Chapter 18
18
EMILIA
D ante’s hands gripped the wheel, his fingers tapping idly against the leather as the city lights flickered past us. I stared out the window, watching the world blur, my thoughts tangled in everything that had happened today.
The house.
The way he looked at me when I told him I didn’t think he could give me peace.
The way he didn’t argue.
I shifted in my seat, crossing my arms. “You didn’t deny it.”
Dante didn’t take his eyes off the road. “Deny what?”
“That you can’t give me a peaceful life.”
His grip on the wheel tightened slightly, but his voice remained calm. “Would you have believed me if I had?”
I swallowed, my fingers curling against my arms. “No.”
He let out a quiet breath, almost like he’d expected that answer. “Then why does it matter?”
“Because it’s the truth.” I turned to face him, my pulse thrumming. “You know it, I know it. We both know what this life is, Dante. What you are.”
His jaw ticked. “And what am I, Emilia?”
I hesitated, but only for a second. “A made man.”
Silence stretched between us, thick and heavy.
Dante exhaled through his nose, his expression unreadable. “And what does that mean to you?”
I scoffed, shaking my head. “It means you live a life of violence. It means you don’t get to have peace, not really. It means there will always be someone coming for you, always another enemy, another fight. And if I’m with you—” I swallowed hard. “Then I’ll never have peace either.”
Dante didn’t speak right away. He just kept driving, his fingers flexing against the wheel like he was considering his next words carefully.
Finally, he said, “You think I don’t want peace?”
I frowned. “I think you don’t know how to have it.”
His smirk was slow, humorless. “Maybe not.”
I turned back to the window, my chest tightening. “Then why pretend?”
“I’m not pretending.” His voice was quiet but firm. “I bought that house because I wanted something different. Something better.”
“For you?”
“For us.”
I swallowed, my heart pounding against my ribs. “Dante?—”
“I know what I am, Emilia.” His voice was steady, unwavering. “I know what this life is. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want more.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that.
Because the truth was, I wanted to believe him.
But I wasn’t sure if I could.
The rest of the drive passed in silence, but it wasn’t the same as before. It wasn’t waiting. It was something else entirely.
Something I didn’t know how to name.
—
When we arrived back at the penthouse, I stepped out of the car, my heels clicking against the pavement as Dante rounded the vehicle. He didn’t touch me, but he was close enough that I could feel his presence, the heat of him lingering just a little too close.
I expected him to disappear into his office like he always did, to leave me alone with my thoughts and the weight of everything we hadn’t said.
But instead, he stopped just inside the doorway, his dark eyes settling on me.
“I have something planned,” he said.
I raised a brow. “Planned?”
His lips twitched. “Go to the bedroom.”
I narrowed my eyes. “That sounds ominous.”
Dante chuckled, shaking his head. “Just go.”
I hesitated, searching his face for any sign of whatever game he was playing, but he gave nothing away. With a sigh, I turned and made my way down the hall, my pulse quickening with every step.
The bedroom door was slightly ajar, and when I pushed it open, I froze.
Dresses.
Dozens of them.
Hanging neatly along the open wardrobe, each one more elegant than the last. Some were sleek and sophisticated, others softer, flowing. There were shoes lined up beside them, delicate heels in varying shades, and a collection of jewelry displayed on the dresser.
I swallowed hard, stepping further inside, my fingers brushing over the fabric of one of the dresses. It was deep emerald green, the kind of color that would make my skin glow, the kind of dress that was meant to be worn, not just admired.
I turned slowly, my chest tightening.
Dante leaned against the doorframe, watching me.
I exhaled, shaking my head. “What is this?”
His smirk was subtle, but there was something softer beneath it. “You needed clothes.”
I let out a breathless laugh. “So you bought me an entire wardrobe?”
He shrugged. “Would you rather I let you keep stealing my shirts?”
I flushed, my fingers curling into the fabric of the dress. “I didn’t ask for this.”
“I know.” His gaze darkened. “That’s why I did it.”
I swallowed, my throat suddenly tight. “Dante?—”
“Have dinner with me.”
I blinked. “What?”
His smirk deepened, but his voice was softer this time. “Dinner. With me. No games, no demands.” He tilted his head slightly. “Just us.”
I stared at him, waiting for the catch.
But there wasn’t one.
He was asking.
Not demanding.
Not ordering.
Asking.
I exhaled slowly, my fingers still curled around the dress. “Okay.”
Dante’s smirk softened into something else—something I couldn’t quite place.
“Good,” he murmured.
And then he was gone, leaving me standing in the middle of the bedroom, surrounded by the evidence of just how much he was willing to give me.
The rooftop was breathtaking.
I stepped out onto the terrace, my heels clicking softly against the stone floor, and inhaled sharply. The entire space was transformed. Twinkling fairy lights hung overhead, casting a warm, golden glow over the intimate dining setup. A round table, draped in crisp white linen, sat in the center, adorned with flickering candles and a bouquet of deep red roses.
But it was the flowers—hundreds of them—that stole my breath.
They lined the perimeter of the rooftop, spilling over in a riot of color. Roses, peonies, lilies—blooms in every shade of red, pink, and white. The scent was intoxicating, wrapping around me like a dream.
I turned to Dante, my pulse unsteady. “You did all this?”
He smirked, stepping closer. “You sound surprised.”
I was.
Dante wasn’t the type for grand romantic gestures. He was calculated, controlled, always three steps ahead. This? This felt like something else entirely.
“I—” I shook my head, at a loss for words.
Dante took my hand, guiding me toward the table. He pulled out my chair, waiting until I sat before pouring me a glass of wine. The deep red liquid swirled in the crystal goblet, catching the candlelight.
He took the seat beside me, his hand resting casually on my thigh, his touch warm and possessive.
Dinner arrived—perfectly plated dishes of something decadent, something expensive. Dante had ordered for me, but I wasn’t surprised. He always did. And, annoyingly, he always got it right.
I took a sip of wine, letting the warmth settle in my chest. The city stretched out before us, glittering in the night, but I barely noticed it. My focus was on the man beside me—the way he watched me, the way his fingers never stopped moving against my thigh, the way he made me feel like I was teetering on the edge of something dangerous.
I was lost in my thoughts when Dante’s voice cut through them.
“I need to tell you something.”
His tone was different. Lower. More serious.
I turned to him, my heart stuttering. “What is it?”
Dante didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached out, his fingers brushing against my cheek as he tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear. The touch was soft, almost reverent. His gaze traced my face, lingering on my lips before flicking back to my eyes.
The air between us shifted, thickening with something unspoken.
And then he leaned in.
The kiss was slow, deliberate. A claiming. His lips moved against mine with a certainty that stole my breath, his hand sliding to the nape of my neck, holding me in place. I melted into him, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, my body betraying me in the worst possible way.
When he finally pulled back, his breath was warm against my lips.
“I know it wasn’t you,” he murmured.
I blinked, still dazed. “What?”
His thumb traced my jaw, his expression unreadable. “The money. I know you didn’t take it.”
My stomach dropped.
For so long, I’d been fighting against the weight of his accusations, the constant shadow of suspicion. And now, just like that, he was saying he knew the truth?
I pulled back slightly, my pulse hammering. “Then why?—”
“Because I needed to be sure.” His voice was quiet, but there was something raw beneath it. “And now I am.”
I searched his face, trying to make sense of it all. “Who, then?”
He took a sip from his glass.
Dante’s fingers tapped against the stem of his wine glass, his gaze locked onto mine as if he was waiting for me to speak first. I didn’t. I was too busy trying to process what he’d just said.
He knew.
He knew I hadn’t taken the money.
Dante exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders like he was trying to shake off the tension creeping into them. “That’s what I’ve been trying to find out.”
I narrowed my eyes. “And Valentina?”
His jaw ticked. “She has connections.”
I scoffed, leaning back in my chair. “Of course she does.”
Dante’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Emilia.”
I shook my head, crossing my arms. “No, really. Please, explain to me why Valentina of all people needed to be involved.”
His fingers flexed around his glass. “As you know, her family works in banking. They have access to records and resources that even I can’t get my hands on. If someone moved that money, she can find out where. They can trace the money deeper than I can. Than we can.”
I let out a sharp breath, my nails digging into my arms. “Right. And that’s why she was sitting so close to you? Laughing in your ear?”
Dante’s smirk was humorless. “You’re jealous.”
I glared at him. “I’m pissed.”
“Same thing.”
I clenched my jaw, my pulse thrumming in my ears.
Dante sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “What you saw wasn’t what you think.”
I arched a brow. “Oh? So you weren’t sitting there, drinking with her, looking like you were enjoying yourself?”
His fingers tightened around his glass, his knuckles going white. “I was handling business.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Right. Business.”
Dante’s jaw ticked, his frustration evident. He opened his mouth, then closed it, exhaling sharply before taking a long sip of his wine.
I watched him, waiting for him to say something—anything—that would make this make sense.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he set his glass down with a quiet clink , his fingers dragging through his dark hair.
“I should have told you sooner,” he admitted, his voice lower now, rougher.
I blinked, caught off guard by the admission.
Dante Conti didn’t apologize. Not really.
And yet, here he was, fumbling with his words, looking anywhere but at me.
I swallowed hard, my anger warring with something else—something I wasn’t ready to name.
“Why didn’t you?” I asked, my voice quieter now.
His jaw tightened. “Because I wasn’t sure.”
I frowned. “Sure of what?”
Dante exhaled, his fingers tapping against the table. “That I could trust you.”
The words hit like a slap.
I sucked in a sharp breath, my chest tightening. “You—” I shook my head, laughing bitterly. “You married me, Dante. And you didn’t even trust me?”
His gaze snapped to mine, dark and unreadable. “Trust isn’t given freely in my world, cara .”
Dante leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping idly against the stem of his wine glass. His dark eyes never left mine, watching, waiting.
"As I was saying," he murmured, voice smooth, deliberate. "I know you didn’t steal it."
The words settled between us, heavy and unshakable.
I swallowed, my fingers tightening around the stem of my own glass. "Then why did you treat me like I did?"
Dante’s lips pressed into a thin line. "Because I needed to be sure."
I let out a sharp breath, shaking my head. "That’s not an answer."
"It’s the only one I have." His gaze darkened, his fingers flexing slightly. "You were the easiest suspect, cara . The money disappeared, and you had the most to gain. I had to consider every possibility."
I scoffed, setting my glass down with a little more force than necessary. "And now? Now you’re just suddenly convinced I didn’t do it?"
Dante’s smirk was humorless. "I’ve been watching you."
I stiffened. "Excuse me?"
"You don’t lie well, Emilia," he said, tilting his head slightly. "You’re too reactive. Too emotional. If you had taken the money, I would’ve seen it in your eyes the second I accused you."
I clenched my jaw, my pulse thrumming in my ears. "So what now? You just expect me to forget that you spent weeks treating me like a criminal?"
Dante exhaled through his nose, setting his glass down. "No. But I do expect you to help me find out who actually took it."
I stared at him, waiting for the punchline. "You’re serious?"
His smirk returned, slow and knowing. "You don’t want Valentina involved, do you?"
I bristled. "Obviously not."
"Then keep looking through the albums." His voice was calm, measured, but there was an edge to it—something unyielding. "Find the face that doesn’t belong. Find the person who’s been hiding in plain sight."
I exhaled sharply, rubbing my temples. "You really think the answer is in those pictures?"
Dante nodded, his expression unreadable. "I do."
I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. "And if I find them?"
His smirk was slow, dangerous. "Then they die."
A shiver ran down my spine, but I didn’t look away. I knew better than to expect anything else. This was his world. This was what he did.
Dante sat back in his chair, stretching his legs out beneath the table. "I believe the Russians are involved," he said casually, like he was discussing the weather. "But I don’t know how yet."
I frowned. "Why the Russians?"
"Because they’ve been too quiet," he murmured, swirling the wine in his glass. "And in this business, silence is never a good thing."
I studied him, the way his jaw tightened slightly, the way his fingers tapped against the table in a slow, thoughtful rhythm. He was opening up to me. Not completely, not entirely, but more than he ever had before.
And I hated that it made something in my chest tighten.
I exhaled slowly, setting my glass down. "Thank you."
Dante arched a brow. "For what?"
"For telling me the truth," I said, my voice quieter now. "For not keeping me in the dark."
His smirk softened, just slightly. "Don’t get used to it."
I rolled my eyes, but the corner of my lips twitched despite myself.
Then, before I could stop myself, I said, "But you hurt me, Dante."
His smirk vanished.
I swallowed hard, my fingers curling into my lap. "You accused me. You made me feel like I was nothing. And even if I let you fuck me, that doesn’t mean I forgive you."
Dante’s jaw ticked, his dark eyes flashing with something unreadable. "I know."
I waited for him to argue, to push back, to tell me that I was being dramatic.
But he didn’t.
He just sat there, watching me, his fingers stilling against the table.
And for the first time, I thought maybe—just maybe—he actually understood.
The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy.
Then, finally, Dante exhaled, his voice quieter now. "I don’t expect forgiveness, Emilia."
I swallowed, my throat tight. "Good."
His lips twitched, but there was no amusement in it. "But I do expect you to keep fighting me."
I let out a breathless laugh, shaking my head. "Oh, don’t worry. I will."
Dante’s smirk returned, slow and knowing. "Good."
And just like that, the tension between us shifted.
Not gone.
But different.
Something unspoken settled between us, something neither of us were ready to name.
And maybe, for now, that was enough.