6. Dante
SIX
Dante
S he smelled like coffee and rain when I woke—bitter and clean—and my chest tightened the second I felt her curve against my side. Mirella's breath was slow, a soft animal sound at my throat. I kept my hand on her hip until she moved and I remembered how fragile the quiet was between us.
"You're up," she murmured, eyes still closed. Her hair had fallen free across the pillow, a dark fan. I watched the jawline, the pale crescent on her forearm catching the light. Dangerous was an understatement. Beautiful didn't fit either, but it did its job.
"Always," I said. My voice was smaller than I felt. She smiled, teeth flashing, then opened her eyes and pushed herself up on one elbow. The look she gave me had a calculation in it and something softer underneath.
"We need to go to the Villa later," she said. "Enzo's called a meeting."
I didn't need convincing. The family had questions.
My pulse picked up at the thought of her standing there under scrutiny.
I pictured those rooms, how eyes measured and punished.
For a second the old logic—staying distant to keep people safe—pulled like a muscle.
Then I met her gaze and something else overrode it.
"Then we'll go," I said. My hand brushed her bare shoulder. The skin was warm. I let my thumb linger. "Together."
She hummed, incredulous, pleased. "Bold. Reckless. My favorite."
Later, in the corridor outside the Villa offices, Lucia found us.
She moved out of the crowd like she belonged in the shadows and stepped into the light to grin at Mirella as if they'd shared jokes all their lives.
For a beat I watched Lucia's face fold open—soft, protective—and felt the foreignness of it sit right under my ribs: family had a softness; I had made a choice to keep it small.
"You're clean," Lucia said to Mirella in that low voice of hers. No fuss, no announcements. Just a smile that felt like forgiveness.
Mirella tipped her chin. "For now."
Lucia glanced at me and then at Mirella, the same old measuring eyes doing a different kind of math. She didn't speak to Enzo. She gave Mirella one more look—tiny, like a benediction—and then moved on. Her presence was a private warning and a promise both: we see you.
The hall swirled. Men in suits drifted through like slow boats. Enzo was waiting near the stairwell, expression flat. He didn't smile when he saw us. He did what he always did—held his posture like a question.
"You're back early," he said.
Mirella kept her guard high. "Enzo."
He fixed me with a look that tasted of accusation and old rules. "Don't bring problems to my halls," he told her. "Costa business does not mix with?—"
"—with trouble you attach to strangers?" Mirella cut in, blunt and amused. Her mouth tightened. I felt the warmth rise under my skin at the tone shaped to provoke.
Enzo's fingers rested on the lip of his glass. He considered us both. "You know what I mean."
I could have let it slide. I could have let her take it, let her absorb the hostility. Instead, I stepped forward and said his name.
"Enough."
Two words, rough and quiet. Enzo didn't blink. He expected me to say more, to bargain. I didn't want to bargain. I wanted the line drawn and the air cleared.
"She's not your problem," I said. My voice held something colder than I usually used with him. "She's mine."
Silence tightened. Enzo's mouth flattened. People shifted; conversation resumed around us like water rerouting.
"You understand the cost," Enzo said, low. "Associating with?—"
"Understand this better," I cut him off. My hand found the small scar on my knuckle without meaning to. "If anyone tries to disgrace her in these halls, they'll answer me. Not to you. To me."
Mirella's breath hitched. Lucia's eyes flicked to mine, surprised and small with appreciation. Enzo's jaw worked. For a moment I thought the room would split because I had used a family's law against them. That was the point.
"You'll regret that," Enzo said.
"Maybe," I said. "Maybe I'll make whoever regrets things regret harder."
It was a threat spoken in a whisper. Enzo left it there, unresolved. He turned away. The meeting began and we followed, but the corridor had shifted. I'd shown my hand. There was no leaving that card unplayed.
We came back to the penthouse after, exhausted and wired.
Mirella leaned against the kitchen counter and watched me peel an orange because something domestic and simple felt necessary—a small, human ritual to patch rough edges.
She was barefoot, one knee tucked against the cabinet, shirt half-unbuttoned.
My throat tightened at the sight of her ribs and hip and the casual strength in her stance.
"You're staring," she said.
"You wear my jacket better than anyone should," I answered, tossing the peel into the compost. My hands smelled of citrus and cut wood; the motion kept me steady.
She laughed, low. "Bold observation. Are you flirting with housekeeping standards now?"
"Maybe," I said. I set the orange down and crossed the distance.
Her breath warmed when I stopped in front of her.
I could see every tiny movement—her pulse at the throat, the lift of her collarbones.
Her scent rose in the small space: coffee, smoke, and a sweet edge I couldn't name. I wanted to memorize it.
My fingers came up to the shell of her cheek before I thought about it. The touch was deliberate, an ownership no one had claimed. Her eyes closed on it, lashes resting against that tired edge.
"Do you always do this?" she asked.
"Only with people I plan to keep," I said.
The kiss started as something testing boundaries.
My hand flattened at the small of her back, steadying.
Her mouth answered with blunt hunger, teeth and tongue and heat.
She tasted of citrus and dark coffee and danger.
For a beat we were reckless together—hands threading through hair, coats sliding, a press of bodies that grounded and burned.
It tipped over into urgent when she pressed her knee between mine and pulled me closer.
I pushed her gently back against the counter and she laughed against my mouth—soft—then harder.
The kitchen blurred into edges and the light threw strips across her face.
Her hands found my collar and worked the shirt open.
I found the hollow of her neck and inhaled.
I thought of the hallway, of Enzo's clipped threat, of Lucia's small smile.
Protection didn't feel like the thing I did when I kissed her; it felt like the reason.
We moved as if we'd rehearsed a thousand times.
Clothes slipped; the counter caught our weight.
She owned every inch of the moment with a sharp, grateful ferocity that made something in me unclench.
When she kissed me through a laugh, I bit gently at her lower lip, then let her go.
She steadied herself, breathless, and reached into her jacket pocket.
"I need to tell you something," she said, voice small.
"Then do," I said. My hands were on her hips. I could feel the map of muscle there, the strength that kept her alive.
She looked like she was deciding whether to hand me a grenade and hope I didn't throw it. "Marco reached out," she said. "Said there's movement. Said 'clean up the loose end'—me."
My jaw tightened. Details didn't matter; the fact that his name existed in her phone did. It meant reach. It meant he still mattered.
"I know," I said. "We deal with that together."
She searched my face. "Is this reckless for you?"
"It is," I admitted. "It might make things worse."
"Then why?"
I watched her in the cut light. "Because—" I stopped. The words were too clean and too ugly if I finished them with duty. The truth lay there instead, raw and stupid and bigger than old rules. "Because I won't let you be alone."
Her mouth quirked. "That's an enormous ego you have."
"Maybe." I leaned in and pressed my forehead to hers. "And it's yours now."
We ate a messy dinner of cold pasta and cheap whiskey, hands brushing over the bowl, elbows colliding.
It felt like a small domestic rebellion.
After dinner I slid open the top drawer and took out a thin chain with a worn talisman—an old thing from my mother's things.
I didn't usually bring it out. Family relics were private and dangerous, sentimental in a way I hated owning.
"What's that?" she asked, watching.
"A stupid superstition," I said. "Hold on."
I slipped the chain into my hand and walked behind her. She smelled like the night: rain caught in asphalt. I hooked the talisman into her jacket pocket without ceremony. It sat over the small tattoo behind her ear when she turned to look at me.
"You know I don't do tokens," she said.
"Consider it payment for mouthwash and pasta," I said. I woodn't say aloud that the charm was also an apology and a promise; that an old, tender part of me wanted her to carry something that linked her to people who would fight for her if I couldn't.
She palmed the chain, thumb absently rubbing the metal. "Keep it," she said. "You shouldn't waste your family heirlooms."
"I won't waste it," I said. I watched her with a softness I almost couldn't own. "I'll replace it when you break it."
Her laugh cracked open, genuine and quick. She leaned forward and kissed me—hard, hungry—like staking a claim. I matched her. It was proof and promise and plea all at once.
Later, in bed, she curled into me and we fitted like two halves that had learned to avoid snapping.
Hands learned the curves and edges of each other.
We traded stories in fragments—childhood scraps, the cheap truths that felt safe to give.
When I confessed the bare bones of the night I had lost someone because of this life, she didn't flinch.
She pressed closer and said, quiet, "Then don't do that again. "
"I won't," I told her. The words tasted like a vow.