Chapter 13
13
EMILIA
T he morning after the ceremony, reality pressed down on me, heavy and suffocating. The penthouse was eerily silent, the kind of quiet that felt intentional, like the walls themselves were waiting for me to break.
I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction.
I threw off the silk sheets, my bare feet hitting the cold hardwood floor with a sharp slap. The ring on my finger felt heavier than it had last night, a tangible reminder of the chains I’d willingly—begrudgingly—slipped into.
Dante had made himself scarce after our tense arrival, disappearing into his office like the world owed him its undivided attention. Fine by me. The less I saw of him, the better.
I hated how aware I was of his absence. How the oppressive stillness of the house seemed to expand, filling every corner, every shadow, with the weight of everything we weren’t saying to each other.
He hadn’t slept in bed with me last night.
I shouldn’t have cared. I told myself it was better this way, that the distance between us was what I wanted—what I needed. But the empty side of the bed betrayed me, its cold, untouched sheets whispering truths I didn’t want to hear.
I’d stayed awake far longer than I should have, staring at the ceiling, my thoughts a tangled mess of anger, regret, and something darker—something I didn’t want to admit to myself. Every creak of the house, every faint sound, had me straining to hear if he was coming. But he never did.
But I wasn’t stupid.
I knew this wasn’t over.
I shook my head, trying to push the thoughts away. He didn’t deserve this much space in my mind. Not after everything.
But even now, I couldn’t stop replaying the look in his eyes before he turned and walked away. Cold. Guarded. Like he’d built a wall so high and unyielding that even I couldn’t claw my way through it anymore.
Not that I wanted to.
I clenched my jaw, annoyed at myself for even thinking about it. Dante could disappear into his office for all I cared. Let him brood. Let him stew in whatever storm he’d conjured for himself.
I didn’t need him.
I hated that I cared.
I hated the way my chest tightened every time I thought about him, the way my pulse quickened when we were in the same room. I hated the way he could make me feel so small and so alive all at once.
But most of all, I hated how much I missed him.
Not the cold, distant version of Dante who had walked into that office and shut me out like I was nothing. No, I missed the man I’d caught glimpses of—the one who could be gentle, the one who made me feel like I wasn’t just another piece in his game.
But maybe that man had never really existed. Maybe Dante had been wearing a mask all along, and I’d been too blind—or too stupid—to see it.
I sighed, dragging a hand through my hair before turning away from the door. I refused to knock. I refused to chase him. If Dante wanted to retreat into his fortress of solitude, that was his choice.
Sure enough, as soon as I stepped into the kitchen, still dressed in the oversized T-shirt I’d slept in, I found Dante waiting for me. He was already dressed in a crisp black button-down, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, a steaming cup of espresso in one hand.
His dark eyes flicked over me, slow and assessing. “Good morning, moglie .”
I ignored the way my stomach twisted at the word. Wife. Like it was real. Like it meant something.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “I want to go out.”
Dante arched a brow, taking a slow sip of his coffee. “No.”
I exhaled sharply, already irritated. “You don’t even know where I want to go.”
“It doesn’t matter.” He set his cup down with a quiet clink and leaned against the counter, his posture deceptively relaxed. “You’re not leaving this penthouse without me.”
I let out a humourless laugh. “So I’m a prisoner now?”
His smirk was infuriating. “You always were.”
I clenched my jaw, forcing down the urge to throw something at him. “Dante, I need air. I need space. I can’t just sit here all day waiting for you to?—”
“You’ll be joining me for lunch,” he interrupted smoothly. “Family dinner. Sunday tradition.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
He pushed off the counter, closing the distance between us in a few measured strides. “You’re a Conti now, cara . That means Sunday dinners with the family.”
I stared at him, waiting for the punchline. “You’re joking.”
“Do I look like I’m joking? I invited your brothers as well.”
I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. “Oh great. Here we go again.”
Dante’s smirk widened. “I’ll have a dress sent for you. Be ready in an hour.”
I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell him exactly where he could shove his Sunday tradition. But I knew it wouldn’t matter.
Dante Conti didn’t make requests.
He gave orders.
And I hated that I was already learning to pick my battles.
The restaurant was an upscale Italian spot, the kind of place where the waiters wore suits and the wine list was longer than the actual menu. Dante’s family had taken over a private dining room in the back, a long table filled with expensive food and even more expensive tension.
I sat beside Dante, my body stiff, my fingers curled around the stem of my wine glass. Across from me, Marco and Giuseppe were engaged in some heated conversation about football, their voices loud enough to draw a few glances from the waitstaff.
Dante, as always, was composed, his attention split between his plate and the quiet conversation he was having with Rafe, his eldest brother.
I, on the other hand, was trying not to scream.
I hated this.
I hated the way they all acted like this was normal. Like I belonged here.
I didn’t.
And I never would.
I took a slow sip of my wine, letting the bitterness settle on my tongue. Just get through the meal, I told myself. Smile, nod, play the part.
“Still can’t believe it.”
Gio’s voice snapped me out of my thoughts. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, a half-eaten piece of bread in his hand. His dark eyes locked onto mine, a teasing smirk playing on his lips.
“What?” I asked, raising a brow.
“This whole thing,” he said, gesturing vaguely to the table. “You. Married. And to him, of all people.” He jerked his chin in Dante’s direction, who didn’t even flinch, his focus still on Rafe.
I sighed, setting my glass down. “Is this really the time?”
Marco chuckled, leaning forward as he grabbed another piece of bread from the basket. “Oh, it’s exactly the time. Do you know how pissed Ma was that she didn’t get to see her only daughter walk down the aisle? She’s still talking about it. Every day.”
“Every day,” Gio echoed, nodding solemnly. “It’s like she’s mourning. ‘My Emilia,’” he said in an exaggerated version of our mother’s voice, pressing a hand to his chest like he was on the verge of tears. “‘Married in secret! Not even a picture for the family! What did I do to deserve this?’”
Marco snorted, nearly choking on his bread. “You’re lucky you’re not in the will anymore. She’s probably leaving everything to the dog.”
I rolled my eyes, but the corner of my lips twitched despite myself. “Okay, okay, I get it. It wasn’t exactly… traditional.”
“Traditional?” Gio barked out a laugh. “You didn’t even invite us. Your brothers!”
“Yeah,” Marco chimed in, pointing his fork at me. “You could’ve at least given us a heads-up. We could’ve crashed the ceremony, you know, made a scene. That’s what family’s for.”
“Trust me,” I said dryly, “you didn’t miss much.”
Marco raised a brow, his grin widening. “Oh, come on. It’s gotta be a good story. Did he drag you to a courthouse?” He gestured at Dante, who still hadn’t acknowledged the conversation. “Tie you down until you signed the papers?”
Gio smirked. “I’m picturing Vegas. Quick vows, shady officiant, Dante glaring at anyone who looked at you for too long.”
“Very funny,” I said, my voice flat, though my cheeks burned.
“Hey, I’m just saying,” Gio added, leaning forward now, resting his elbows on the table. “If you’re gonna spring a surprise wedding on us, the least you can do is throw a party. A real one. Big. Loud. With actual food, not this… whatever this is.” He gestured at the table, though I knew he didn’t mean it—he’d already helped himself to two full plates.
“You’ll get your party,” I muttered, taking another sip of wine.
“Good,” Marco said, sitting back in his chair. “Because if I don’t get to embarrass my baby sister in front of the entire family, what’s even the point?”
I threw a piece of bread at him. He caught it mid-air, his grin never fading.
“You two are insufferable,” I said, shaking my head.
“Yeah, yeah,” Gio said with a shrug. “But you love us.”
I didn’t respond, but the small smile tugging at my lips said enough.
Across the table, Dante finally glanced up, his dark eyes flicking between me and my brothers. “You’re very loud,” he said evenly, though there was a faint edge of amusement in his tone.
“Get used to it,” Gio replied, not missing a beat. “We’re family now, right?”
Dante’s expression didn’t change, but I caught the subtle twitch of his lips, like he was fighting back a smirk.
“Lucky me,” he said dryly, before turning back to Rafe.
Marco leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Does he always talk like he’s about to kill someone, or is that just his default setting?”
“Default,” I said, biting back a laugh.
And then, just as I was starting to think I might survive the night without losing my mind?—
The first gunshot rang out.
The sound shattered the air, piercing through the hum of conversation and the clinking of silverware.
For a split second, no one moved.
Then chaos erupted.
Dante was on his feet in an instant, his chair scraping against the floor as he reached for me. “ Giù! ”
I barely had time to process the command before he was shoving me down, his body pressing against mine as bullets tore through the restaurant.
Glass shattered. People screamed.
The world tilted.
I hit the floor hard, my breath rushing out in a sharp gasp. Dante’s weight pinned me down, his arms braced on either side of me as he shielded me from the hail of gunfire.
It felt like it went on forever, before a stillness fell over the room that carried an echo of gunfire.
“ Stai bene ?”
I heard the words, but my thoughts were focused on red.
Blood dripped to the wooden floorboards in my line of vision, each drop falling like the ticking of a clock, slow and deliberate. It pooled and spread, glinting under the dim lights like a macabre mirror.
My ears rang with the echoes of chaos—the shouts, the gunfire, the splintering of wood and glass. It was over now, but the aftershocks rippled through me, leaving my body trembling and my mind blank.
Hands grasped my face, turning it abruptly. “Are you okay?”
Dante’s voice was sharp, urgent, pulling me back from the haze.
I blinked up at him, my vision swimming as my pulse roared in my ears. “I?—”
I wasn’t sure.
I wasn’t sure of anything.
His dark eyes scanned me, his grip on my face firm but not painful. “Are you hurt?”
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to focus on his face. The sharp angles of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes, the blood smeared across his knuckles. “No,” I said finally, my voice hoarse. “I don’t think so.”
His jaw tightened, and he didn’t move for a moment, his gaze flicking over me one last time like he didn’t entirely trust my answer. Then, without a word, he pulled back, his movements precise and controlled, as if the violence around us hadn’t touched him.
I sat up slowly, my hands shaking as I took in the destruction around us. The restaurant was in ruins—tables overturned, glass shards scattered like confetti, bodies slumped in chairs or sprawled on the ground. Some were groaning, clutching wounds. Others weren’t moving at all.
The metallic tang of blood mixed with the acrid scent of gunpowder, making my stomach churn. I pressed a hand to my mouth, swallowing hard as bile rose in my throat.
Dante stood, already moving, completely unshaken. He wiped his bloodied hands on a napkin like he was cleaning up after a meal, not a massacre.
Marco and Giuseppe were on their feet, guns drawn, their sharp, focused gazes scanning the room for any lingering threats. Marco’s shirt was ripped, a streak of blood running down his forearm, but his grip on his weapon was steady. Gio muttered something under his breath, low and vicious, his knuckles white around the gun.
Rafe was barking orders into his phone, his expression unreadable but his tone sharp enough to cut through the chaos.
I exhaled shakily, my mind still struggling to catch up.
Dante turned to me, his voice low and clipped. “We need to go.”
I nodded numbly, letting him pull me to my feet. My legs felt like jelly, and I stumbled slightly, but his hand on my arm kept me steady.
The second we stepped outside, a black SUV screeched to a stop at the curb, its tires screaming against the asphalt. The doors flew open, and Dante ushered me inside, his hand firm on the small of my back, guiding me with a sense of urgency that made my pulse spike again.
He slid in beside me, slamming the door shut before the car peeled away from the restaurant, the city lights blurring past in a dizzying rush.
I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to steady my breathing, but my heart wouldn’t slow. It pounded against my ribs like a trapped bird, desperate to escape.
Dante watched me, his gaze heavy, unyielding.
“You’ll never be without a guard now,” he said, his voice quiet but firm.
The finality in his tone sent a shiver down my spine.
I let out a bitter laugh, though it sounded more like a strangled choke. “It’s not my fault a lot of men want to kill you.”
A lot was probably an understatement.
“And now you,” he replied simply.
I froze, my brows knitting together. “What?”
“They’ll want to kill my wife too,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact, as if he were stating the weather.
The words settled over me like a lead weight, pressing down on my chest and stealing the air from my lungs.
I turned to him, my pulse hammering. “You dragged me into this.”
His expression didn’t change, his face as unreadable as stone. “I warned you.”
“Warned me?” My voice rose, shaking with anger. “You didn’t give me a choice, Dante. You never gave me a choice.”
His dark gaze didn’t waver. “You always had a choice. You chose me. You chose this.”
I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms so hard it hurt. “I hate you.”
Dante smirked, leaning back against the seat, his calm demeanor only fueling my rage. “You’ll get used to it.”
I glared at him, my heart still racing, my mind still reeling. Every instinct in my body screamed at me to run, to get as far away from him as possible.
But I couldn’t.
I wasn’t sure if I’d ever get used to this—this chaos, this violence, this life.
One thing, however, was certain.
I wasn’t safe.
Not from the men who wanted Dante dead.
And not from Dante himself.