Chapter 7
7
DANTE
T he city lights blurred into streaks of gold and white as I gripped the steering wheel, the engine’s low growl failing to drown out the chaos in my head.
I’d been on edge for days, my patience worn thin by the Ricci family’s incompetence and Emilia’s relentless defiance. She was a splinter under my skin—small, maddening, impossible to ignore. Every time I thought I’d rid myself of her, she found a way to burrow deeper. Her defiance, her fire—it left marks I couldn’t erase. I hated it. Hated her. And yet, I couldn’t stop thinking about the way she’d looked at me in her father’s study, her eyes blazing with fury and fear.
She made me want to crush her and protect her all at once.
“You’re a monster.”
She wasn’t wrong.
The thought made my jaw tighten, my foot pressing harder on the accelerator as the car surged forward. The streets were empty at this hour, the city’s pulse slowing to a quiet hum. It was the only time I found any semblance of peace, driving through the sleeping city with nothing but my thoughts for company.
And tonight, those thoughts were darker than usual.
I wanted to shoot something. Or someone. My fingers itched for the weight of a gun, the sharp crack of a bullet splitting the air. It wasn’t about violence for violence’s sake—it was about control. About reminding myself that I still had it, even when everything else felt like it was slipping through my fingers.
By the time I reached the penthouse, the tension in my chest had coiled so tightly it felt like a vice. The elevator ride to the top floor was silent, the mirrored walls reflecting a version of myself I barely recognized—jaw clenched, eyes shadowed with exhaustion, a storm brewing just beneath the surface.
The doors slid open with a soft chime, and I stepped into the sprawling space that overlooked the city. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the skyline, the lights stretching out like a sea of stars. It should have been calming, but tonight it only reminded me of how far I’d come—and how much further I had to go.
I made my way to the office, the familiar scent of leather and aged whiskey greeting me like an old friend. The decanter on the sideboard gleamed in the dim light, and I poured myself a generous glass, the amber liquid catching the glow of the city outside.
Turning the chair around, I sank into it with a heavy sigh, the leather creaking under my weight. The glass was cool against my palm as I took a slow sip, the burn of the whiskey grounding me in the present.
From here, the city looked almost serene. Deceptively so. I knew better than anyone that beneath the glittering facade lay a world of corruption and betrayal, a world I’d built my empire on. And now, that world was threatening to collapse—not because of some rival family or external threat, but because of the Riccis.
Fucking Riccis.
I set the glass down on the armrest, leaning forward to rest my elbows on my knees. The events of the past few days played out in my mind like a bad movie, each scene more infuriating than the last. Emilia’s accusations, her father’s pathetic attempts at damage control, her brothers’ smug indifference—it all made my blood boil.
And yet, beneath the anger, there was something else. Something I didn’t want to name.
I pulled out my phone, scrolling through my contacts until I found the number I was looking for. The line rang twice before a familiar voice answered, smooth and professional.
“Dante,” my lawyer greeted. “I assume this isn’t a social call.”
“Draft the contract,” I said, leaving no room for argument. “I want it airtight. No loopholes, no room for negotiation. And make sure her lawyer gets a copy by tomorrow morning. I want her to see exactly how little control she has over this.”
There was a brief pause on the other end, the sound of papers shuffling in the background. “Understood. Any specific provisions you’d like me to include?”
I hesitated, my fingers tightening around the phone. “Make sure she’s taken care of,” I said finally, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. “If something happens to me—or if this arrangement falls apart—she gets what she needs. No questions asked.”
The lawyer didn’t respond right away, and I could practically hear the gears turning in his head. He knew better than to question my decisions, but I could tell he was curious.
“Very well,” he said at last. “I’ll handle it.”
“Good.” I ended the call without another word, tossing the phone onto the desk.
This wasn’t about Emilia. It was about proving a point. Her family needed to understand the consequences of their actions, needed to see that their carelessness had nearly cost them everything. This marriage was a means to an end, a way to ensure their loyalty while I cleaned up the mess they’d made.
But that didn’t mean I wanted her to suffer.
I poured myself another drink, the whiskey swirling in the glass as I leaned back in the chair. My thoughts drifted to the conversation in her father’s study, the way she’d looked at me with equal parts hatred and fear. She was stronger than I’d expected, more defiant. It would have been admirable if it weren’t so infuriating.
The phone buzzed again, and this time it was my brother. I answered on the second ring, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.
“Dante,” Luca said, his tone brisk. “What’s the update?”
“The contract’s being drafted,” I replied, taking a sip of my drink. “Emilia’s lawyer will have it by tomorrow.”
“And the money?”
I exhaled sharply, the familiar frustration bubbling to the surface. “Still missing. But I’m working on it.”
Luca was silent for a moment, and I could imagine him pacing in his office, his mind racing with possibilities. “You mentioned someone trained her. Have you looked into it?”
“I’m already ahead of you,” I said, my voice colder now. “I’ve been going through the logs, tracing her shifts, her codes. She wasn’t stealing—she was inputting the wrong codes. Someone set her up.”
“And you think it’s the trainer?”
“It’s a possibility,” I admitted. “But I’m not ruling out anyone. This is bigger than Emilia, bigger than her family. Someone’s trying to undermine us, and I intend to find out who.”
At first, I didn’t know what to believe. Seeing her name on the paperwork had been a shock, but it didn’t make sense. Emilia was loyal to her family—too loyal to risk everything for a payout. But loyalty didn’t mean innocence. If she was involved, someone else had set the stage, and she’d walked right into it.
Luca let out a low whistle, his tone laced with admiration. “You’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?”
“Not yet,” I said, my voice hard. “But I will.”
We talked business for a few more minutes, discussing the fallout from the missing money and the steps we were taking to mitigate the damage. When the call ended, I set the phone down and leaned back in the chair, the weight of responsibility pressing down on me like a lead blanket.
I blamed the Riccis for this mess. They’d been sloppy, careless, and now I was the one cleaning up their mistakes. If they’d trained their daughter properly, if they’d taken their responsibilities seriously, none of this would have happened.
But instead, they’d thrown her into the deep end and expected her to swim.
And now, she hated me for it.
I finished the drink in one long swallow, the burn searing down my throat as I stood and made my way to the window. The city stretched out before me, a glittering expanse of light and shadow. Somewhere out there was the person who’d orchestrated this chaos, the one who’d used Emilia as a pawn in their game.
And I intended to find them.
My thoughts drifted to Valentina, her sharp mind and even sharper tongue. She’d been instrumental in uncovering the truth, her expertise in banking and finance cutting through the layers of deception like a scalpel. But her help hadn’t come without conditions.
She wanted something from me—something I wasn’t sure I was willing to give.
The thought made my chest tighten, and I turned away from the window, pacing the length of the room. The penthouse felt too big, too empty, the silence pressing in on me like a physical weight.
Would it feel the same with Emilia here?
I couldn’t imagine her fitting into this world, couldn’t picture her in the sleek, minimalist space I called home. She was chaos and fire, a storm that refused to be tamed. And yet, the thought of her here—of her presence filling the empty corners—wasn’t entirely unwelcome.
I shook the thought away, pouring myself another drink as I tried to focus on the task at hand. There was too much at stake to let my emotions cloud my judgment.
This was business.
Nothing more.
And yet, as I stared out at the city, the glass cool in my hand, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was standing on the edge of something I couldn’t control.
The restaurant was tucked away in the corner of the city’s financial district, an unassuming facade hiding a world of exclusivity. It was the kind of place where deals were made over dry-aged steaks and overpriced whiskey, where the hum of conversation was a low, calculated murmur. The kind of place where power was palpable, and weakness was a scent everyone pretended not to notice but always hunted down.
I arrived first, as I almost always did. Punctuality wasn’t just a habit—it was a weapon. Being early meant I controlled the room before anyone else walked in. It gave me time to assess, to prepare for whatever bullshit my brothers were about to unload on me.
The hostess greeted me with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, her gaze lingering just a second too long. I offered a curt nod, brushing past her as she led me to our usual table in the back. It was private, secluded, the kind of spot where no one could overhear the Ricci family’s dirty laundry—or the Conti family’s, for that matter.
I slid into the leather booth, the cool surface pressing against my back as I scanned the menu I didn’t need. The waiter approached, his demeanor polished and professional, and I ordered an espresso. No food. Not yet.
Luca and Raphael arrived together, their voices carrying across the room before I even saw them. Luca was laughing, his easy charm on full display, while Matteo trailed behind him, his expression as unreadable as ever. They were opposites in every way—Luca, the silver-tongued negotiator, and Rafe, the silent enforcer. Together, they were a force to be reckoned with.
“Dante,” Luca greeted as he slid into the booth across from me, his grin wide and unapologetic. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
“Long enough,” I said, my tone dry as I sipped the espresso the waiter had just placed in front of me.
Rafe took the seat beside Luca, his dark eyes flicking to me briefly before settling on the menu. He didn’t say anything—he never did unless it was necessary—but his presence was enough.
“So,” Luca began, leaning back in his seat as he signaled for the waiter. “How’s married life treating you?”
I shot him a look that could have frozen the espresso in my hand. “We’re not married yet.”
“Details,” he said with a dismissive wave. “You’ve got the contract ready, don’t you?”
“It’s being finalized,” I replied, setting the cup down with a soft clink. “Her lawyer will have it by the end of the day.”
“And?” Luca prompted, his grin turning sly. “Did you add anything… special?”
I allowed myself a faint smirk, the kind that made lesser men squirm. “A few clauses. Nothing she’ll notice. At least, not right away.”
Luca laughed, the sound rich and full of amusement. “Oh, she’ll notice. And when she does, I hope I’m there to see it.”
Rafe’s lips twitched, the closest he ever came to a smile. “You’re playing with fire, Dante.”
“I always do,” I said, my tone flat.
The waiter returned, taking their orders before retreating again. The moment he was gone, Luca leaned forward, his expression turning serious. “So, what’s the latest? Do you really think she had anything to do with the missing money?”
I exhaled sharply, my fingers tapping against the edge of the table. “No. Not intentionally.”
Luca raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued. “That’s a change of tune. What makes you so sure?”
“I’ve been tracing the accounts,” I said, my voice low enough that no one outside our table could hear. “The money’s tied up in a way that’s… deliberate. Too deliberate for someone like Emilia. It’s almost perfect—just messy enough to point the finger at her, but clean enough to make it nearly impossible to trace back to the real culprit.”
Rafe frowned, his brows drawing together. “So, it’s a setup.”
“Obviously,” I said, my tone sharper than I intended. “Someone used her codes, her shifts, her access. They wanted it to look like she was behind it. And for a while, it worked.”
Luca whistled low, shaking his head. “Damn. And here I thought the Riccis were just incompetent.”
“They are,” I said, my voice cold. “But this? This is more than incompetence. This is calculated.”
“And you’re sure it’s not her?” Rafe pressed, his gaze steady.
I met his eyes, unflinching. “If it’s her, she didn’t do it alone,” I said, his voice low and sharp. “Someone else is pulling the strings.”
Luca leaned back, his expression thoughtful. “So, what’s the play? You’ve got her locked into this marriage now. What’s the endgame?”
“The endgame,” I said, my voice like steel, “is respect. Twenty million is nothing to me—it’s the principle. The Riccis need to understand that their actions have consequences. And whoever’s behind this? They’ll pay. In blood, if necessary.”
Rafe nodded, his jaw tightening. “And Valentina? What’s her angle in all this?”
I took a long sip of my espresso, the bitterness grounding me. “Valentina’s been helpful. Too helpful. She’s the one who uncovered the discrepancies in the accounts, the one who pointed me in the right direction. But she doesn’t do anything out of the goodness of her heart. She wants something.”
“Like what?” Luca asked, his tone laced with curiosity.
“I don’t know yet,” I admitted, my voice low. “But whatever it is, it’s not going to be small. Valentina doesn’t play for scraps.”
Luca chuckled, shaking his head. “You’ve got quite the cast of characters in your life, brother. A defiant bride, a scheming banker, and a family of screw-ups. How do you sleep at night?”
“With one eye open,” I said dryly.
The waiter returned with their food, the scent of grilled steak and roasted vegetables filling the air. I didn’t touch it, my appetite long gone. Instead, I watched as my brothers dug in, their conversation shifting to lighter topics—business deals, upcoming shipments, the usual.
But my mind was elsewhere, turning over the puzzle pieces of this mess. The missing money. The setup. Valentina’s involvement.
And Emilia.
I couldn’t get her out of my head, no matter how hard I tried. The way she’d looked at me in her father’s study, her eyes blazing with fury and fear. The way she’d spat her defiance, even when she knew she was backed into a corner.
She was fire and ice, chaos and control, a contradiction I couldn’t ignore.
And soon, she’d be mine. Completely .
The thought curled through me, dark and possessive, filling every corner of my mind. She could fight me, she could kick and scream—but it would change nothing. In the end, she was mine. She’d always been mine.
As Luca and Rafe continued their conversation, I pulled out my phone, opening the draft of the marriage contract. My eyes scanned the clauses I’d added, the ones designed to ensure she couldn’t wriggle out of this arrangement without consequences.
She’d be fine. She’d hate me, but she’d be fine.
And maybe, just maybe, she’d come to understand why this had to happen.
But as I stared at the screen, the weight of it all pressing down on me, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the beginning.
Of what, I didn’t know.
But I intended to find out.
The house felt heavier now. Not in the physical sense—though the walls themselves seemed to close in on me more with each passing day—but in the way silence had settled over everything like a suffocating fog. My mother and father hadn’t spoken to me since the night in my father’s study. Not a word. Not a glance. Not even the faintest acknowledgment that I existed.
My brothers, on the other hand, had taken a different approach.
“Nice going, Emilia,” Marco had said the morning after, leaning against the kitchen counter with a smirk that made me want to hurl the coffee pot at his head. “Really outdid yourself this time. You know, I always thought you’d screw up eventually, but I figured it’d be something small. Like a parking ticket. Not, you know, embezzling from the Contis. ”
“I didn’t embezzle anything,” I snapped, gripping the edge of the counter so tightly my knuckles turned white.
“Sure,” Giuseppe chimed in from the doorway, his grin wide and infuriating. “And I’m the next President of Italy.”
They thought it was funny. They thought I was funny. A joke. An embarrassment. The girl who had somehow managed to get herself accused of stealing from one of the most dangerous families in the city.
I didn’t bother defending myself anymore. What was the point? No one believed me. Not my brothers, not my parents, and certainly not Dante.
Especially not Dante.
The thought of him made my stomach churn, and I shoved it aside, focusing instead on the coffee in front of me. It was lukewarm now, the steam long gone, but I didn’t care. It was something to hold, something to ground me in the midst of the chaos that had become my life.
The knock at the door came sharp and sudden, slicing through the quiet like a blade.
I froze, my grip tightening on the mug as my heart leapt into my throat. I didn’t need to look to know who it was. I could feel it—the weight of his presence pressing against the walls of the house even before I heard my father’s voice call out from somewhere upstairs.
“Emilia, get the door.”
Of course. Because why would he bother? Why would anyone bother? I was the disgrace, the scapegoat, the one who had brought shame to the family.
Setting the mug down with trembling hands, I made my way to the door, each step heavier than the last. When I opened it, there he was.
Dante Conti.
He looked the same as always—impeccably dressed in a dark suit that fit him like it had been tailored by the gods themselves, his expression unreadable, his dark eyes cold and calculating. He didn’t bother with pleasantries, didn’t even look at me as he stepped inside, brushing past me like I was nothing more than an inconvenient obstacle in his path.
“Good to see you too,” I muttered under my breath, closing the door behind them.
Dante didn’t respond. He didn’t even glance in my direction as he made his way to the dining room, his movements deliberate and controlled. In one hand, he carried a leather folder, the sight of it making my stomach twist. I didn’t need to ask what was inside.
The marriage contract.
My throat tightened as I reluctantly followed him, my footsteps echoing in the silence like a death march. It felt like I was being led to the gallows, each step heavier than the last. He reached the dining table and placed the folder down with a precision that made my skin crawl. Everything about him was calculated, controlled, and I hated how small it made me feel.
Without a word, he pulled out a chair and gestured for me to sit. I hesitated, my stomach churning, but before I could protest, Dante reached into his jacket and pulled out a brand new sleek iphone and a black credit card. He placed them on the table, the sharp sound of the card hitting the wood cutting through the tense air like a knife.
“These are yours,” he said, his voice flat, detached. “The phone is already set up. My number is in it, and it has everything you’ll need." He held up the black card. "Use it for anything—clothes, food, whatever.”
I stared at the items on the table, my chest tightening. The shiny black surface of the phone glinted under the light, and the card, embossed with my name, gleamed like a cruel joke. A bitter laugh nearly bubbled up inside me. Was this supposed to make me feel better?
“What is this?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.
He finally looked at me, his dark eyes unreadable. “It’s what you’ll need,” he said simply, as if that explanation was enough.
“For what?” I demanded, crossing my arms over my chest.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he slid the folder across the table toward me, his expression hardening. “Sign it,” he said, his tone cold and commanding.
I stared at him, my chest tightening as a thousand thoughts raced through my mind. Anger, fear, defiance—they all swirled together, threatening to spill over. But I forced myself to stay calm, to keep my voice steady as I crossed my arms over my chest.
“You don’t want me,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended. “I’ll ruin your life. I’ll give all your money to the poor.”
Dante’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “I have enough to spare.”
“I don’t cook,” I added, lifting my chin in defiance.
“I have a chef.”
“I don’t clean.”
“I have a maid.”
“I don’t use calendars or planners or any of that Type-A nonsense.”
“I have a house manager and an assistant.”
“I prefer luxury, invite-only cars, shoes, and bags,” I said, my voice dripping with mock arrogance as I leaned back in the chair. “I have extremely expensive taste.” If he wanted to treat this like a business transaction, fine. Two could play that game.
Dante’s smirk widened, slow and deliberate, like a predator savoring its prey. I wondered if he would call my bluff, the shopping trips felt like a lifetime ago. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, his dark eyes locking onto mine. “Like I said,” he murmured, his voice smooth and maddeningly calm, “I have it.”
I clenched my jaw, heat rising to my cheeks. His confidence was infuriating, his composure unshakable. He was untouchable, and he knew it.
Time to change tactics.
“My lifelong dream,” I began, my tone syrupy sweet, “is to own every collectible Starbucks location mug. You know, the ones with the cities and landmarks on them?”
For the first time, Dante’s expression faltered. It was subtle—a slight narrowing of his eyes, a twitch at the corner of his mouth—but I caught it.
He side-eyed me, his jaw tightening as he exhaled sharply through his nose. “You’re joking.”
“Dead serious.” I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table and clasping my hands under my chin. “I plan to dedicate my life to traveling the world, visiting every Starbucks, and collecting every mug. I’ll spend your money on private flights, hotels, and overpriced lattes. How does that sound, marito mio ?”
He huffed, the sound halfway between a laugh and a grunt, and shook his head. “Of course you would.”
Victory. It was small, almost imperceptible, but it was there. For a moment, I had cracked through his perfectly polished armor.
But then he straightened, his smirk returning as he reached for the folder. He opened it with a flick of his wrist, pulling out a crisp stack of papers and sliding them across the table toward me.
“Sign it,” he repeated, his tone sharper this time.
Great, now I’d have to collect Starbucks mugs.
I stared at the papers, my stomach twisting into knots. The black ink on the page blurred as my mind raced, searching for a way out.
“I’ll have my lawyer look it over,” I said, lifting my chin in defiance.
Dante glanced at his watch, the movement deliberate and pointed. “I have time to take you to your lawyer right now.”
My heart skipped a beat, panic rising in my chest. I hadn’t expected him to call my bluff so easily. “Well, uh…” I stammered, grasping for an excuse. “He’s… busy. Very busy. Back-to-back meetings all day.”
Dante’s eyes gleamed with amusement, and his smirk widened. “Right.” He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest as he regarded me with a look that was equal parts condescension and amusement. “Or maybe you’re just stalling because you know there’s nothing your lawyer can do to change the fact that you’re in this mess because of your own actions.”
“Excuse me?” I snapped, my voice rising as I glared at him. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I told you, I didn’t steal from you.”
“And I told you,” he said, his tone cold and cutting, “that the evidence says otherwise.”
I pushed the papers aside, my hands trembling with anger. “I’ve been saying it for weeks— someone else used my code. One of your cousins trained me, remember? Maybe you should be looking at your own family instead of blaming me.”
Dante’s eyes narrowed, his smirk fading as his expression hardened. “Which cousin?”
I hesitated, wracking my brain for the name of the man who had trained me. But it had been months ago, and I hadn’t paid much attention to him at the time. He’d been quiet, unassuming—a shadow in the background of my life.
“I don’t remember his name,” I admitted, my voice quieter now. “He was tall, dark hair, kind of… average-looking?”
Dante raised an eyebrow, his lips pressing into a thin line. “You just described half the men in my organization.”
“Well, sorry for not taking detailed notes,” I snapped, crossing my arms over my chest. “I was too busy trying to learn how to do my job without getting killed.”
He huffed, the sound laced with irritation, and ran a hand through his hair. “This is a waste of time.”
“Then let me see your social media,” I said suddenly, the words tumbling out before I could stop them.
Dante froze, his expression shifting from irritation to outright offense. “My... My what ?” Dante asked, his voice dripping with disdain as if I’d just suggested he host a bake sale for charity.
“Your social media,” I said, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms, feigning nonchalance. Inside, my heart was racing. “You know, Instagram, Facebook, TikTok, whatever it is mafia overlords use to keep up with their cousins’ brunch selfies and gym progress photos.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, and for a split second, I thought he might actually laugh. But then his expression hardened, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His dark eyes locked onto mine, sharp and unyielding.
“You think I have social media?” he asked, his tone flat, as if the very idea was beneath him.
“Well, yeah,” I said, shrugging. “How else are you supposed to keep track of your cousins? Maybe one of them posted a picture of themselves with a caption like, ‘Just stole a fortune using Emilia’s code. Hashtag Blessed.’”
His lips pressed into a thin line, and I could tell he was trying very hard not to roll his eyes. “I don’t have social media,” he said, his voice clipped. “Unlike you, I don’t have time to waste scrolling through pictures of overpriced coffee and meaningless quotes about self-care.”
“First of all,” I shot back, “self-care is not meaningless. Second, you’re missing out. There’s a whole world of information out there. For all you know, your cousin could’ve posted a TikTok dance in the vault with the stolen money. Crazier things have happened. This girl got flammed for dancing in the hospital room while her kid had pnemonia or -”
Dante exhaled sharply, his patience clearly wearing thin. “Emilia,” he said interrupting me, his tone low and warning, “this isn’t a joke. You’re deflecting.”
“And you’re not listening,” I countered, leaning forward to match his intensity. “I didn’t take your money. I don’t know who did, but it wasn’t me. Someone else had access to my code, and if you’d stop treating me like a criminal for five seconds, maybe we could figure out who.”
His jaw tightened, the muscle ticking as he stared at me. For a moment, the room was silent, the air heavy with unspoken tension. I held my ground, refusing to look away, even though his gaze felt like it was peeling back the layers of my soul.
Finally, he straightened, pushing his chair back with a deliberate scrape against the floor. “This conversation is over,” he said, his voice cold and final.
“You’re not even going to consider the possibility that I’m telling the truth?” My voice cracked, and I hated the way it sounded—fragile, desperate. I hated that he was doing this to me. That I cared what he thought at all. But beneath the anger, beneath the frustration, was something else. Something I didn’t want to name. Something that burned every time he looked at me like I was already his.
Dante picked up the folder and tucked it under his arm, his movements precise and controlled. “I’ve considered it,” he said, his tone devoid of emotion. “And the evidence speaks for itself.”
I stood abruptly, my chair nearly toppling over as I glared at him. “You’re impossible, you know that? You walk in here, throw accusations around like they’re gospel, and expect me to just roll over and take it. Well, guess what, Dante? I’m not signing your stupid contract. Not until you prove I’m guilty.”
He paused in the doorway, his back to me, and for a moment, I thought he might actually respond. But then he turned his head slightly, just enough for me to catch the sharp edge of his profile.
“Sign it,” he said, his voice low and cutting, “or don’t. It doesn’t matter. Either way, you’re mine.”
And with that, he walked out, leaving me standing there, my chest heaving with a mix of anger and despair.
I stared at the empty doorway, my mind racing. Part of me wanted to chase after him, to scream and demand that he listen to me, that he believe me. But another part of me—the part that was exhausted from fighting, from being dismissed and underestimated—knew it wouldn’t make a difference.
Dante Conti had already made up his mind.
But so had I.
I wasn’t going to let him win.
Not like this.
The next morning, I was sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee and trying to ignore the smug looks my brothers were throwing my way. Marco was scrolling through his phone, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, while Giuseppe leaned against the counter, his arms crossed as he watched me with barely concealed amusement.
“You know,” Marco said, his voice dripping with faux concern, “if you’re going to marry Dante, you should probably start practicing your ‘yes, sir’s and ‘whatever you say, sir’s now. It’s all about submission.”
Giuseppe snorted, nearly doubling over with laughter. “Yeah, Emilia. Maybe invest in a leash. Dante strikes me as the type who’d appreciate a well-trained pet.”
I slammed my mug down on the table, the sound reverberating through the room like a gunshot. “Why don’t you two go find a cliff and jump off it? Preferably together.”
Marco grinned, utterly unfazed. “Aw, come on, sis. Don’t be like that. We’re just trying to help you prepare for your new life as Mrs. Dante Conti. It’s a big step, you know. A lot of responsibility.”
“Right,” Giuseppe chimed in, his grin widening. “You’ll have to, what, sit around in a designer dress and look pretty? Maybe occasionally sign some checks? Sounds exhausting.”
I glared at both of them, my fingers tightening around the mug. “You two are insufferable.”
“And you’re a thief,” Marco shot back, his tone light but his words cutting. “Or at least, that’s what Dante thinks. So maybe focus less on insulting us and more on figuring out how you’re going to survive being married to Il Diavolo .”
My stomach twisted at the nickname. The Devil. It fit Dante too well—the cold calculation in his eyes, the way he moved through the world like it was his to command. And now, apparently, I was supposed to be part of his domain.
“Why don’t you two mind your own business?” I snapped, pushing back from the table. “You’re not helping.”
“We’re not trying to help,” Giuseppe said with a shrug. “We’re just enjoying the show.”
I didn’t bother responding. Instead, I grabbed my mug and stormed out of the kitchen, their laughter following me down the hallway like an annoying shadow.
The house felt more suffocating than usual today, the walls closing in on me with every step. My parents were still giving me the silent treatment, my brothers were treating my impending marriage like a joke, and Dante… Dante was a storm cloud looming over everything, dark and unrelenting.
I made my way to the living room, sinking into the couch with a heavy sigh. The coffee in my mug had gone cold, but I didn’t care. It wasn’t like I had much else to hold onto at the moment.