Chapter 26
26
DANTE
S he tugged on my sleeve.
Not hard. Not panicked. But enough.
Enough to make my pulse spike, to make every muscle in my body lock tight like I’d just heard the safety click off a gun aimed at my skull.
I turned to her, and the second I saw her face—pale, lips pressed tight, eyes wide and unfocused—I knew something was wrong.
Not wrong like she’d spilled wine on her dress or someone had made a snide comment about her being the new Conti wife.
Wrong like danger.
Wrong like blood.
My mind went there instantly—because that’s what it does. It doesn’t wait for facts. It doesn’t ask questions. It jumps straight to the worst-case scenario and prepares to kill whoever’s responsible.
“Emilia,” I said, my voice low, sharp. “What happened?”
She shook her head, but it was too quick. Too forced. “I need to talk to you. Alone.”
I didn’t like the way she said it. Didn’t like the way her fingers were trembling slightly, even as she tried to hide it by curling them into her palm.
My body shifted instinctively, stepping closer to her, shielding her from the crowd without even thinking. My hand found her waist, grounding her—or maybe grounding me.
“Did someone touch you?” I asked, my voice dropping to something darker, something lethal. “Did someone say something to you?”
Her eyes snapped to mine, startled. “No—Dante, no one hurt me.”
I didn’t believe her. Not yet. Not until I saw her whole. Not until I knew exactly what the fuck had her looking like she’d just seen a ghost.
“Then what?” I demanded, already scanning the room, looking for threats. My hand tightened at the small of her back, steering her through the crowd, away from the stage, away from the stares, toward the edge of the ballroom where the shadows were thicker and the noise thinned.
She hesitated, her heels clicking unevenly against the marble as I guided her. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, and I could see the war happening behind her eyes—whatever she was about to tell me, it wasn’t easy.
“It’s the man in the photo,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “The one in the hallway at the estate. The one the servant said was Matteo.”
I stopped walking.
The ballroom noise swelled around us—laughter, clinking glasses, the hollow echo of too many people pretending to care about charity—but all of it faded beneath the pounding of my pulse.
“What about him?” I asked, my voice low and tight.
She looked up at me, her eyes wide, glassy. “It’s not Matteo.”
I stared at her. “What do you mean it’s not Matteo?”
“I mean the servant was wrong,” she said, her voice gaining strength now, like she’d been holding this in too long and it was finally clawing its way out. “I recognized him. Not from the estate. From the album. From my father’s office. He was there the day I was given the wrong paperwork.”
I felt my stomach drop.
Not in fear.
In rage.
Because I knew what she meant. I knew exactly what she was saying. And I didn’t want to believe it.
But then?—
“Emilia,” a voice called out behind us, smooth and familiar.
I turned.
Rocco.
Of course.
His smile was easy, charming even, but his eyes—his eyes were too focused on her. Too knowing. Like he’d been watching her for longer than I liked.
“There you are,” he said, stepping closer. “I was looking for you. Wanted to introduce you to a few people.”
He reached out, casually, like he had every right to touch her.
I stepped between them.
“Not tonight,” I said, my voice flat, final.
Rocco’s hand paused mid-air, then lowered slowly. His smile didn’t falter, but I saw the flicker of something behind it. Annoyance. Maybe something darker.
“She looked a little lost,” he said, his gaze flicking past me to Emilia. “Thought I’d help.”
“She’s not lost,” I said, my tone like ice. “She was with me.”
Rocco’s smile didn’t falter, but it thinned at the edges, like it was hanging on by a thread. “Of course.”
I didn’t move. Neither did he. My body coiled tight, ready to snap the second he gave me a reason.
The air between us stretched tight, taut as wire.
Then I felt Emilia’s hand on my arm, light but deliberate.
“We were just leaving,” I said, not taking my eyes off Rocco. “Excuse us.”
I didn’t wait for a respons, my hand finding Emilia’s again, and I led her through the crowd without another word. I turned, guiding Emilia away with a firm hand at her back. My grip wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t meant to be. I needed her out of that room. Now.
She didn’t say anything.
But I could feel the tension radiating off her like heat.
We moved quickly, weaving through the ballroom like ghosts, ignoring the curious glances and polite nods. I didn’t stop until we hit the foyer, where the air was cooler, quieter. I snapped my fingers at the valet, and the kid—barely out of high school—jumped like I’d fired a gun in his direction.
“Car,” I said. “Now.”
He nodded and ran.
Emilia stood beside me, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her shoulders hunched like she was trying to make herself smaller.
I stepped close, lowering my voice. “What the fuck was that?”
She didn’t answer right away. Her gaze was fixed on the ground, her lashes casting shadows against her cheeks.
I turned to Emilia, my hand still on her waist.
“Don’t say anything yet,” I told her. “Not until we’re in the car.”
She nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line.
I didn’t like this.
I didn’t like any of it.
The car pulled up seconds later, sleek and black and blessedly quiet. I opened the door and helped her in, then slid in beside her and shut the door with a solid thud.
The second the car pulled away from the curb, I turned to her.
“Now,” I said. “Tell me.”
She didn’t look at me. Not at first.
Her hands were folded in her lap, her fingers twisting the edge of her clutch. When she finally spoke, her voice was low. Steady. But I could hear the tremor beneath it.
“It’s Rocco,” she said.
My blood went cold.
“What about him?”
“He’s the man in the photo,” she said. “The one from the hallway. The one in the album. The one who was in my father’s office the day I was given the wrong paperwork.”
I stared at her.
I stared at her.
My brain didn’t want to believe it.
But my gut?
My gut had already known.
“I’m sure,” she said, her voice stronger now. “I didn’t recognize him at first. But when I saw him tonight—when he came up to me—I knew. I knew it was him.”
I leaned back against the seat, my jaw clenched so tight it ached.
“I’m sure,” she said, finally meeting my eyes. “Dante, I’m one hundred percent sure. It’s him.”
I didn’t speak.
Couldn’t.
Because every piece that had been floating in the air—every suspicion, every unanswered question—just slammed into place.
Rocco.
My cousin.
My blood.
I turned my gaze to the window, but I wasn’t seeing the city anymore.
I was seeing him.
Smiling. Charming. Always in the background. Always just close enough to be useful, but never close enough to be watched.
And now?
Now he was the fucking ghost in the machine.
I exhaled slowly, my breath fogging the window.
“Dante,” Emilia said, her voice softer now. “I didn’t know until tonight. I swear. But when I saw him—when he spoke to me—I knew. It was the way he looked at me. Like he remembered, too.”
I turned back to her, my voice low. “Did he say anything?”
“No,” she said. “Not directly. But it was there. In his eyes. Like he was waiting for me to figure it out.”
I looked at her, and for a moment, I couldn’t speak.
“He trained me,” Emilia said, her voice quieter now. “When I was learning the books. The codes. He was there. He knew everything.”
Because I knew what that meant.
He hadn’t just been watching.
He’d been planning.
He’d used her.
He’d used her to get to the money. To cover his tracks. To play all of us like fucking fools.
And I’d let him.
Worse—I’d fallen for it. I’d hurt her because of it. I’d looked her in the eyes and accused her of betraying me when all along, it was him. My blood. My family. My mistake.
I had hurt her.
I had?—
“Dante,” she said softly, reaching for my hand. “Say something.”
I looked down at our hands, her fingers curled around mine. Small. Warm. Unshaking.
She was the only thing in my life that didn’t feel like a lie right now.
“I’m going to kill him,” I said, my voice low and calm.
She didn’t flinch.
“I’m going to make him tell me everything,” I continued, my gaze fixed on the window, the city lights blurring past. “And then I’m going to bury him so deep no one will ever find him.”
Silence stretched between us.
Then, softly:
“I believe you.”
Her voice was soft, steady, but it hit me like a hammer to the chest.
I turned to her, and there it was—this fragile, unshakable truth in her eyes. She believed me.
“I believe you.”
And that—God help me—that did something to me.
Not the kind of thing that made you breathe easier. Not the kind of thing that soothed the rage clawing through your chest. No. It cracked something open. Something raw. Something I didn’t even realize I’d buried under years of control and calculation.
I turned to her fully, my hand still wrapped around hers, and for the first time in what felt like hours, I really looked at her.
Her chest rose and fell, steady but deliberate, like she was forcing herself to stay calm. I could see it—how the tension coiled in her shoulders, how she was holding herself together with nothing but sheer will. And somehow, even now, she was the strongest person in the room.
But underneath all that—beneath the fear, the adrenaline, the exhaustion—was trust.
She trusted me.
After everything.
After the accusations. After the silence. After the way I’d made her feel like a suspect instead of a partner.
She still believed in me.
And I didn’t deserve it.
I didn’t say a word. I just reached for her, cupping her jaw with one hand, my thumb brushing along the soft curve of her cheek. Her skin was warm beneath my touch, her pulse fluttering just beneath the surface.
She didn’t pull away.
She leaned into me.
And that was all I needed.
Like I was trying to drown everything I couldn’t say—the fury, the guilt, the cold, hollow ache of betrayal—in the heat of her lips. Her mouth opened beneath mine, and she kissed me back with the same fire, the same urgency, like she knew I was unraveling and she was the only thing holding me together.
Her fingers fisted in my jacket, pulling me closer, anchoring me to her, and I clung to that like it was the only thing keeping me from breaking apart completely. Maybe it was.
The kiss wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was messy and raw, full of all the things we’d left unsaid and all the things we couldn’t take back. Her breath hitched when I deepened it, my hand slipping to the back of her neck, holding her in place like I couldn’t bear the thought of letting go.
Because I couldn’t.
Not now.
Not ever.
When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing hard, our foreheads pressed together, the space between us charged and electric.
“I’m sorry,” I said, the words rough and low against her mouth.
She blinked, her brows drawing together. “For what?”
“For not seeing it sooner. For not protecting you from him. For not believing you.”
Her fingers brushed my jaw, soft and tentative. “You believe me now.”
I nodded, my voice thick. “Yeah. I do.”
She exhaled slowly, her breath ghosting across my lips. “Then that’s all that matters.”
I wanted to say more. I wanted to tell her that I’d burn the world down for her. That I’d tear Rocco apart with my bare hands. That I’d never let anyone use her again. But the words got stuck somewhere in my throat, tangled up in the weight of everything we’d just uncovered.
So I kissed her again instead.
Softer this time.
Slower.
Like a promise.
When I pulled back, her eyes were still closed, her lips swollen, her breath shallow.
“We’ll go home,” I said, my voice low. “We’ll go home, and tomorrow, I’ll start pulling every thread. Rocco won’t see it coming.”
She opened her eyes, and there was something fierce in them now. Something sharp.
“I want to help.”
I stared at her.
“You already have,” I said. “You saw him when no one else did. You remembered. You put the pieces together.”
“That’s not enough,” she said. “I want to be there when it happens. When you confront him. When he realizes he’s not invisible anymore.”
I studied her for a long moment, the fire in her eyes, the set of her jaw. She wasn’t asking for permission. She was telling me.
And I’d be a fool to deny her.
“Okay,” I said. “You’ll be there.”
She nodded, her fingers still tangled in my jacket.
The car turned a corner, the city lights flickering through the windows like stars falling sideways. The world outside kept moving, oblivious to the storm we were about to unleash.
But inside the car, it was just us.
Her hand in mine.
My heart pounding like a war drum.
And the knowledge that everything was about to change.
Because now we had a name.
Now we had a face.
And Rocco Conti had no idea what was coming for him.