Chapter 14
14
DANTE
T he ride back to the penthouse was silent, save for the low hum of the engine and the occasional sharp inhale from Emilia. She sat rigid, her arms folded tightly across her chest, nails digging into the sleeves of her dress like she was trying to hold herself together. Her gaze stayed fixed on the city lights blurring past the tinted windows, but I could feel her emotions radiating off her in waves—sharp, hot, and barely contained.
She was angry.
Good.
Anger was easier to deal with than fear.
I leaned back against the leather seat, resting an elbow on the armrest as I watched her from the corner of my eye. The tension in her shoulders, the way her jaw clenched every time she exhaled—she was barely holding it together, and I knew her well enough to recognize that the second she opened her mouth, it would all come spilling out.
“You’re quiet,” I murmured, breaking the silence.
She turned her head just enough to glare at me, her eyes flashing with fury. “Oh, I don’t know, Dante. Maybe it’s because I was just shot at during a family dinner.”
I couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at my lips. “Welcome to the family, cara. ”
Her expression hardened, her lips pressing into a tight line. “This isn’t normal.”
“For you? No. For me?” I shrugged, letting the smirk linger. “It happens.”
She let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking her head in disbelief. “Right. Just another Sunday dinner with the Contis. A little pasta, a little wine, a little gunfire.”
I didn’t bother correcting her.
Because she wasn’t wrong.
She turned her attention back to the window, shaking her head as her fingers tightened their grip on her arms. “Who was it?”
“The Russians most likely.”
Her head whipped back toward me, her brows knitting together. “I thought you had some kind of arrangement with them.”
“We did,” I said calmly.
“And now?”
I met her gaze, holding it steady. “Now, we don’t.”
Her lips parted slightly, like she wanted to ask more, but she pressed them together again. I could see the wheels turning in her head, the questions piling up, but she didn’t let them spill out. Instead, she exhaled slowly, shaking her head like she was trying to make sense of all this.
“And you’re just… what? Shrugging it off?” she finally asked, her voice incredulous.
My brow arched. “Would you rather I panic?”
She let out a frustrated sound, dragging her hands through her hair before rubbing her temples. “I’d rather you acknowledge that this is insane. ”
I leaned in slightly, my voice dropping to something lower, something meant to remind her exactly who she was dealing with. “This is the life you married into, princess. You can either accept it or keep pretending you had a choice.”
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, but her eyes never left mine.
Good.
She was stubborn. I liked that about her.
I leaned back, letting the moment settle before shifting the conversation. “You’re going to keep looking through the albums.”
Her brows furrowed, the sudden change in topic catching her off guard. “What?”
“The albums,” I repeated, my tone even. “You’re going to keep going through them.”
She let out a disbelieving laugh, throwing her hands up. “Dante, I just got shot at, and you’re worried about some old photo albums?”
“They’re not just photo albums,” I said, my tone sharp enough to cut through her sarcasm. “And yes, I am.”
She shook her head, muttering something under her breath before pinching the bridge of her nose. “They’re at my house.”
I gave her a look.
She rolled her eyes. "They're at my fathers house."
"I had them brought over."
She froze. “What?”
“I had them brought over.” I repeated.
Her eyes narrowed. “When?”
“This morning.”
She let out a slow, measured breath. “So, what? You just decided I was going to live with you permanently before I even agreed to it?”
I smirked. “You married me, cara . That was the agreement.”
She made a strangled sound, turning back toward the window like she couldn’t stand to look at me anymore. “Unbelievable.”
I leaned back, letting the silence stretch for a moment before adding, almost as an afterthought, “Your mail will be forwarded, too.”
Her head snapped toward me, eyes wide with disbelief. “What?”
“All the shit you bought with my money?” I said, tilting my head slightly with a faint grin. “Don’t worry, wife. Your packages will find you.”
Her nostrils flared, her arms tightening around herself again as she turned back toward the window. “You are insufferable. ”
“And yet,” I said, my grin widening, “you’re still here.”
She huffed, crossing her legs and turning her body away like she couldn’t even look at me anymore. Her silence was loud, her body language screaming fuck you without her having to say a single word.
I leaned back, satisfied.
She could be mad all she wanted. She wasn’t going anywhere.
By the time we reached the penthouse, Emilia was still seething. She stormed inside without a word, her heels clicking against the marble floor as she made a beeline for the bedroom.
The door slammed shut behind her.
I exhaled through my nose, running a hand through my hair.
The place was starting to feel too small.
It had never bothered me before. The penthouse was sleek, modern, efficient—everything I needed. But now, with Emilia here, it felt… cramped.
I pulled out my phone, scrolling through my contacts until I found the number I was looking for.
The phone barely rang twice before the realtor picked up, her voice smooth, professional, and just the right amount of eager.
“Mr. Conti,” she greeted. “I was wondering when I’d hear from you again.”
I leaned against the kitchen counter, rolling my shoulders to ease the tension that had been sitting there since the gunfire. “Did you put an offer into the house we talked about last week?.”
There was a pause, then the sound of clicking keys. “The estate?”
“Yes.” I glanced toward the closed bedroom door where Emilia had disappeared, the sharp slam still echoing in my ears. “At least it’s Something with space.”
Another pause. “For you or for?—?”
“For both of us,” I said, cutting her off before she could finish the question.
She made a thoughtful noise. “We put in that offer. It was accepted.”
I smirked. “Great.”
More clicking. “I have a few more properties that might interest you. High security, gated, enough land to keep prying eyes away. There’s an estate just outside the city—ten acres, private drive, fully modernized but still has that old-world charm. It’s a little more secluded, but?—”
“Ah.” I wanted something close. I wasn’t ready to leave the city entirely, not with everything happening. “Find me another one here. I want privacy, but I need accessibility.”
She hummed, considering. “That narrows the list, but I can work with it. There’s a private residence in the heart of the city—secluded, high-end security, a private courtyard. Or, if you want something more expansive, I know of a waterfront estate that offers complete discretion, gated access, and enough space to ensure no one gets near without your say-so.”
“Send me the details for both,” I said immediately. “All pictures, full specs. I want to go over everything before making a decision.”
“Of course, Mr. Conti,” she replied smoothly. “I’ll have everything in your inbox within the hour.”
I ended the call, slipping the phone back into my pocket. I wasn’t going to bring it up to Emilia yet—not until I was sure. But when the time was right, I’d show her the options.
Because whether she liked it or not, she wasn’t going anywhere. And if she was going to be stuck with me, I’d make damn sure she had nowhere to run.
“Of course. I’ll have everything in your inbox within the hour.”
I ended the call and set my phone down, exhaling slowly.
The penthouse had always been enough for me. It was efficient, controlled, a fortress in the middle of the city. But with Emilia here, it felt different. Too many walls. Not enough space.
Not enough escape routes.
I glanced at the bedroom door again, half-expecting her to come storming out, still fuming. But she stayed inside, locked away in whatever war she was waging with herself.
Good. Let her stew.
She thought she could fight this, fight me.
But she’d learn soon enough.
She wasn’t going anywhere.
And neither was I.
I sighed, pouring myself a whiskey, the familiar burn of it steadying my nerves.
The penthouse felt too quiet.
Not peaceful—never peaceful. The silence was charged, heavy, like the moment before a storm broke. It pressed against me, filling the space Emilia had vacated when she slammed the bedroom door.
I leaned against the kitchen counter, rolling the whiskey glass between my fingers, watching the amber liquid catch the dim overhead light. The quiet gave me too much time to think, too much time to feel the cracks forming in the walls I’d spent years building.
Emilia.
She was still locked in the bedroom, probably pacing, probably plotting a hundred different ways to make my life hell.
I smirked to myself, taking a slow sip. Let her.
She could fight, she could rage, she could throw all the tantrums she wanted. It wouldn’t change a damn thing.
She was mine now.
And she knew it.
The thought sent a flicker of satisfaction through me, though it was quickly swallowed by something darker. Something uneasy.
I pulled out my phone, scrolling through my messages until I found Valentina’s name. She never disappointed when it came to information, though she was a pain in the ass to deal with.
Me: Any updates?
The response came almost immediately.
Valentina: You wound me, Dante. No pleasantries? No how are you, Valentina?
I exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of my nose. I didn’t have the patience for her games tonight.
Me: I’m not in the mood.
Valentina: Oh? That’s a shame. I was hoping we could have a nice, long chat.
I clenched my jaw.
Me: Just tell me what you have.
There was a pause, then another message popped up.
Valentina: The Russians are moving. Quietly, but they’re moving. Your little dinner party was just the beginning.
There was a pause, long enough to test my already thin patience, before another message popped up.
But the Contis didn’t take warnings.
We gave them.
Me: Names. Locations. I want everything.
Another pause.
Valentina: Tsk, tsk. So demanding.
I was about to tell her to stop wasting my time when the next message came through.
Valentina: I’ll give you what I have. But I’d rather do it in person.
I narrowed my eyes at the screen.
Me: Not happening.
Valentina: Why not? Oh…
I could practically hear the smirk in her next message.
Valentina: Is your wife keeping you on a leash?
My grip tightened around the glass.
Me: Watch yourself.
Valentina: Relax, tesoro. I just think it’s cute. You, all domesticated.
I exhaled slowly, forcing myself to stay calm. Valentina loved to push buttons, to poke and prod until she found a weak spot. It was her game, and she was damn good at it. I didn’t have weak spots.
Not anymore.
Me: Send me what you have. That’s all I need from you.
Valentina: For now.
The message was followed by another pause, like she was waiting for me to say something else, to bite, to give her more ammunition.
I ended the conversation before she could. The phone hit the counter with a little more force than necessary, the sound breaking the heavy silence in the kitchen.
The last thing I needed was Valentina stirring the pot.
But the worst part?
She wasn’t wrong.
Emilia had changed things.
I glanced at the closed bedroom door, the faint sound of her pacing reaching me even from here. She was a storm contained in that room, her anger and defiance battering against the walls like thunder.
And me? I was the idiot standing in the middle of it, daring it to strike.
I took another sip of whiskey, the burn doing little to chase away the unease coiling in my chest. She wasn’t just a complication. She wasn’t just some pawn in the endless game I played.
She was something else entirely.
Something that made me feel too much, too fast. Something that threatened to unravel the careful control I’d spent a lifetime perfecting.
I wasn’t sure if that made her dangerous—or if it made me weak.
My grip on the glass tightened as I forced the thought away. Weakness wasn’t an option. Not in my world. Not with enemies closing in.
I’d find the Russians. I’d deal with them. I’d remind them exactly who they were dealing with.
And Emilia?
She’d learn.
She’d learn that no amount of defiance, no amount of fight, would free her from me.
Because she wasn’t just my wife.
She was mine.
Completely, irrevocably mine.
And God help anyone who tried to take her from me.
The call came just after midnight.
I was still in the kitchen, nursing the last of my whiskey, when my phone vibrated against the counter. I glanced at the screen, my jaw tightening at the name flashing across it.
Rafe.
I answered immediately. “What?”
“We have a problem at the ports,” he said, his voice clipped. “The Kavanaugh shipment came in light. They’re claiming it’s a mistake.”
I exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over my jaw. “And you believe them?”
“No,” Rafe said flatly. “Neither does Matteo. But they’re stalling, and I don’t like it.”
Neither did I.
The Irish had been getting too comfortable lately, testing boundaries they had no business testing. A missing shipment wasn’t just a mistake—it was a message.
And I didn’t take kindly to messages.
“I’ll be there in twenty,” I said, already moving.
I ended the call and pulled out my phone again, this time texting Emilia.
Me: Something came up. I’ll be out for a few hours. Luca’s staying with you.
I hesitated for a second, then added another line.
Me: Stay inside.
I didn’t wait for a response. She’d be pissed, but she’d listen. Or, at the very least, Luca would make sure she did.
I grabbed my jacket, shrugging it on as I stepped into the hallway. The guard stationed outside straightened at my approach.
“Nobody comes in or out unless it’s me or Luca,” I said, my voice low. “Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
I nodded once and stepped into the elevator, my mind already shifting to the problem waiting for me at the docks.
The Irish thought they could play games.
They were about to learn how wrong they were.