Chapter 38
Emilia
T he ballroom was a kaleidoscope of color and light, the chandeliers casting golden halos over the polished marble floors. Laughter and conversation floated through the air, mingling with the soft strains of a string quartet tucked into the corner. The night before Adrianna’s wedding was meant to be a celebration, a gathering of family and friends to toast her future. But as I moved through the crowd, my champagne flute dangling loosely in my hand, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.
I hadn’t seen Dante in days. Not since the night at the club, when his hands had claimed me against the glass, his voice a dark promise in my ear. The memory of his touch still lingered, a phantom heat that refused to fade, but his absence since then had been deafening. He hadn’t called, hadn’t texted, hadn’t even shown up at the Ricci estate, where his presence had become a constant fixture. And now, as I scanned the room, my heart leapt and sank in equal measure when I finally spotted him.
He was standing near the bar, a glass of whiskey in his hand, his broad shoulders tense beneath the tailored cut of his suit. His dark hair was perfectly styled, his jaw shadowed with the faintest hint of stubble, but there was something different about him tonight. Something sharp and unyielding. His usual air of effortless control had been replaced by a tension that radiated off him in waves, like a storm barely contained .
I hesitated, my fingers tightening around the stem of my glass as I watched him. He didn’t look at me. In fact, he seemed determined not to look at me, his gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance as he took a slow, deliberate sip of his drink. But then, as if sensing my eyes on him, his head turned slightly, and our gazes collided.
For a moment, the world seemed to tilt. The noise of the ballroom faded, the crowd around us blurring into nothing as his dark eyes locked onto mine. There was something in his expression—something raw and unguarded—that made my chest tighten. But just as quickly as the connection was made, he broke it, turning away as if I were nothing more than a passing thought.
The dismissal hit me like a slap.
I swallowed hard, my throat tight as I tried to process the sting of his indifference. Dante had never been warm, not in the traditional sense, but this was different. This wasn’t just distance—it was cold, calculated avoidance. And it cut deeper than I wanted to admit.
What had I done? Had I said something wrong? Done something to push him away? My mind raced, replaying our last interaction, searching for clues, but all I could find were fragments of heat and whispered promises. Nothing that explained this sudden shift.
“Emilia, are you alright?” Adrianna’s voice pulled me from my thoughts, her hand brushing lightly against my arm. She was radiant tonight, her navy dress shimmering under the lights, her smile bright and untroubled. The perfect bride-to-be.
I forced a smile, hoping it looked more convincing than it felt. “I’m fine,” I said quickly, taking a sip of champagne to mask the tremor in my voice. “Just...tired, I guess.”
Adrianna’s brow furrowed slightly, but before she could press further, one of her cousins swept her away, leaving me alone with my thoughts once more. I glanced back toward the bar, my chest tightening when I saw Dante still standing there, his posture rigid, his jaw tight as he stared into his glass.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed answers.
Setting my champagne flute down on a passing waiter’s tray, I smoothed my dress and squared my shoulders, my heels clicking softly against the marble as I made my way toward him. Each step felt heavier than the last, my heart pounding in my chest as I rehearsed what I might say. But as I drew closer, the words dissolved, replaced by a knot of confusion and hurt that I couldn’t untangle.
“Dante,” I said softly, my voice barely audible over the hum of the crowd.
He didn’t look at me. For a moment, I thought he might ignore me entirely, but then he turned his head slightly, his dark eyes flicking to mine. There was no warmth in his gaze, no trace of the man who had held me so fiercely just days ago. Instead, his expression was guarded, his lips pressed into a thin line.
Was he...drunk? I've never seen him like this.
“Emilia,” he said, his tone flat and clipped, as if my name were an inconvenience.
I faltered, the sharpness in his voice cutting through me like a blade. “I haven’t seen you in days,” I said, trying to keep my tone light, casual, though the knot in my chest made it difficult to breathe. “I was starting to think you’d disappeared.”
His gaze flicked to me, a quick, assessing glance that felt more like a dismissal than acknowledgment. “I’ve been busy,” he said curtly, his fingers tightening around the glass in his hand. The ice clinked faintly against the crystal, a sound that seemed to echo in the space between us.
“Busy,” I repeated, the word tasting bitter on my tongue. “Too busy to even send a text?”
Dante’s jaw tightened, a muscle ticking beneath the shadow of stubble along his cheek. For a moment, he didn’t respond, his attention shifting back to his drink as if it held the answers to some unspoken question. The silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating, until I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Did I do something wrong?” The words tumbled out before I could stop them, my voice quieter now, tinged with a vulnerability I hated. I crossed my arms over my chest, more to shield myself than anything else, my nails digging into the fabric of my dress. “If I did, just tell me. I can’t fix it if I don’t know what it is.”
Dante’s head snapped toward me, his dark eyes narrowing. For a moment, I thought I saw something flicker there—guilt, maybe, or regret—but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a cold, detached mask that made my stomach twist.
“This isn’t about you,” he said finally, his voice low and edged with something I couldn’t quite place. “Not everything revolves around you, Emilia.”
The words stung more than they should have, and I took a step back, my breath hitching. “I didn’t say it did,” I replied, my tone sharper now, though the tremor in my voice betrayed me. “But you’ve been avoiding me, Dante. Don’t pretend you haven’t.”
He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, the movement rough and frustrated. “I’m not avoiding you,” he said, though the tightness in his voice suggested otherwise. “I’ve got things to deal with. Things you wouldn’t understand.”
I bristled at his tone, my hurt giving way to anger. “Try me,” I said, tilting my chin up defiantly. “You might be surprised at what I can understand.”
A bitter laugh escaped him, low and humorless, and he shook his head. “You think this is a game, don’t you?” he said, his voice dropping to a near growl. “You think you can just waltz into my world, play your little games, and walk away unscathed?”
I blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in his tone. “What are you talking about?” I asked, my confusion mounting. “I haven’t—”
“Don’t,” he interrupted, his voice cutting through me like a whip. “Don’t stand there and pretend you’re innocent.”
My heart pounded in my chest, each beat echoing in my ears like a drum. “If you’re trying to scare me, it’s not working,” I said, though the tremor in my voice betrayed me.
Dante’s eyes bore into mine, dark and unrelenting, and for a moment, I thought he might actually tell me. But then he looked away, his jaw tightening as he took another sip of his drink. “It’s better if you don’t know,” he said quietly, almost to himself.
“Better...For me? Or for you?” I demanded, my voice rising.
He didn’t answer, his silence more damning than any words could have been. My chest tightened, and I felt the sting of tears pricking at the corners of my eyes, though I refused to let them fall. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
“So what,” I said, my voice trembling with a mix of anger and hurt. “One minute, you’re telling me I’m yours, and the next, you’re pushing me away like I’m some kind of burden. Which is it, Dante? What do you want from me?”
His gaze snapped back to mine, and for the first time that night, I saw the cracks in his armor—the flicker of something raw and unguarded that he was trying so desperately to hide. It was there for only a moment, a brief glimpse of vulnerability beneath the cold, unyielding exterior he wore like a shield. But then it was gone, swallowed up by the storm in his eyes, and I was left wondering if I’d imagined it.
"I'm not in the mood, Emilia."
"Clearly."
He let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking his head as he looked away.
“What I want ?” His voice rose, the storm in his eyes erupting as he stepped closer, his presence looming over me. “I want you to stop asking questions you don’t want the answers to. I want you to stop looking at me like I’m some kind of savior. I’m not a good man, Emilia. I never have been, and I never will be.”
“You’re making a scene,” I hissed, glancing around the room. My voice was low, but the sharpness in it cut through the tension between us like a blade. The last thing I needed was Adrianna or my father noticing Dante’s sudden outburst. The ballroom was a sea of glittering gowns and tailored suits, and while most of the guests were too engrossed in their own conversations to notice us, a few curious glances were already flicking in our direction.
Dante didn’t seem to care. If anything, my words only seemed to fuel the fire burning behind his eyes. He stepped closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over me, and I felt the heat of his presence like a physical weight. His jaw tightened, the muscle there ticking as he leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper.
“Let them look,” he said, his tone laced with defiance.
The words hit me like a slap, but I refused to back down. “You don’t get to decide what I see in you,” I said, my voice trembling. “You don’t get to tell me how to feel.”
He scoffed, his lips curling into a cruel, mocking smile. “Feelings,” he said, the word dripping with disdain. “You think this is about feelings? Let me make something very clear to you. People like me don’t get the luxury of feelings. Love, trust, whatever fairy-tale bullshit you’re imagining—it doesn’t exist in my world. Stop trying to force it where it doesn’t belong.”
My throat tightened, but I forced the words out anyway. “Then why do you keep coming back to me? Why do you kiss me like you mean it? Why do you act like I’m the only thing keeping you from falling apart if none of this matters to you?”
His eyes blazed, his control slipping as he stepped even closer, his voice a low growl. “Because you are the only thing keeping me from falling apart, and I hate it,” he spat, the words venomous. “I hate what you do to me, how you make me feel weak. I hate that I can’t fucking breathe when you’re not around. Is that what you wanted to hear, Emilia? That you’ve ruined me? ”
I stared at him, stunned, my heart pounding in my chest.
I swallowed hard, my pulse racing as his words sank in. The intensity in his gaze was almost too much to bear, and I found myself taking an involuntary step back, my heels clicking softly against the marble floor. But Dante followed, closing the distance between us as if he couldn’t bear to let me go.
“You’re being ridiculous,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, though the tremor in it betrayed me. “I haven’t done anything to you. If you’re angry, fine. But don’t take it out on me.”
His lips curved into a bitter smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. “You think this is about anger?” he asked, his voice dripping with disdain. “You think I’m just throwing a tantrum because I had a bad day?”
“Then tell me what it’s about!” I shot back, my frustration bubbling over. “Stop talking in riddles and just say it, Dante. Whatever it is, just—”
“I can’t,” he snapped, his voice cutting through the air like a whip. His hand shot out, gripping my wrist with just enough force to make me freeze. His touch wasn’t painful, but it was firm, grounding, and I felt the weight of his words settle over me like a shroud.
The warmth of his hand on my wrist sent a jolt through me, but it wasn’t the kind of warmth that comforted. It was the kind that burned, the kind that left scars. His grip wasn’t tight enough to hurt, but it was firm enough to keep me rooted in place, his dark eyes boring into mine with an intensity that made my breath catch.
"Let go of me." The words hung in the air between us, sharp and jagged, cutting deeper than any blade could. Dante’s grip on my wrist loosened slightly, just enough for me to pull free if I wanted to, but I didn’t move. I couldn’t. My body betrayed me, rooted to the spot as his dark eyes bore into mine, a storm of emotions swirling in their depths—anger, frustration, pain, and something else I couldn’t quite name .
“Let go of me,” I said again, my voice quieter this time, trembling under the weight of his gaze. “You’ve made it very clear who I am to you tonight, Dante. I don’t need to hear any more.”
His jaw tightened, the muscle there ticking as if he were physically restraining himself from saying something he couldn’t take back. For a moment, I thought he might let me go, might finally give me the distance I so desperately needed to breathe. But instead, he stepped closer, his presence overwhelming, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper.
“Do you really think I don’t care about you?” he asked, his tone razor-sharp, each word slicing through the fragile barrier I’d tried to build between us. “Do you think I go out of my way to—”
“That you don’t just finger fuck anyone?” I shot back, my voice laced with venom and hurt. I was mad. No, I was furious. The kind of fury that had been simmering for too long, finally boiling over and spilling out, careless of the damage it might cause.
His eyes darkened immediately, flicking to the crowd around us. Conversations faltered, heads turning slightly, their interest piqued by the scene we were causing. His jaw tightened, the muscle ticking as he registered the attention we were drawing.
“Lower your voice,” he said through gritted teeth, his hand brushing against my arm—not as a gesture of comfort, but as if he was trying to steady me. Or maybe to silence me.
“Why?” I hissed, stepping closer, my chest heaving with the force of my anger. “Are you embarrassed?” My voice was quieter now, but no less sharp, the words slicing through the tension between us. “Afraid someone might see the great Dante Conti losing control?”
His lips pressed into a thin line, his posture stiffening. He didn’t answer, but the way his hand lingered on my arm betrayed his internal struggle. It wasn’t just anger—it was something deeper, something raw and unguarded that I wasn’t sure even he understood.
“Go home, Emilia,” he said, his voice flat, emotionless. “This was a mistake.”
His words hit me like a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs. A mistake. That’s what he thought this was. What he thought I was. My chest tightened, a sharp ache blooming in the center of it that I couldn’t quite name. Anger? Hurt? Betrayal? Maybe all three. The room around us seemed to blur, the glittering chandeliers and swirling gowns fading into the background as my world narrowed to just him—the man standing before me, looking at me like I was nothing.
I pulled my arm free from his grasp, the motion sharp and deliberate, and took a step back. “That’s it, then?” I asked, my voice trembling with a mix of fury and disbelief. “You’re just going to push me away and pretend none of this ever happened?”
Dante’s jaw tightened, his dark eyes flickering. He didn’t answer right away, and the silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating.
“Go home, Emilia,” he said again, his tone clipped and devoid of the warmth I had once thought only I could coax out of him. “This isn’t the place for this conversation.”
“Then when?” I shot back, my voice rising despite myself. “When is the right time, Dante? Because it feels like every time I try to get close to you, you pull away. Every time I think I understand you, you shut me out. So tell me—when do I get to know the truth? When do I get to know you?”
His eyes darkened, his expression tightening into something unreadable. For a moment, I thought he might actually answer, might finally let me in. But then he shook his head, his lips pressing into a thin line.
“You don’t,” he said, his voice low and final. “You don’t get to know me, Emilia. You don’t get to see what’s in my head, what’s in my world. You don’t want that. Trust me.”
“Don’t tell me what I want,” I snapped, my hands curling into fists at my sides. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”
His lips twitched into something that might have been a smirk if it weren’t so bitter. “You think you want this?” he asked, his voice laced with disbelief. “You think you can handle what comes with being part of my world? You have no idea what you’re asking for, princess.”
“Stop calling me that!” I hissed, the nickname cutting through me like a blade. It felt mocking now, a reminder of how little he thought of me. “You don’t get to stand there and belittle me while pretending you’re doing it for my own good. If you don’t want me, fine. But don’t you dare act like you’re protecting me when all you’re doing is protecting yourself.”
His eyes flashed, a flicker of something dangerous sparking behind them. “You think this is about me?” he growled, stepping closer.
"I know why people call you the devil now," I shot out, my voice sharp and cutting through the murmurs of the gathered crowd. My words hung in the air like a blade suspended mid-strike, the weight of them causing a few heads to turn in curiosity, though no one dared to intervene. The faint clinking of glasses and the hum of polite conversation seemed to falter for a moment, as if the room itself held its breath.
I didn’t wait for a response. I didn’t need one. Without sparing another glance, I turned on my heel, the echo of my footsteps deliberate and measured against the polished marble floor. My hand reached out instinctively as I passed a waiter, fingers curling around the neck of a champagne bottle with a confidence that brooked no argument. The waiter froze, his startled protest dying on his lips as I moved past him without breaking stride, the bottle now firmly in my grasp.
The cool glass felt reassuring in my hand as I pushed through the heavy double doors, the muffled sounds of the party fading behind me. The crisp night air hit me like a slap, sharp and invigorating, carrying with it the faint scent of rain and distant city lights. I didn’t look back. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. Instead, I disappeared into the shadows, the champagne bottle swinging at my side like a trophy, a silent declaration that I was done playing their games.