Chapter 23
23
EMILIA
T he car was uncomfortably tense, the kind that made my skin crawl.
Not because it was tense—although it always felt like there was some level of tension with Dante—but because it was heavy. It pressed down on me, thick and suffocating, filling the space between us with unspoken thoughts and unasked questions.
I shifted in my seat, glancing at him out of the corner of my eye. He looked composed, his calm as sharp and deliberate as a well-honed blade. His hands rested on the steering wheel, steady and controlled, his dark eyes fixed on the road ahead. But I could see the tightness in his jaw, the way his grip on the wheel was just a little too firm, the way his posture screamed restraint.
He was in a mood.
“Is everything okay?” I asked, my voice breaking the silence.
Dante’s gaze didn’t flicker, his expression unreadable. “It’s fine.”
I frowned, turning my head to watch him more closely. “You sure about that?”
He exhaled slowly, his lips pressing into a thin line. “I told you—it’s fine.”
I waited, giving him a chance to elaborate. He didn’t.
“Is it business?” I asked, hoping to prod a little more without pushing too far.
“It’s always business,” he said flatly, his tone making it clear the conversation wasn’t open for discussion.
I sighed, turning my attention to the window. The city blurred past in a haze of lights and shadows, but I wasn’t really seeing it. My mind was too busy replaying the events of the day, the image of that photograph burned into my mind like a brand.
The face. The smirk. The way he stood in the background of the group shot like he didn’t matter—but I knew he did.
I shifted again, my fingers toying with the hem of my dress as I tried to think of how to bring it up.
“What are you doing?” Dante’s voice cut through the quiet, sharp but not harsh.
I glanced at him, startled. “What?”
“You’re fidgeting,” he said, his eyes flicking toward me briefly before returning to the road.
I blinked, realizing my fingers were twisting the fabric of my dress in my lap. I dropped my hands quickly, pressing them flat against my thighs. “I’m not fidgeting,” I muttered defensively.
Dante arched a brow, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What is it?” he asked, his voice softer now but still edged with authority.
I hesitated, my teeth catching my bottom lip. I wasn’t sure if I should say anything. But the weight of the photo—the man—was too much to keep to myself. The longer I stayed silent, the heavier it felt.
“I saw something at the estate,” I said finally, my voice quieter than I intended.
Dante didn’t respond immediately, but I could feel his attention shift. He didn’t need to speak for me to know he was listening.
“A photo,” I continued, my words coming out slowly, carefully. “In one of the back hallways. It was old—black and white. A group shot.”
“And?” he said, his tone as steady and unreadable as ever.
“There was a man in it,” I said, my fingers curling in my lap again. “I think I’ve seen him before.”
Dante’s jaw tightened slightly, the only outward reaction he gave. “Where?”
“In the album,” I said, my pulse quickening. “The one I found in my father’s study. I’m sure he was in there, too.”
Dante’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles whitening just slightly. “The servant said his name was Matteo,” I added, glancing at him to gauge his reaction.
He didn’t look at me, but his expression darkened. “Matteo?”
I nodded. “That’s what he said. He said Matteo handled logistics for the family but retired a few years ago.”
“That’s not right,” Dante said, his voice low and firm. “Matteo is still with the family. He handles the financial side of things. He’s been with us for years.”
“Then who was the man in the photo?” I asked, my voice rising slightly. “Was there another Matteo?”
Dante shook his head, his brows furrowing. “Not that I can remember.”
I frowned, my mind racing as I tried to piece it together. “But if it’s not him, why would the servant say it was? Why would he lie?”
“I don’t know,” Dante said, his voice edged with frustration. “But I’ll find out.”
I studied him for a moment, my chest tightening at the sharpness in his tone. He wasn’t brushing me off—not this time. He was taking me seriously.
“Do you still have the album?” he asked suddenly, his gaze flicking to me briefly before returning to the road.
“Yes,” I said quickly. “It’s in my room.”
“Good,” Dante said, his voice softening just slightly. “When we get back, I want to see it.”
I nodded, my pulse quickening. For the first time all day, I felt like I wasn’t completely alone in this. Dante might not have all the answers, but at least he wasn’t dismissing me.
The rest of the drive passed in silence, but it wasn’t as suffocating as before. There was something else in the air now—something heavier, charged with unspoken questions and half-formed suspicions.
When we finally pulled into the underground garage beneath the penthouse, Dante killed the engine and turned to look at me. His dark eyes locked onto mine, steady and unyielding.
“Whatever this is,” he said, his voice low but firm, “we’ll figure it out.”
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat.
Because I believed him.
But that didn’t make the knot in my chest any easier to untangle.
For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know the truth.
But I couldn’t stop now.
Back at the penthouse, the silence wasn’t comforting.
It was heavy. Suffocating. The kind that wrapped around your throat and squeezed—slow and deliberate—until you either screamed or snapped.
I hadn’t done either. Not yet.
But I was close.
The moment we’d returned from the Conti estate, I’d gone straight to my room, the image of that photograph burned into my brain like a brand. The face. The smirk. The way he stood in the background like he didn’t matter—like he wasn’t watching everything.
But he had been. I knew it.
And now I couldn’t stop thinking about him. About what it meant. About how close I was to something that felt like an answer—but not quite.
I’d tried to distract myself. I’d tried to focus on the gala. The dress. The hair. The makeup. The performance.
But the truth was still there, gnawing at the edges of my mind like a splinter I couldn’t dig out.
I stared at myself in the mirror, sitting at the vanity Dante had installed in the corner of the bedroom. The lights around the mirror cast a soft glow over my skin, blurring the sharp edges of my thoughts but not enough to dull them completely.
My dress was a deep, midnight blue—almost black in the right light. It hugged my body like it had been poured on, the fabric smooth and cool against my skin. The neckline dipped low, scandalously low, and the slit up my thigh was just shy of indecent.
It was the kind of dress that said: I’m not here to be polite.
I was here to be seen.
My hair was swept up into a sleek twist, a few loose strands framing my face with practiced elegance. My makeup was sharp—winged liner, smoky eyes, a deep red lip that made me look like I’d bitten someone on the way out the door.
Maybe I had.
I stood, smoothing the fabric over my hips, and slipped into my heels—black stilettos with gold accents that matched the delicate chain around my neck and the thin bracelets stacked on my wrist.
I looked like a woman who belonged in Dante Conti’s world.
I wasn’t sure if that made me proud or sick.
A knock at the door pulled me from my thoughts.
“Emilia.”
Dante’s voice was low, steady, and far too calm for the storm raging inside me.
I didn’t respond immediately, my eyes flicking to the door in the mirror’s reflection. His silhouette was faintly visible through the frosted glass, tall and immovable.
I exhaled slowly, forcing myself to relax my grip on the vanity. “What?”
“We need to leave soon,” he said, his tone neutral but threaded with that unmistakable edge of authority he carried everywhere. “Are you ready?”
I let out a soft laugh, shaking my head as I turned back to the mirror. “Depends on your definition of ‘ready.’”
There was a pause, long enough for me to picture the slight narrowing of his eyes, the way his jaw would tighten at my sarcasm.
“Open the door, Emilia.”
I hesitated, my fingers brushing over the edge of the vanity before I stood, smoothing the fabric of my dress. The weight of the photo still lingered in the back of my mind, but I pushed it down, burying it beneath the layers of silk and defiance I’d wrapped myself in.
When I opened the door, Dante’s gaze swept over me, his dark eyes dragging over every inch of the dress, the hair, the makeup.
For a moment, he didn’t say anything.
Then, his lips curved into a faint smirk, the kind that made my heart skip for all the wrong reasons.
“You look…” He paused, his eyes meeting mine. “Dangerous.”
I arched a brow, stepping past him into the hallway. “Good.”
His hand found the small of my back as I moved, the heat of his touch bleeding through the fabric like a brand.
“Do you plan on behaving tonight?” he asked, his voice low, teasing.
I glanced at him over my shoulder, my lips curving into a slow, deliberate smile. “Not a chance.”
His smirk deepened, his fingers pressing slightly against my back as he guided me toward the elevator. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
I took the chance to look him over. He looked like sin.
A black Armani suit tailored within an inch of its life hugged his frame, the crisp white shirt beneath it open just enough at the collar to hint at danger. His dark hair was slicked back, sharp and clean, and his jaw was freshly shaven, the kind of detail that said he cared—but only when it suited him.
But it wasn’t the suit or the hair or the way he stood like he owned the world that made my breath catch.
It was the watch.
The one I’d stolen from him, once upon a time. The one I’d slipped into my bag like a secret. The one he’d taken back without a word, without accusation.
It was on his wrist now, gleaming beneath the cuff of his jacket like a dare.
I smirked, stepping closer. “Nice watch.”
His eyes flicked to mine, dark and unreadable. “Yes,” he said flatly. “I’ll have to keep an eye on it tonight.”
I laughed, low and amused. “Afraid I’ll steal it again?”
He stepped toward me, closing the distance between us in two slow strides. “No,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Afraid you’ll make me want to give it to you.”
My breath hitched.
He didn’t touch me—but he didn’t have to. His presence alone was enough to make my pulse spike, to make my skin burn beneath the silk of my dress.
“You look…” He trailed off, his gaze sweeping over me like a caress. “Like trouble—the kind that no one sees coming until it’s too late.”
I tilted my head, letting my lips curl into a slow smile. “Good.”
His mouth twitched, like he wanted to say something else—something darker—but he didn’t. He just held out his hand.
“Ready?”
I hesitated, just for a second.
Because I wasn’t. Not really.
I wasn’t ready to play the part of the perfect wife. I wasn’t ready to smile and nod and pretend I didn’t have a thousand questions clawing at the inside of my skull. I wasn’t ready to pretend that everything was fine when I knew—deep in my bones—that it wasn’t.
But I took his hand anyway.
Because I was Emilia Conti now.
And pretending was part of the job.
His fingers curled around mine, warm and firm, and he led me out of the penthouse without another word.
The elevator ride was silent, but charged. His thumb brushed against the back of my hand once, twice, and I hated how easily that small touch unraveled me.
We stepped into the waiting car, the driver already holding the door open. Dante helped me in like a gentleman—like he hadn’t just threatened to ruin me against the nearest wall last night—and slid in beside me.
The door shut with a soft thud, sealing us in.
The city blurred past the windows as we drove, the lights streaking like stars falling sideways. Dante sat beside me, his thigh brushing mine, his hand resting casually on his knee.
I could feel him watching me.
I turned to face him, arching a brow. “What?”
His lips curved, slow and dangerous. “You’re quiet.”
I shrugged, looking out the window again. “Just thinking.”
“About the gala?”
“About the man in the photo,” I said, my voice low.
Dante didn’t respond right away.
Then: “You think he’s the one?”
“I think he’s involved,” I said. “I think he’s been hiding in plain sight for a long time.”
Dante exhaled, his gaze flicking to the window. “Then we’ll find him.”
I turned back to him. “And when we do?”
His jaw tightened. “He’ll wish we hadn’t.”
I didn’t doubt it.
We fell into silence again, but it wasn’t the same as before. It was heavier now. Weighted with everything we weren’t saying.
The car slowed as we approached the venue—a sprawling estate just outside the city, lit up like a palace. The driveway was lined with luxury cars and photographers, the kind of scene that made my stomach twist.
Dante reached for the door, then paused.
He turned to me, his expression unreadable. “You look beautiful.”
I blinked, caught off guard. “Thank you.”
His gaze lingered on mine. “But if anyone touches you tonight, I’ll break their hands.”
I smirked. “Jealous?”
He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Possessive.”
And then he was out of the car, rounding it to open my door like the perfect gentleman he wasn’t.
I stepped out, the cameras flashing, the crowd murmuring.
And Dante?
He slipped his hand around my waist, pulling me close.
Like he was making a statement.
Like he was saying: She’s mine.
And I let him.
Because tonight, I was.
But tomorrow?
Tomorrow, I’d find the man in the photograph.
And when I did?
Everything would change.