Chapter 33
33
EMILIA
B usiness returned to whatever normal was for the Contis.
Which, in our case, meant no fresh blood on the marble floors, no gunfire over Sunday dinner, and no cousins executed in front of the cannoli tray. A low bar, sure, but one I was more than happy to clear.
The house was quiet that morning, the kind of quiet that didn’t feel like it was holding its breath. Just... still. Peaceful. I padded barefoot across the penthouse in one of Dante’s shirts—black, oversized, and still smelling faintly of him—and sipped my coffee while scrolling through the Starbucks website on my phone.
It was a ritual now. A little rebellion disguised as retail therapy.
I’d already added a new Paris mug to my cart. Then Tokyo. Then a limited-edition Halloween one with a ghost holding a latte. It was hideous. I loved it.
I was just about to check out when my phone buzzed.
Dante: Architect dropped off the new house plans. I’ll bring them home tonight.
I smiled, setting my coffee down and curling my legs beneath me on the couch.
Me: Is this the part where I pretend I’m shocked you’re actually building me a house?
Dante: You’re not shocked. You’re impressed .
Me: I am. I’m also thinking of rewarding you by spending more of your money .
Dante: I’m hard already .
I laughed, biting my lip as I typed.
Me: What should I buy next? Another mug? A matching set of espresso cups? A life-size marble statue of you for the garden?
Dante: Depends. Will you let me pose for it naked?
Me: Only if you let me keep it in the foyer.
Dante: Deal. But I want it anatomically correct.
Me: So... small?
Dante: You’re funny. You weren’t complaining last night when you were begging
Me: I was not begging .
Dante: You were whimpering. It was cute.
Me : You’re delusional.
Dante: You’re still wet from thinking about it, aren’t you?
I let out a strangled laugh and tossed my phone onto the couch, face-down, like that would somehow stop the heat crawling up my neck. It didn’t. The man had a gift for turning me into a puddle with nothing more than a few words and that damn smirk I could hear even through text.
I picked up my coffee again, taking a long sip to cool myself down—emotionally, not physically. That ship had sailed the second he mentioned posing naked for a statue.
The truth was, things had been… good.
Which was weird.
And unsettling.
And made me want to throw something, just to see if the universe would flinch.
But for the first time in weeks, there were no bodies to hide, no betrayals to uncover, no knives waiting in the dark. Just me, a penthouse that no longer felt like a prison, and a husband who alternated between being the most infuriating man alive and the only person who made me feel like I could breathe.
I glanced at the clock. Still hours until Dante got home.
Which meant I had time.
And I was bored.
A dangerous combination.
I picked up my phone again.
Me: I’m going out.
The reply came almost instantly.
Dante: No, you’re not.
Me: You don’t even know where I’m going.
Dante: Doesn’t matter.
Me: I could be going to the grocery store. Or the museum. Or to adopt a dog.
Dante: You’re going to the bar.
Me: …Maybe.
Dante: No .
Me: You’re not the boss of me.
Dante: Legally, I am.
Me: Ugh. You’re no fun.
Dante: I’m plenty of fun. You just have to stay home to enjoy it.
I rolled my eyes so hard I saw my past lives.
Me: Bye
Dante: Emilia.
Me: I’m putting on shoes. I’m walking to the elevator. I’m pressing the button.
Dante: If you leave that penthouse, I swear to God
Me: You’ll what? Spank me?
Pause.
Dante: Don’t threaten me with a good time.
I grinned.
Me: I’m leaving. I’m doing it. You can’t stop me.
Dante: Try me.
I stood from the couch, tossed my empty coffee mug into the sink, and grabbed my purse. I didn’t even bother changing. I was still wearing his shirt and a pair of black biker shorts, which I figured was a vibe. The “hot mafia wife sneaks out for a drink” aesthetic.
I slipped on my sneakers, pulled my hair into a messy bun, and headed for the elevator.
The second I stepped inside and the doors slid shut, my phone buzzed again.
Dante: You’re going to regret this.
I stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard, unsure how to respond.
So I didn’t.
I just smiled to myself and leaned against the elevator wall, watching the numbers tick down.
The bar was quiet this early in the afternoon. Dim lighting, a few regulars hunched over their drinks, and the bartender—Michael, a guy with a man bun and a tattoo of a koi fish that wrapped around his forearm—gave me a nod as I slid onto a stool.
“Back so soon?” he asked, pouring me a glass of white wine without waiting for me to order.
“Don’t judge me,” I said, accepting the glass.
He smirked. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
I sipped my wine and pulled out my phone, scrolling through Instagram, pretending I wasn’t waiting for Dante to show up and drag me home caveman-style.
Because he would.
He always did.
And I always let him.
I was halfway through a post about someone’s engagement ring (too big, too gaudy, definitely cursed) when I felt it.
The shift in the air.
The slow, deliberate weight of a presence behind me.
I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.