don’t need to explain," Dante interrupted gently, his hand tightening on my arm in reassurance. His tone was steady, grounding me. He turned to Rafe, his expression hardening.
"We’ll take care of this," Rafe said immediately, his tone resolute. There was no hesitation in his voice, only grim determination.
Luca arrived next, his face a mask of barely concealed anger. He swore under his breath but said, "The car’s waiting." His tone was clipped, his focus entirely on the task at hand.
Without another word, Dante bent down and scooped me into his arms. I didn’t resist, too drained to protest. His grip was firm and unyielding, his chest solid against me as he carried me toward the waiting car.