Chapter 33
Emilia
T he car ride was suffocatingly silent, the kind of silence that wasn’t just an absence of sound but a presence all its own. Dante sat beside me, his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly, his jaw clenched as he stared straight ahead. The tension in his posture radiated through the car, a storm contained only by the thin walls of the vehicle. I sat frozen in the passenger seat, my hands trembling in my lap, still stained with blood.
Romero’s blood.
The metallic tang of it clung to my skin, sharp and nauseating. I couldn’t look at my hands, couldn’t bring myself to face the evidence of what I’d done. My chest felt tight, my breaths shallow and uneven, as if my lungs were refusing to fully inflate.
My first kill.
The words echoed in my mind, over and over, until they became a deafening roar. I’d taken a life. Ended someone’s existence. And no matter how many times I told myself it was self-defense, that Romero had left me no choice, the weight of it pressed down on me like a vice.
Dante hadn’t said a word since we left the party. He’d carried me out the back, his arms strong and unyielding as he cradled me against his chest. I’d been too numb to protest, too dazed to care about the curious stares of the guards or the sharp glances exchanged between his brothers as they helped us into the car .
Now, as the city lights blurred past the window, I felt the full gravity of what had happened sinking in. My throat tightened, and I blinked rapidly, willing the tears to stay at bay.
“Don’t,” Dante said suddenly, his voice low and rough.
I turned to him, startled. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t cry,” he said, his gaze still fixed on the road. His knuckles were white against the steering wheel, the tension in his grip mirroring the storm brewing in his dark eyes. “Not for him. He didn’t deserve it.”
I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat refusing to budge. “I wasn’t…” I trailed off, my voice cracking. “I don’t even know what I’m feeling right now.”
Dante glanced at me briefly, his expression softening just enough to reveal a flicker of something I couldn’t quite place. Sympathy? Understanding? Whatever it was, it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the impenetrable mask he always wore.
“You’re in shock,” he said simply. “It’s normal.”
Normal. There was nothing normal about this. About any of it.
The car slowed as we pulled into an underground parking garage, the heavy metal gate sliding shut behind us with a low rumble. Dante parked in a reserved spot near the elevator and killed the engine, the sudden silence almost deafening.
“Come on,” he said, stepping out of the car and rounding to my side before I could even unbuckle my seatbelt.
He opened the door and reached for me, his hands steady and sure as he lifted me out of the car. I wanted to protest, to tell him I could walk on my own, but the words wouldn’t come. My body felt heavy, uncooperative, as if it no longer belonged to me.
Dante carried me into the elevator, his arms cradling me like I was something fragile, something breakable. The warmth of his body seeped through the fabric of my torn dress, a stark contrast to the cold, sticky sensation of the blood that clung to my skin .
When the elevator doors opened, I was greeted by the sight of Dante’s penthouse—a sprawling expanse of sleek, modern design bathed in the soft glow of city lights. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the far wall, offering a breathtaking view of the city below, the glittering skyline stretching out to meet the dark cliffs in the distance.
Dante set me down gently, his hands lingering on my arms for a moment as if to steady me. “Stand here,” he said, his voice softer now, almost gentle. “I’d rather not have evidence on my white couch. No offense, princess, but the covers are a bitch to replace.”
I blinked at him, caught off guard by the casual remark. It was so unexpected, so absurd in the context of everything that had just happened, that a small, laugh bubbled up in my throat.“Not the first time we’ve messed up a couch together,” I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them. My voice was lighter than I felt, a weak attempt to mask the weight pressing down on me.
Dante raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching in what might have been the faintest hint of a smile. “There she is,” he murmured, more to himself than to me.
I turned toward the windows, my arms wrapping around myself as I stared out at the city below. The view was breathtaking, the kind of scene that belonged on a postcard—the jagged cliffs in the distance, the shimmering lights of the skyline, the faint glow of the moon casting everything in a silvery haze. But I couldn’t appreciate it. Not really. Not with the weight of what I’d done pressing down on me like a lead blanket.
My reflection stared back at me in the glass, pale and wide-eyed, the blood on my dress stark against the emerald fabric. I looked like a ghost, a shadow of the person I’d been just hours ago. The person who had never taken a life.
Dante moved behind me, his footsteps soft against the polished floors. I felt him before I saw him, his presence a steady, grounding force that somehow made the room feel smaller and larger all at once. He didn’t say anything at first, just stood there, his gaze heavy on my back.
“I’ll run a bath,” he said finally, his voice low and even. “You need to get cleaned up.”
I nodded numbly, unable to find the words to respond. The idea of washing away the blood, of scrubbing off the evidence of what I’d done, was both a relief and a torment. Would it make me feel human again? Or would it just remind me of how far I’d fallen?
Dante disappeared down the hallway, and I heard the faint sound of water running, the whoosh of the faucet filling the silence. I stayed where I was, my fingers gripping the edge of the windowsill as I tried to steady my breathing. The city below felt impossibly far away, like another world entirely—one where people were laughing, living, oblivious to the darkness that had consumed mine.
“Emilia.”
"Hmm?" I turned at the sound of his voice, it knocking me out of my thoughts - finding him standing in the doorway of what I assumed was the bathroom. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his tie discarded somewhere along the way, and there was something almost...tender in the way he looked at me.
“Come on,” he said, holding out a hand.
I hesitated for a moment before stepping toward him, my movements slow and shaky. When I reached him, he didn’t take my hand. Instead, he guided me gently down the hallway, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back. The warmth of his touch seeped through the fabric of my dress, steadying me in a way I hadn’t realized I needed.
The bathroom was as sleek and modern as the rest of the penthouse, all marble and glass, with a massive tub that looked more like a piece of art than a place to bathe. Steam rose from the water, curling in the air like ghostly tendrils, and the faint scent of something soothing—lavender, maybe—filled the room .
Dante turned to me, his dark eyes scanning my face. “You’ll feel better once you’re clean.”
I nodded, swallowing hard as I reached for the straps of my dress. My fingers fumbled, trembling too much to undo them, and I let out a frustrated breath. Before I could try again, Dante stepped closer, his hands brushing mine away.
“Let me,” he said softly.
I froze, my breath catching as his fingers worked the straps free with a precision that felt almost clinical. He didn’t look at me, his gaze focused on the task at hand, and I was grateful for it. The intimacy of the moment was overwhelming enough without the added weight of his eyes on me.
When the dress pooled at my feet, I stepped out of it carefully, my arms instinctively wrapping around my body. Dante’s gaze flicked to mine briefly, and I saw something flicker in his eyes—something that looked a lot like restraint.
“I'll be right back.” he said, his voice steady.
I nodded again, watching as he turned and left the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The sudden absence of him felt jarring, the silence pressing in on me like a physical weight.
A few moments later, the door opened softly, and I startled, my eyes snapping open to find Dante standing in the doorway. He held a towel in one hand and a small bottle of bubble bath in the other, his expression unreadable. His gaze never left mine as he stepped into the bathroom, his movements calm and deliberate.
“I brought these for you,” he said, his voice low but steady.
I opened my mouth to protest, but nothing came out. I was too tired, too drained, and the thought of arguing felt like more effort than I could muster. So I stayed silent, watching as he rolled up his sleeves and moved to the tub.
He crouched down beside me, still meeting my eyes, and reached for the faucet. He turned the knob slightly, letting the water run for a moment before testing it with his hand. “Too hot?” he asked, glancing at me .
I tested it and shook my head, unable to speak.
Satisfied, he poured a small amount of the bubble bath into the stream, the scent of lavender quickly filling the room as the water foamed. Slowly I took off the lingerie I was wearing. The set we had picked out from shopping. I had worn it this evening in hopes he was going to see it, he would take it off me. I almost laughed thinking about the irony.
He reached for my hand, helping me step into the tub. His grip was firm but gentle, and though I felt exposed, his steady gaze never wavered, never dropped from mine.
The hot water enveloped me in an instant, stinging at first, the heat biting at my skin, but I welcomed the pain. It was a distraction, a small reprieve from the chaos in my mind. I sank deeper, letting the water rise to my shoulders, and closed my eyes.
For a moment, I just floated there, the warmth seeping into my bones, washing away the cold that had settled in my chest. But the blood...it clung to me, stubborn and unyielding, a reminder of what I’d done. My fingers moved mechanically, scrubbing at my skin, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to get clean.
“Let me help,” Dante said softly, his voice cutting through the silence.
My eyes snapped open, finding his still locked on mine. He crouched beside the tub again, his expression unreadable.
“I can handle it,” I murmured, my throat tightening.
“Humor me,” he said dryly, but there was no bite to his words, only a quiet patience. He dipped his hands into the water, his touch gentle as he reached for the washcloth.
I wanted to argue, to tell him to leave, but the words wouldn’t come. I was too tired, too drained, and the thought of fighting him felt like more effort than I could muster. So I stayed silent, watching as he moved the cloth over my skin with a care that felt almost reverent.
“Lean back,” he murmured, his voice softer now.
I obeyed, tilting my head back until it rested against the edge of the tub. He reached for my hair, his hands steady and sure as he worked the bubbles into my scalp. The warmth of the water and the scent of lavender surrounded me, and for the first time all evening, I felt the faintest flicker of calm.
"I should've done this after the yacht incident."
"Done what?"
"Cleaned you up like this."
"We were strangers, Dante."
Dante worked the shampoo into my hair, his fingers massaging my scalp with a care that felt almost out of place coming from him. This was the same man who had just threatened to dismantle someone’s life with a single look, and yet here he was, washing my hair like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“You don’t have to do this,” I said quietly, my voice barely above a whisper.
“I know,” he replied simply, his fingers moving methodically. “But I want to.”
The words sent a ripple through me, and I closed my eyes, letting the sensation of his touch drown out the chaos in my mind. For a moment, it was just us—the hum of the city outside, the warmth of the water, and the steady rhythm of his hands in my hair.
As his fingers moved through the strands of my hair, I felt the tension in his touch—controlled, deliberate, but with a weight behind it, as if each movement carried something unsaid. Finally, he broke the silence, his voice quiet, almost distant, like he was speaking to the memory itself.
“The first time I killed someone, I was sixteen.”
My eyes opened, startled, but I didn’t move. His hands didn’t falter, though they stilled for the briefest moment, before continuing their slow, methodical motions.
“It was a man my father told me deserved to die,” he continued, his tone flat, but I could hear the faint edge beneath the calm. “A traitor, he said. Someone who had betrayed the family. ”
I stayed quiet, unsure whether I should say anything at all. The air between us felt fragile, like the smallest sound might shatter whatever quiet truth he was trying to reveal.
“I didn’t question it,” he said after a pause, his voice lowering. “I wanted to prove myself. To show my father I was ready. That I could handle the weight of the family name. So I did it. I pulled the trigger.”
His hands stilled again, this time for longer, the pads of his fingers resting lightly against my scalp. I felt him exhale sharply, a breath that caught in his throat like it hurt to let it out. When he resumed, his movements were slower, hesitant now, as if he wasn’t sure if he should continue.
“But later,” he said, his voice gaining a harder edge, “I found out the truth.” His hand brushed against my temple, and his fingers curled slightly before flattening again, his movements less certain. “The man wasn’t a traitor. He wasn’t a threat. He was just...in the wrong place at the wrong time. A scapegoat for my father’s paranoia.”
I swallowed hard, the weight of his words sinking into me like stones in deep water. “Dante…” I whispered, unsure of what I could say that wouldn’t sound hollow.
He shook his head slightly, his knuckles grazing against my skin as if dismissing the unspoken sympathy in my voice. “I was sick for weeks after,” he admitted, his voice so quiet it was barely audible, a faint waver threading through the carefully constructed calm. “I couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face. The way he looked at me before I—” He stopped abruptly, his hands pulling away from my hair for a moment, as though he needed the distance.
I felt him shift slightly behind me, his breath steadying as though he’d forced it back into control. “And when I finally told my father how I felt,” he continued, quieter now, his tone sharpening like a blade, “do you know what he said?”
I shook my head faintly, the water rippling around me.
“He said, ‘Get over it. He deserved it.’” Dante’s lips twisted into a bitter, hollow smile that I could hear in his voice even though I couldn’t see it. “That was it. No sympathy. No reassurance. Just a reminder that in our world, there’s no room for regret. No room for weakness.”
The silence that followed was heavy, the kind of quiet that pressed down on your chest and made it hard to breathe. His hands had stopped moving again, resting lightly against my scalp, unsure, like he was caught between staying grounded in the moment with me and retreating into the darkness of his memories.
I closed my eyes again, letting the warmth of the water and the quiet intimacy of the moment wrap around me. His confession hung between us, raw and unpolished, and I felt the weight of it settle in my chest. I wanted to reach back, to touch him, to say something—anything—but I didn’t. I stayed still, letting the moment stretch, giving him the space he’d never been given before.
“I don’t know how to move past this,” I admitted after a long pause, my voice trembling. “I don’t know how to...how to be okay after what I did.”
Dante’s fingers resumed their gentle motions, his touch grounding me. “You don’t,” he said bluntly. “Not right away. And maybe not ever.”
The silence stretched between us once again, heavy with the weight of his words. I turned my head slightly, meeting his gaze in the mirror that hung above the sink. His dark eyes held mine with an intensity that made my chest tighten, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe. There was something raw, unguarded in his expression—a vulnerability I hadn’t seen before.
“But you learn to live with it,” Dante continued, his voice softer now, almost a whisper. “You learn to carry it, because you don’t have a choice. And eventually, it becomes a part of you.”
I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat refusing to budge. “I stabbed him, Dante,” I said, my voice trembling. “I stabbed him over and over, and I didn’t even know what I was doing. I just...I couldn’t stop.”
His hands stilled in my hair, and he leaned forward slightly, his reflection looming behind mine in the mirror. “Good,” he said, his tone steady but edged with something darker. “You shouldn’t have stopped. Men like Romero don’t deserve mercy.”
My breath hitched, and I looked away, unable to hold his gaze any longer. “But it was messy. I didn’t even hit an artery until—until the end. He probably suffered.”
Dante’s lips pressed into a thin line, and his fingers brushed against the nape of my neck, a touch so light it sent a shiver down my spine. “He didn’t suffer enough,” he said, his voice low and unrelenting. “Not for what he tried to do to you.”
The conviction in his tone made my stomach twist. I didn’t know whether to be comforted or horrified by how easily he dismissed Romero’s life, by how little remorse he seemed to feel. But then again, this was Dante. He lived in a world where morality was a luxury, where survival came at the expense of others.
And now, I was a part of that world too.
The thought made my chest tighten, and I closed my eyes, leaning back against the edge of the tub. The water lapped gently at my skin, the warmth doing little to ease the cold knot of dread that had settled in my stomach.
Dante stood, his movements slow and deliberate as he reached for a towel. He handed it to me without a word, his gaze lingering on my face for a moment before he turned away, giving me the privacy to step out of the tub and wrap myself in the soft fabric.
When I was dry, he handed me a neatly folded set of clothes—a simple pair of black sweats and an oversized gray sweater that smelled faintly of him. I hesitated, my fingers brushing against the fabric as I looked up at him.
“Thank you.” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
His lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smirk. “You're welcome, they probably look better on you anyways. ”
I slipped into the clothes, the soft material a welcome comfort against my still-damp skin. When I was dressed, Dante gestured for me to follow him back into the main living area.
The penthouse was quiet, the only sound the faint hum of the city outside. Dante led me to the massive windows that overlooked the skyline, the glittering lights stretching out to meet the dark cliffs in the distance. He stood beside me, his hands in his pockets, his gaze fixed on the view.
““I should’ve known,” Dante said suddenly, his voice breaking the silence like a crack of thunder.
I turned to him, frowning. “Known what?”
“About Romero,” he said, jaw tightening. “After the argument, I should’ve known he’d try something. I should’ve seen it coming.”
“This isn’t your fault,” I interrupted, my voice firmer than I expected it to be, even with the tremor I felt deep in my chest. “He’s the one who...who forced me to do this. Not you.”
His dark eyes flicked to mine, sharp and searching, and for a moment, I thought he might argue. But then he exhaled sharply, his shoulders sagging slightly as if the weight of his guilt had grown too heavy to carry. “I should’ve been there,” he said quietly, his tone laced with frustration. “You shouldn’t have had to handle this alone.”
I shook my head, the weight of his guilt settling over me like a second skin. “You can’t protect me from everything, Dante. I’m not...I’m not some fragile doll you have to keep in a glass case.”
His gaze settled on me, intense and unrelenting, like he was trying to see straight through me. The storm in his eyes swirled with emotions I couldn’t name—guilt, anger, and something raw and consuming that made it hard to breathe under the weight of it. The faint glow of the city lights caught in his gaze, turning the darkness into something almost otherworldly. For a moment, it felt like I wasn’t just looking at a man but at something far more dangerous .
“You’re not a doll,” he said finally, his voice low and rough. “But that doesn’t mean I can stand by and watch you get hurt. You don’t know what it’s like out there, Emilia. What men like Romero are capable of.”
“Don’t I?” I asked softly, my fingers tightening around the edges of the sweater he’d given me earlier. The fabric was soft, comforting, but it did nothing to shield me from the memory of Romero’s hands on me, or the blood on mine. “I think I understand now. I don’t need you blaming yourself for what happened. I’m the one who—”
“You’re the one who did what you had to do,” Dante interrupted sharply, his tone firm but not harsh. “Don’t twist this into something it’s not. Romero made his choice the moment he touched you. You made yours, too, and you survived.”
I swallowed hard, my throat aching as my fingers unconsciously brushed against the faint bruises forming on my neck. “But it was messy. I panicked. I didn’t even know what I was doing.”
Dante stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate, his presence overwhelming. He reached out, his fingers brushing my chin, tipping my face up to meet his gaze. His touch was firm but gentle, grounding me in a way that made my chest ache.
“You think the first time someone kills, they do it cleanly?” he asked, his voice steady but edged with something dark. “You think it’s supposed to feel controlled? It’s chaos, princess. It’s ugly. And it’s never something you forget.” His thumb grazed my cheek lightly, as though wiping away something unseen. “You did what you had to do. That’s what matters.”
His words sank in, heavy and unshakable, and I couldn’t look away from him. There was no judgment in his eyes, no disgust—only a fierce, unrelenting intensity that made my breath catch.
“You don’t get it, do you?” he murmured, his voice low and rough, like gravel sliding over silk. “You were never meant to belong to anyone else.” His hand trailed up, brushing against my jaw, his fingers firm but deliberate, holding me in place like he couldn’t bear for me to look away.
“You’re mine,” he said, his dark eyes burning into mine, his breath warm and steady against my skin. “You’ve always been mine. And I’d rip this world apart piece by piece to keep it that way.”
The air between us felt charged, electric, the weight of his declaration pressing down on me like a physical force. My breath hitched, my pulse racing as his words echoed in my mind. His. He’d said it before, but this time it felt different—heavier, more absolute. Like a vow.
“Dante…” I began, my voice trembling, but he cut me off.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he said, his thumb brushing against my cheek again, the gesture so tender it made my chest ache. “I just need you to understand. You don’t have to carry this alone. You never did.”
His sincerity left me speechless. For a moment, all I could do was stare at him, my thoughts a tangled mess of emotions I couldn’t begin to unravel. He was infuriating, overbearing, and dangerous in ways that made my head spin. But he was also the only person who made me feel like I could survive this—like I could survive anything.
“Why do you care so much?” I finally managed, my voice barely above a whisper. “Why me?”
Dante’s lips curved into a faint, almost bittersweet smile. “Because you’re the only thing in this world that feels real,” he said simply, his voice like a confession. “Everything else—power, money, alliances—it’s all just noise. But you? You make me want to be better. Even when I know I don’t deserve you.”
His words hit me like a punch to the gut, leaving me reeling. I’d spent so much time trying to understand him, trying to make sense of the man behind the mask he so carefully wore. And now here he was, baring his soul to me in a way that was both terrifying and exhilarating.
“I don’t know what to say,” I admitted, my voice trembling .
Instead of speaking, he settled his hands on my waist, drawing me closer until there was no space left between us. My breath hitched as I looked up at him, his dark eyes burning with an intensity that made my chest tighten. It wasn’t just desire—though that was there, simmering beneath the surface—it was something deeper, something raw and unspoken that made my pulse race.
“Dante…” I started, but before I could say anything more, his lips crashed into mine.
The kiss was electric, a collision of passion and desperation that left me breathless. His hand slid up my back, pulling me in impossibly closer as his other hand cupped the side of my face, holding me like I was something precious. My fingers clutched at the front of his shirt, gripping the fabric as if I were afraid to let go, afraid that this moment might slip through my fingers like sand.
His lips were warm and demanding, but there was something else in the way he kissed me—something almost reverent, like he was pouring every unspoken word, every unguarded emotion into me. It wasn’t just a kiss. It was a confession. A declaration. It was everything he couldn’t say out loud, and it left me trembling in his arms.
Before I could fully process what was happening, he lifted me, his strong hands gripping the backs of my thighs as he effortlessly picked me up. My legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, and I gasped against his lips, my arms looping around his neck for balance.
My body pressed against his, and I could feel the tension in him, the way his muscles coiled as if he were holding back, trying not to lose control. But there was no hesitation in the way he kissed me, his lips moving against mine like he’d been waiting for this moment forever.
I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe; all I could do was feel. The heat of his body against mine, the rough strength of his hands holding me steady, the way his teeth grazed my lower lip, sending a shiver down my spine. It was overwhelming in the best way, like a storm I didn’t want to escape from.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against mine, his breathing heavy and uneven. His hands stayed on me, holding me like he was afraid I’d disappear if he let go.
“This is why I care,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, the words brushing against my lips. “Because you make me feel like I’m alive. Like I’m not just a weapon. You see me, Emilia. The real me.”
My heart twisted painfully at his words, and I realized with startling clarity that this wasn’t just about lust or attraction. This was something more. Something neither of us could put into words, though he’d just tried.
The kiss had been more than passion—it was a confession of love, raw and unfiltered, and I could feel the weight of it settling in my chest.
I swallowed hard, my fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck as I looked into his eyes. “You don’t have to be better,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “Not for me.”
His jaw tightened, and for a moment, I thought he might argue, but instead, he kissed me again—softer this time, slower, like he was savoring me.
It wasn’t just a kiss. It was so much more…