Chapter 31
31
EMILIA
T he morning light spilled through the penthouse windows in soft, golden streaks, casting long shadows across the hardwood floors. I sat at the kitchen island, a steaming mug of coffee cradled between my hands, still wearing one of Dante’s black button-downs from the night before. It hung off my shoulders, the sleeves rolled up to my elbows, the hem brushing the tops of my thighs.
He stood across from me, leaning against the counter, shirtless, his dark slacks hanging low on his hips, his hair still damp from the shower. He looked like a painting—something carved out of marble and sin. And yet, there was a tension in his shoulders, a heaviness in the line of his jaw that told me the weight of last night hadn’t left him.
I took a sip of coffee, letting the silence stretch between us. It wasn’t uncomfortable. Not anymore. It was the kind of silence that came after a storm—thick with the knowledge that something had shifted, but neither of us was quite ready to name it.
Finally, he spoke.
“Valentina confirmed it,” he said, his voice low and rough from sleep—or from everything else. “Rocco’s been working with the Russians.”
I set my mug down slowly. “You’re sure?”
He nodded, pushing off the counter and walking toward me. “She traced the money. It passed through a series of shell companies tied to Romanov’s network. Rocco’s name never appears, but the fingerprints are there. The timing. The amounts. The accounts. It’s him.”
I swallowed hard, my fingers curling around the edge of the marble.
“And Valentina?” I asked. “She’s sure?”
Dante’s jaw ticked. “She’s sure. But she’s also too close to this.”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
He exhaled, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Her ex-boyfriend is Nikolai Romanov.”
My brows lifted. “As in… Aleksander’s brother?”
He nodded once. “Yeah.”
“Oh,” I said, blinking. “That’s… complicated.”
His mouth twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “You could say that.”
I watched him carefully, trying to read the tension in his body, the way his eyes darkened when he said her name.
“You think she’s compromised?” I asked.
“No,” he said quickly. “But I think she’s emotional. And that makes her unpredictable. She was in love with him,” his voice quieter now. “With Nikolai. They were forbidden from being together. Different families. Different alliances. It was never going to work.”
“But you were engaged once upon a time,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
He met my eyes. “I don’t marry women who love other men.”
I blinked. “So you knew?”
He nodded. “Eventually. She never said it, but I knew. And that's why I ended it.”
I looked away, my gaze falling to the countertop. “But you still trust her?”
“I trust her to get the job done,” he said. “But I don’t trust the Russians. And I don’t trust anyone who’s ever loved one of them.”
I looked back at him then, and something in his expression shifted. The tension in his jaw eased. The hardness in his eyes softened.
“But I trust you,” he said.
I froze.
He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to brush a strand of hair from my face. “I trust you, Emilia. With this. With me.”
My breath caught in my throat.
“I know I haven’t made it easy,” he said, his voice low, rough. “I know I’ve given you every reason to doubt me. But I need you to know something.”
I nodded slowly. “Okay.”
He cupped my face in his hands, his thumbs brushing over my cheeks. “I know what it's looked like in the past... I’ve never cheated on a woman. Not once. Not ever. And I wouldn’t start with my wife. You're mine and I am yours. She’s a tool. A resource. Nothing more.”
I stared at him, my heart pounding so loud I was sure he could hear it. I swallowed hard. “Okay.”
He leaned in, his forehead resting against mine. “You believe me?”
I nodded. “Yeah. I do.”
He exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding that breath for hours. Maybe days.
And then he said it.
“I love you.”
The words hit me like a punch to the chest.
I pulled back just enough to look at him, my eyes wide. “What?”
“I love you,” he repeated, his voice steady now. “I’ve loved you for a long time.”
I stared at him, my mind racing, my heart stumbling over itself.
“How long?” I asked, my voice barely audible.
He smiled, just slightly. “Since I chauffeured you around.”
I blinked. “What?”
He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Back before all this. Before the marriage. Before the money. When you were just the sharp-tongued daughter of a man I didn’t trust. Driving you around for Adrianna's wedding and your errands, you spent the entire ride complaining about the music and threatening to jump out of the car.”
I flushed. “I did not.”
He grinned. "You practically did, but that was the moment I knew you were going to be a problem.”
I raised a brow. “A problem?”
He nodded. “The kind I couldn’t stop thinking about.”
I laughed, the sound shaky. “So you’ve just… been in love with me this whole time?”
He shrugged. I stared at him, my chest tight.
“You should’ve told me,” I said softly.
“I couldn’t,” he said. “Not until I was sure.”
“And now?”
He leaned in, his mouth brushing mine. “Now I’m sure.”
I kissed him then—slow and deep and full of everything I hadn’t said yet.
Because I loved him too.
Even if I hadn’t admitted it yet.
Even if I wasn’t ready to say the words.
I loved him.
And I was his.
Completely.
Irrevocably.
And maybe that was the most dangerous part of all.
I didn’t say it back.
Not because I didn’t feel it—God, I felt it. I felt it in the way my chest tightened when he looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered. I felt it in the way he said my name, low and reverent, like it was a prayer he didn’t deserve to speak. I felt it in the way he touched me—possessive, tender, like I was something he’d bled for.
But the words sat heavy on my tongue, too big, too dangerous to set free.
Because once I said them, there’d be no going back.
And I wasn’t sure I’d survive loving Dante Conti out loud.
He didn’t press me. Of course he didn’t. He just kissed me again, slow and sure, like he already knew. Like he’d waited this long, and he could wait a little longer.
But I saw the flicker of something in his eyes when he pulled back. Not disappointment. Not exactly. Just… hope. Quiet and patient and terrifying in its own right.
I stood in the kitchen long after he left the room, my fingers still curled around the edge of the marble counter, my heart thudding like it was trying to break free of my ribs.
He loved me.
He’d said it. Out loud. Like it was nothing. Like it was everything.
And I hadn’t said it back.
I wasn’t sure if that made me brave or a coward.
?
I found him in his office later, sleeves rolled up, tie discarded, shirt half-unbuttoned like he’d started to get dressed and then decided it wasn’t worth the effort. He was leaning over his desk, fingers tapping against the edge of a file folder, his expression unreadable.
He didn’t look up when I stepped inside.
“You’re quiet,” he said, his voice even.
“I’m thinking,” I replied.
He glanced at me then, one brow lifting. “Dangerous.”
I walked to the desk and perched on the edge, crossing my legs slowly, deliberately. “You’re one to talk.”
He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Fair.”
I watched him for a moment, the way his jaw clenched, the way his fingers curled into fists when he thought no one was looking.
“You’re still thinking about Rocco,” I said.
He didn’t answer right away. Just nodded once, sharp and tight.
“I don’t understand how he could do this,” I said softly. “To you. To the family.”
Dante exhaled through his nose, the sound sharp. “He always wanted more. More power. More control. I just didn’t think he’d go this far.”
“Do you think it was always about the money?”
“No,” he said. “The money was just the beginning. The Russians want leverage. And Rocco gave it to them.”
I swallowed hard. “What are you going to do?”
He looked at me then, really looked at me. “I told you last night. I’m going to kill him.”
The words landed like a stone in my stomach.
Not because I didn’t believe him.
But because I did.
And because I wasn’t sure how to feel about that.
“Do you want me to say it’s okay?” I asked quietly.
“No,” he said. “I want you to understand why it has to happen.”
I nodded slowly. “I do.”
He stepped closer, his hands settling on my thighs, his touch grounding. “You’re not just my wife, Emilia. You’re part of this now. Whether you like it or not.”
“I know.”
He leaned in, his forehead resting against mine. “But I’ll protect you from as much of it as I can.”
I closed my eyes, breathing him in. “I don’t want you to protect me from the truth.”
He pulled back just enough to look at me. “Then here’s the truth: I’ve loved you since the first time you rolled your eyes at me in the backseat of my car.”
I laughed, the sound catching in my throat. “That was not my best moment.”
“It was mine,” he said, dead serious.
I blinked. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Hopelessly.”
I stared at him, my heart pounding.
And then I said it.
“I love you.”
His breath caught.
“I didn’t say it earlier,” I continued, my voice shaking. “Because I was scared. Because it felt too big. But I do. I love you, Dante.”
He didn’t say anything.
He just kissed me.
Hard.
Like he’d been waiting years for me to catch up.
When we finally pulled apart, he rested his hands on either side of me, caging me in.
“I’m going to marry you again,” he said.
I blinked. “We’re already married.”
He shook his head. “Not like that. Not in secret. Not in a courthouse. I want the whole thing. A dress. Vows. A room full of people who know exactly what it means when I say you’re mine.”
I stared at him, stunned.
“You’re serious,” I whispered.
“I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life.”
I swallowed hard. “Okay.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He smiled then—rare and real and devastating.
And I knew, in that moment, that whatever came next—whatever blood had to be spilled, whatever truths had to be faced—we’d face it together.
Because he was mine.
And I was his.
And nothing would ever change that.
Not even war.