Chapter 35
35
EMILIA
R occo’s estate was quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that soothed you—it was the kind that made your skin itch. The kind that settled over your shoulders like a heavy cloak, whispering that something was always watching, always waiting. The halls were too wide, the ceilings too high, and the air too still, like the house itself hadn’t realized its master was dead.
Dante moved through it like he owned it.
Because technically, he did.
As the head of the organization, everything Rocco had once claimed—his money, his territory, his estate—now belonged to Dante. And while he didn’t care for the property, didn’t want the sprawling villa with its cold marble floors and hollow echoes, he was here to settle the accounts. Tie up loose ends. Hand the place off to some distant cousin who hadn’t betrayed the family and hoped to God they didn’t have the same rot in their blood.
I respected it. I respected him.
But I was also going insane.
I’d been pacing the estate for hours, barefoot on polished floors, wandering through rooms that smelled like old cologne and expensive regret. I’d read half a book, started and abandoned a puzzle, and even tried organizing the liquor cabinet before realizing that was probably a cry for help.
I needed out.
Not permanently. Not even far. Just… out.
The estate was surrounded by high stone walls and acres of land, but Dante wouldn’t let me past the gates. Not without an escort. Not without a car full of armed men. And apparently, none of them were available today.
Convenient.
I found him in the study, sleeves rolled up, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as he reviewed documents that probably had more zeroes than I wanted to think about. He looked up when I entered, his expression unreadable.
“I want to go for a walk,” I said, keeping my tone light. “Just into town. Or even just beyond the gates. I’ll stay close.”
He didn’t even blink. “No.”
I blinked. “No?”
He set his pen down. “It’s not safe.”
“I’m not asking to go clubbing in Moscow, Dante. I just want to breathe air that hasn’t been filtered through a chandelier.”
He looked at me for a long moment. “None of the men are free to go with you. And I’m not leaving the estate until this is handled.”
I crossed my arms. “So I’m a prisoner again.”
“You’re protected.”
I laughed, but it came out wrong—sharp and bitter. “Right. Protected. Like a glass doll on a shelf.”
His jaw ticked. “Emilia?—”
“Forget it,” I said, already turning. “I’ll go walk in circles around the fountain like a good little wife.”
I left before he could say anything else.
The gardens behind the estate were overgrown in places, wild and beautiful in a way that felt almost defiant. I followed the path around the perimeter, past the crumbling stone benches and the faded statues that looked like they were judging me. Eventually, I found myself near the chapel.
It was small, tucked into the far corner of the property, half-hidden by ivy and age. The wooden doors creaked when I pushed them open, and the scent of old incense and dust hit me like a memory I didn’t have.
The space was dim, lit only by the stained glass windows that filtered the sunlight into fractured rainbows. The pews were worn, the altar simple. It was quiet in a way the rest of the estate wasn’t.
I stepped inside.
“Signora?”
I turned to find an older man standing near the side entrance, a rake in one hand and a pair of gardening gloves in the other. He looked startled to see me.
“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
He smiled. “Not at all. It’s rare anyone comes here anymore.”
I walked toward him slowly. “You work the grounds?”
“For thirty years,” he said proudly. “Since before Rocco inherited the estate.”
I glanced around. “It’s beautiful. Peaceful.”
He nodded. “It was built by Dante’s great-grandfather. The chapel was meant to be a sanctuary. And a secret.”
I tilted my head. “A secret?”
He hesitated, then leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “There’s a passage beneath the altar. A tunnel. Built during the war. In case the family ever needed to escape.”
My heart skipped. “A tunnel?”
He nodded. “Leads out into the woods behind the estate. It hasn’t been used in decades, but it’s still there.”
I tried to keep my voice even. “Could I see it?”
He looked uncertain. “It’s not really?—”
“Just for a moment,” I said, stepping closer. “Please.”
He hesitated, then sighed. “Very well.”
He led me to the altar with slow, careful steps, like the chapel itself might wake up and scold us. The floor creaked beneath our feet, the sound swallowed by the thick stone walls and the dust-laced silence. I followed him behind the altar, where a simple wooden platform sat flush against the floor. At first glance, it looked like nothing—just part of the structure. But then he crouched and pressed his hand against one of the carved panels.
There was a soft click.
The panel shifted, revealing a narrow seam in the floor.
He glanced up at me, his voice low. “Help me slide it.”
Together, we pushed the altar aside. It groaned in protest, the wood scraping against the stone. Beneath it, a trapdoor was embedded in the floor—old, weathered, and ringed with iron.
He reached down and pulled it open.
The smell hit me first—damp earth, mildew, and something older. The scent of secrets. Of escape.
A narrow tunnel yawned beneath us, the stone walls slick with condensation. A rusted ladder descended into the darkness, swallowed by shadow after only a few rungs.
I stared down into it, my heart thudding.
“It still leads out?” I asked.
He nodded. “Through the woods. About a mile past the tree line, there’s a stone outcropping. Hidden by brambles. That’s the exit.”
I crouched beside the opening, peering into the gloom. “Has anyone used it recently?”
He shook his head. “Not since the last war. But it’s still sound.”
I hesitated.
Then I turned to him. “Can you give me a moment?”
He blinked. “Signora?”
“I just want to look. Alone.”
He looked torn, but after a beat, he nodded. “As you wish. I have some rose bushes to tend do anyhow.”
When the door creaked shut behind him, I sat on the edge of the opening and lowered myself onto the ladder.
The metal was cold beneath my hands, slick with condensation. I descended slowly, my breath echoing off the narrow walls. My phone’s flashlight cast a pale beam ahead of me, illuminating the tunnel’s uneven stone floor and the low ceiling that forced me to crouch.
It was narrow. Cramped. But it was real.
Freedom, carved into the earth.
I didn’t go far—just enough to feel the weight of the estate fall away above me. Just enough to know that if I wanted to, I could disappear.
I could be gone before Dante even noticed.
The thought made my stomach twist.
I climbed back up, my hands dirty, my heart racing. I closed the trapdoor and wiped my palms on my thighs, trying to steady myself. The altar was heavier than I remembered, but I managed to push it back into place just as the chapel door creaked open again.
Dante stepped inside.
My breath caught.
He wasn’t in a suit. Just a black t-shirt and dark jeans, his hair tousled, his jaw shadowed with stubble. Casual. Dangerous. Beautiful.
He stopped just inside the threshold, his eyes locking onto mine.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, voice low.
I straightened, brushing dust off my hands. “Just… walking.”
He stepped closer. “In the chapel?”
“It’s quiet,” I said, too quickly. “Peaceful.”
His gaze narrowed. “You look flushed.”
“It’s warm.”
“It’s stone and shadow.”
I swallowed.
He kept walking until he was in front of me, his body blocking the light from the stained glass behind him. He looked down at me like he could see through my skin.
“You’re hiding something,” he said softly.
I shook my head. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
He stepped closer. I backed up until the altar pressed against the backs of my thighs.
“You came all the way out here,” he murmured, “alone. Without telling me.”
“I needed air.”
“You needed space,” he corrected. “From me.”
I didn’t answer.
He leaned in, his hands bracing on the altar behind me, caging me in. “You think I don’t notice when you’re restless? When you start pacing like a caged animal?”
“I’m not a prisoner,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended.
“No,” he agreed. “You’re my wife.”
He dipped his head, his mouth brushing my jaw. “Which means when you sneak off to a chapel in the far corner of a dead man’s estate, I notice.”
I shivered.
“Did you come here to pray?” he asked, lips ghosting over my throat. “Or were you hoping I’d find you?”
“I didn’t think you’d come.”
He chuckled, low and dark. “You should know better by now.”
His hands slid to my hips, pulling me forward until I was perched on the edge of the altar. The cold stone pressed into the backs of my thighs, but it didn’t matter. Nothing did. Not when his touch burned hotter than the guilt coiling in my chest.
I shouldn’t have been here. Not like this.
The altar felt wrong beneath me, and yet that wrongness only made it feel more electric. Sacred space, desecrated by the way he touched me. My breath hitched as his fingers brushed the hem of my dress, his hands sliding beneath to push it higher.
I should’ve stopped him. I should’ve told him.
That I’d found the tunnel. That I’d climbed down into the shadows with my heart pounding and the taste of freedom on my tongue. That I was planning to use it.
But then his mouth found my throat, hot and unrelenting, and every thought I’d carried into this chapel dissolved into nothing.
I didn’t push him away.
I tilted my head back, exposing my neck, letting him take.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured, his lips brushing the words into my skin.
“I’m cold,” I lied, the words breaking apart on my tongue.
His laugh was low, dark, curling through the empty space like smoke. “Liar,” he said, his voice rough but amused. “You’re trembling because you know this is wrong.”
I swallowed hard as his hands skimmed up my thighs, deliberate and unyielding. The stained glass above us cast fractured light across his face, softening nothing. His eyes burned into mine as he leaned closer, his breath hot against my lips.
“This is a chapel,” I whispered, my voice faltering as my fingers gripped the edge of the altar.
He pulled back just enough to look at me, his dark eyes blazing with something dangerous. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, sharp and unrepentant. “Then let it witness,” he said, his tone low and devastating. “Let it witness how you fall apart for me.”
My breath caught as his fingers found me, teasing and testing, his touch maddeningly precise.
“Dante,” I gasped, his name spilling from my lips like a confession.
“Say it again,” he growled, his voice rough, commanding.
“Dante—oh my God?—”
He stilled, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “No, Emilia,” he murmured, his tone dark and reverent. “Don’t you dare waste your prayers on anyone else. Not when I’m the one answering them.”
The words sent a shiver through me, and I moaned, my body arching into him as his fingers moved again, relentless and unyielding. Every stroke was a sin, every touch a reminder that I wasn’t just breaking—I was choosing to break.
“Look at me,” he ordered, his voice like gravel, his free hand gripping my thigh to hold me steady. “I want to see it. I want to watch you worship me.”
The words hit me like a lightning strike, and I shattered, my whole body trembling as his name tore from my lips. My head fell back, my nails scraping the stone, my mind going blank as wave after wave of pleasure tore through me.
When it was over, when I finally came back to myself, he was still holding me. His arms steady, his breath warm against my ear as the aftershocks left me trembling in his grasp.
“You should feel guilty,” he murmured, his lips brushing my temple. “But you don’t, do you?”
I swallowed hard, my chest heaving, unable to speak.
He pulled back, his thumb brushing over my cheek as he tilted my chin up. His gaze locked with mine, dark and unrelenting. “You don’t feel guilty,” he said softly, his voice deadly calm, “because you know this is exactly where you belong.”
When I finally opened my eyes, he was watching me.
Not with lust.
With something else.
Something dangerous.
Something real.
“I’ll always keep you safe,” he said softly, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “Even from yourself.”
I swallowed hard, guilt coiling in my stomach like a snake.
Because I hadn’t told him.
Because I was still planning to leave.
Not forever. Not even for long.
Just… enough.
Enough to remember who I was before all this.
Before him.
I slid off the altar, my legs still shaky, and smoothed my dress down with trembling hands.
Dante watched me, his expression unreadable.
“You came out here for a reason,” he said quietly.
I nodded. “I needed to breathe.”
“And did you?”
I met his gaze. “Not yet.”
He stepped forward, brushing his thumb over my lower lip. “Then let me help you.”
I smiled, but it didn’t reach my eyes.
Because the truth was, I didn’t need his help.
I needed space.
I needed freedom.
And now I had a way to get it.
That night, when he was asleep beside me—his arm draped over my waist, his breath warm against the back of my neck—I lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
Thinking about the tunnel.
Thinking about the woods.
Thinking about what it would feel like to walk out of this life, even just for a little while.
Not because I didn’t love him.
But because I did.
And loving Dante Conti meant losing pieces of myself, one by one.
I wasn’t ready to give them all away.
Not yet.
So I closed my eyes and made a plan.
Tomorrow night, I’d go.
Just for a few hours.
Just long enough to remember who I was before I became his.
And maybe—just maybe—I’d come back stronger.
Or maybe I wouldn’t come back at all.