Chapter 22
22
EMILIA
T he silence in the car was deafening.
It was the kind of silence that made me fidget with the hem of my dress, made me glance out the window more than necessary, made the air feel like it was thick with anticipation. Like it was waiting for something.
Dante sat beside me, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting casually on the gearshift. He looked as calm as ever—composed, unreadable, the kind of calm that made me want to scream just to see if I could crack it.
The low hum of the engine was the only sound between us, and I hated how the quiet seemed to magnify everything else. The steady rhythm of my breathing. The soft rustle of fabric as I shifted in my seat. The way my heart seemed to beat just a little harder because of the man sitting next to me.
I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye, catching the sharp line of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble that darkened his skin. He looked like the embodiment of control, like nothing in the world could touch him.
I wondered, not for the first time, what it would take to break him.
He didn’t speak until we were halfway through the winding road that led to the Conti family estate.
“I spoke with the architect yesterday,” he said suddenly, his voice low, smooth, and infuriatingly casual. Like we were picking up a conversation we’d already had.
I blinked, turning to look at him fully. “The architect?”
“They’ll have preliminary plans drawn up by next week,” he continued, his gaze fixed on the road ahead.
I frowned, my mind scrambling to catch up. “Plans for what?”
“The house,” he said, glancing at me briefly before returning his eyes to the road. “The one we looked at last week. The lake property.”
The lake property.
My stomach twisted slightly, the memory flashing in my mind. I remembered the sprawling estate overlooking the water, the way the sunlight had danced on the surface of the lake like a thousand tiny diamonds. I remembered how Dante had stood beside me, his hand resting lightly on my back, pointing out the features he liked while I’d barely listened, convinced he couldn’t possibly be serious.
I stared at him now, my disbelief clear on my face. “Oh. You were serious about that?”
Dante’s lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but close enough to make my pulse skip. “Of course I was serious.”
I folded my arms across my chest, leaning back against the seat. “You say that like it’s obvious.”
“It should be,” he said, his tone calm, measured, as if we were discussing nothing more important than the weather.
I shook my head, letting out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “You don’t exactly have a track record of including me in decisions, Dante. Forgive me if I’m skeptical.”
He shrugged, the movement casual but deliberate, like everything he did. “You’re my wife, Emilia. You have a say in things.”
The words hit me harder than they should have, and I hated the way they made my chest tighten.
I let out a dry laugh, shaking my head. “Since when?”
“Since always,” he said simply, his tone as flat and unshakable as ever. “You just don’t like that your say comes with consequences.”
I turned slightly in my seat, narrowing my eyes at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He glanced at me, his dark eyes glinting with something I couldn’t quite place. “It means that every choice you make affects more than just you. It affects me. It affects us. It affects everything.”
I stared at him, my irritation bubbling to the surface. “So, when you say I have a say, what you really mean is I have a say as long as you approve of what I choose.”
His lips curved into a faint smirk, his hand tightening briefly on the steering wheel. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant,” I shot back, my voice sharper now.
He didn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the road as the car rounded another curve. The sunlight filtered through the trees, casting shadows across his face, and for a moment, I thought he might let the conversation drop.
But then he spoke, his voice softer this time, almost thoughtful. “You think I don’t trust you.”
I blinked, caught off guard by the shift in his tone.
“I—” I hesitated, my fingers twisting in my lap. “I think you don’t trust anyone, Dante. Not really.”
He let out a low hum, something between agreement and acknowledgment. “Maybe. But I trust you more than most.”
The words hung between us, heavy and unspoken for far too long.
I didn’t know what to say to that—didn’t know how to respond to the faint vulnerability I thought I heard beneath his calm exterior.
So I turned my gaze back to the window, watching as the trees blurred past.
The silence returned, but it was different now.
Not heavy, not tense.
Just… there.
Waiting.
The Conti estate loomed ahead, all stone and glass and old money. It sat like a fortress at the edge of the horizon, sprawling and imposing, a place that seemed to absorb the sunlight rather than reflect it. It was the kind of place that had seen more secrets than daylight, the kind of place where power didn’t whisper—it roared.
As Dante drove up the long, winding driveway, the estate grew larger, its sharp edges and towering windows casting long shadows across the perfectly manicured grounds. Everything about it screamed wealth, authority, and danger.
Dante parked the car near the front entrance, the tires crunching softly over the gravel. Before I could even reach for the door handle, he was out of the car, rounding it with smooth, deliberate steps. He opened my door, his dark eyes meeting mine as he extended a hand like some kind of twisted gentleman.
I raised a brow but took his hand anyway, letting him help me out of the car.
“Thanks,” I muttered, smoothing my dress as I straightened, my heels clicking against the stone path beneath me.
He didn’t respond, his hand lingering at the small of my back as I took in the estate. It hadn’t changed.
Still too big.
Still too cold.
Still too perfect.
The kind of perfection that felt like a warning: Don’t touch. Don’t belong.
Ahead, his brothers were already waiting near the entrance, their figures framed by the massive stone pillars that flanked the double doors.
Rafe stood like a statue, arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable. His sharp eyes tracked our approach, taking in every detail, every movement, like a predator assessing its prey. Luca, in contrast, leaned lazily against one of the pillars, his grin unapologetically smug, like he’d been waiting all day just to say something to piss me off.
“Emilia,” Rafe greeted when we reached them, his voice even, calm, and entirely devoid of warmth.
“Hey,” I responded, forcing a polite smile as I glanced between them. “Nice to see you all again.”
Luca’s grin widened, his gaze sweeping over me in a way that made my skin prickle. “You’re looking dangerous today, princess.”
I rolled my eyes, but the corner of my mouth twitched in spite of myself. “And you’re still breathing. Miracles do happen.”
Luca let out a low laugh, the sound full of amusement as he pushed off the pillar. “You’re growing on me, you know that?”
“Luca,” Dante warned, his voice low, the kind of tone that could silence a room.
Luca just shrugged, his grin unfaltering.
Dante’s hand pressed more firmly against the small of my back, his touch grounding me in a way I didn’t want to think too hard about. “Make yourself at home,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, low and commanding. “I need to speak with them.”
I nodded, already feeling the subtle shift in the air. The tension. The unspoken rules that separated me from them.
Business. Mafia business.
The kind of conversation I wasn’t invited to. Not yet, anyway.
Rafe turned, gesturing for Dante to follow, and the brothers began to move toward the door. Dante’s hand lingered on my back for half a second longer before he dropped it, his dark eyes meeting mine like he was silently telling me to behave.
I didn’t say anything, didn’t ask questions. I just turned and walked away, my heels clicking softly against the stone path as I made my way into the estate.
The house was a maze of hallways and rooms that all looked vaguely the same—ornate, expensive, and just a little too sterile. It was the kind of place that felt more like a museum than a home, where every piece of furniture was perfectly placed, every surface polished to a mirror-like shine.
I wandered aimlessly, passing a sitting room filled with antique furniture no one ever used, a library that smelled like dust and old secrets, and a formal dining room that could seat twenty but probably hadn’t seen a real meal in years.
The deeper I went, the quieter it became. The faint hum of conversation and footsteps from the main part of the estate faded into nothing, leaving only the soft echo of my heels against the polished floors.
Eventually, I found myself in one of the back hallways, the kind that wasn’t meant for guests. The kind that felt forgotten.
The air here was different—cooler, heavier, like the walls themselves were holding their breath. The lighting was dimmer, the ornate sconces casting long shadows that stretched across the floor.
The walls were lined with old photographs—black-and-white portraits, faded group shots, moments frozen in time. They were a stark contrast to the rest of the house, where everything felt curated and deliberate. These photos felt personal, like they’d been hung here for the family’s eyes only.
I slowed, my fingers brushing lightly over the edge of one of the frames.
It was a group photo—maybe twenty people, all dressed in suits and gowns, standing in front of the estate. The image was grainy, the edges of the photo slightly yellowed with age, but the faces were clear enough.
Some of them I recognized.
Rafe, younger and less guarded, his expression almost boyish. Dante, barely out of his teens, already wearing that same unreadable mask he wore now.
But it was the man standing near the edge of the photo that made my breath catch.
I’d seen him before.
Not in person. Not recently.
In the album.
The one I’d found in my father’s study. The one with the photo I couldn’t stop thinking about.
I leaned in closer, my pulse quickening.
Same face. Same eyes. Same slight smirk.
But this photo was old. Years older than the one in the album.
Which meant he’d been around a long time.
I frowned, stepping back slightly and glancing around. There was no plaque, no nameplate. Just the photo, hanging quietly in the hallway like it had always been there.
I turned, spotting a servant passing by with a tray of glasses.
“Excuse me,” I said, stepping toward him.
He paused, nodding politely. “Yes, signora?”
I pointed to the photo. “Do you know who that is?” I asked, tapping the glass near the man’s face.
The servant squinted, then smiled. “Ah, yes. That’s Signore Matteo. He used to handle logistics for the family. Retired a few years ago.”
I frowned. “Matteo?”
He nodded. “Yes, Signore Matteo. Very loyal. Quiet man. Kept to himself.”
I stared at the photo, something twisting in my gut.
That wasn’t Matteo.
I didn’t know who it was—but I knew it wasn’t him.
I forced a smile. “Right. Thank you.”
He nodded again and disappeared down the hall, leaving me alone with the photo and the gnawing feeling in my chest.
I looked back at the man in the picture.
He wasn’t Matteo.
He was the man from the album.
The one who’d been in my father’s office the day I was given the wrong paperwork. The one who had stood in the corner, silent, watching.
I didn’t know his name.
But I was going to find out.
Because whoever he was—he didn’t belong.
And if he was in this photo, if he was tied to the Contis and my father and the missing money—then he wasn’t just a ghost from the past.
He was the key to everything.
I turned on my heel and made my way back through the estate, the photo still burned into my mind, my pulse quickening with every step.
I needed to find Dante.
Because this time, I wasn’t just guessing.
I had something real.
And I wasn’t going to let it slip through my fingers.