Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Dante
Fuck everything.
Valentina Russo—my enemy, my future wife—is getting to me.
Her name coils in my gut like a live wire, sparking heat.
When she tried to kill me with my own lamp, then refused to be my wife in a war her family started, I set out to prove a point.
Instead…
Fuck.
After ending the call with the family’s security chief where I outlined my plans and expectations from him, I lean back against the plush leather of the rear seat of my armored SUV.
The subtle creak of the material echoes each minute adjustment of my body as Adriano, my trusted soldier, navigates the armored vehicle through the early morning Houston streets.
The engine hums steadily, a low vibration traveling up through the floorboards into my legs, but it’s not enough to drown out the turmoil churning inside me.
I dig my fingers into the armrest as if to anchor myself against the storm of memories assaulting my mind.
Every muscle in my shoulders and neck tightens, a relentless coil of tension that radiates down my spine, making my back ache with the effort to remain composed.
The air conditioning whispers cool streams across my skin, yet it does nothing to quench the inferno blazing in my chest, the heat of her lingering touch still searing my senses.
And her kiss…
Eternal damnation. That kiss…
It started as punishment for the way she tried to knock me out with that lamp and for landing a glancing blow. I was determined to prove a point, use my body as a weapon to show her who held the power in that locked room.
But the moment my lips claimed hers, something shifted, a spark igniting into a fire I never anticipated.
Her mouth yielded at first, soft and tentative, her breath mingling with mine in a rush of warmth that tasted like champagne and forbidden sweetness.
And then when I pressed deeper, she followed, her tongue dancing with mine. No doubt struggling with her internal sense of preservation, she wound her arms around my neck, digging her fingers into my hair to pull me closer.
Fuck.
The heat of her body melted into mine, and her feminine curves yielded to my hardness, in a dance as old as time.
Her physical surrender shot electricity through every nerve ending.
Even though I meant to prove a point to her, my heart pounded against my ribs, a thunderous rhythm that drowned out reason. My cock throbbed painfully against her abdomen as she rocked her hips, maybe without even realizing what she was doing.
Jesus Christ.
I wanted to take her right there and then, throwing her on the bed to show her I was the boss.
But to prove to myself that I was still in control, I forced myself to stop.
When I pulled back, her cheeks were flushed, her lips swollen, eyes dazed with the same raw hunger mirroring mine.
I’d won.
Triumph surged through me, but so did something darker, a possessiveness that clawed at my chest.
From the moment I saw her on the rooftop, she was mine.
Mine.
Nothing on the planet would allow me to walk away.
And fuck, that realization hit like a punch, leaving my blood humming with a need I can’t afford.
Adriano accelerates around a slow-moving truck.
But my mind isn’t on the present.
It’s back in my house, my bedroom, with a vision of Valentina, head tipped back defiantly, even in defeat.
With her—“Fuck you, Moretti”—she’s every inch the Mafia Princess, a formidable adviser to her father.
I need to focus.
Need to think about the upcoming meeting with my brother and Nico and the details that need to be in place for my upcoming wedding.
And that brings me right back to Valentina Russo.
I’m unable to resist my future wife.
Cursing, I snatch my phone from the pocket of my suit coat.
My obsession with the future Mrs. Moretti isn’t healthy.
The realization doesn’t stop me from opening the security app with a single swipe.
The screen glows to life.
Not distracted by the emails and messages from my family, I navigate straight to my live feeds.
I ignore all of them, except for the one in my bedroom.
In crisp high definition, I see the empty bed with its rumpled sheets.
There’s no sign of her.
My heart rate spikes. Then I notice the door to the ensuite bathroom is ajar.
Of course she hasn’t gone anywhere.
I zoom in, but the angle cuts off just short of the bathroom interior.
When Hawkeye Security installed the cameras, I’d been deliberate in my choices of angles. And now I regret my deliberate nod to privacy. Foolish oversight. I want to see her.
When I’d undressed her earlier, I’d savored every moment.
But the sight of her, the way her skin felt beneath my fingers, hadn’t been enough.
Would never be enough.
The sound of running water filters through the audio feed, faint but unmistakable, the steady rush of the shower drumming against tile.
No doubt steam clouds the air, thick and warm, wrapping around her like a lover’s embrace.
I imagine her stepping under the spray, the hot water cascading over her shoulders, rivulets tracing the elegant curve of her spine, pooling in the dimples at the base before sliding lower.
Her dark hair, wet and heavy, clings to her skin, strands framing her face as she tilts her head back, eyes closed in momentary relief.
Droplets bead on her breasts, nipples hardening under the temperature shift, her hands gliding over her body with soap-slicked fingers, washing away the traces of our encounter but not the memory.
The thought sends a fresh wave of heat through me.
My cock stirs again, pressing uncomfortably against my zipper. I adjust in the seat, the friction only heightening the ache, an unwelcome reminder of how she unravels my control.
A soft sound crackles through the speaker—perhaps a sigh, or the clink of a bottle on the shelf—and my imagination runs wild.
Is she relaxing? Thinking of me? Remembering the way I so thoroughly commanded her reactions? Or is she plotting her escape?
I’d give anything to watch the play of emotions across her face.
My frustration builds, and I clench my free hand into a fist on my thigh.
She’s my captive, a means to an end.
But this pull, this hunger to witness her in every unguarded moment…
Damn her for awakening this, for turning my lust for revenge into something laced with desire.
The road ahead curves, and I close the app and drop my phone back into my pocket.
Drawing on my normal self-control, I force myself to breathe deeply.
But each inhalation seems to draw in the faint remnants of her wild orchid scent on my clothes.
It’s her, always her, now, invading my thoughts like an unwelcome storm.
Eventually Adriano turns into the River Oaks neighborhood where I was raised.
My parents’ home. Now Matteo’s domain.
After being cleared on to the property, the wrought iron gates part.
The estate sprawls like the fortress it is.
Nico’s car is still here. Has he been in my Matteo’s office all night?
Dario’s SUV is also here. Which means my youngest brother has been summoned to deal with the situation I created.
Adriano brakes to a stop, and I step out.
The humid Texas air wraps around me, and my shoes crunch on the gravel path.
My mother opens the door.
Even though she has her own place now, leaving Matteo and Alessia to forge their own way forward, she’s obviously heard word of my actions.
Her strongheaded, reckless child. The one who reacts first and thinks later.
The scent of espresso and fresh baked goods hangs invitingly in the air.
“Coffee?” my mother offers.
“Will I need it?” I grin.
“You look like you haven’t slept.”
She’s right about that. And I won’t rest until Valentina wears my ring and has surrendered every one of her womanly secrets to me.
Shaking my head to clear it, I follow my mother to the kitchen.
Even though the kitchen is now my sister-in-law’s domain, it remains familiar with its bright light from pendant fixtures over the granite island and copper pots hanging from a rack above. As always, they are gleaming softly.
Alessia isn’t here, and my mother fills an espresso cup for me.
“Dante.” Her voice is steady, but it’s laced with concern. She cups my cheek, searching my face. “What have you done?”
I exhale, the weight of the night pressing down. “What needed doing.” Like I always have.
She shakes her head, lips thinning. “Kidnapping Fabrizio Russo’s daughter? In Dallas? On his turf?” Her hand drops, fingers twisting in her apron. “You’re playing with fire, figlio mio. This isn’t just revenge—it’s madness.”
Revenge.
The word hangs between us, heavy as lead. I lean against the island, the cool granite grounding me. “They took Father from us. Muscled into our territory, ordered the hit. I won’t let it stand.”
She lifts her chin. “Bringing her into the family?”
I know what she’s saying. Maybe I should have thought about that. The enemy, the daughter of the man who killed her husband, will be seated at our table for Sunday dinner. For holiday meals. “What would you have me do?”
Shaking her head, she sighs.
More than anyone, Raffaele Moretti’s wife understands what’s at stake. She was under no illusion as to the man her husband was. And even if she doesn’t support my course of action, she knows why I made my choices.
I down the strong, thick espresso. “Thank you for this.”
She takes a moka pot from the stove and places it on a tray and tells me to take it into my brother’s study.
For a moment, we look at each other, and her eyes fill with tears.
Not long ago, it had been Raffael’s study.
When does the grief go away?
Does it?
The door to the adjoining hallway swings open, cutting the moment. Nico steps in, his presence filling the space—tailored suit impeccable but tension etched in his jaw. His gaze flicks between us, assessing. “Matteo’s waiting.”
With a sharp nod, I dutifully pick up the tray and carry it to the room where I’ve spent so much of my life.