7. Dante
Chapter 7
Dante
I t should be a terrifying realization that I would rather be sitting on the floor of the dungeon hallway than at this “ball”. Except it feels like less of a realization and more of an inevitability.
Carmen “ son of a bitch” Rubio.
Effortlessly witty, disarmingly smart, endlessly patient—though I do suspect the latter to be heavily influenced by her desire to escape as opposed to any fondness she might have for me.
And really, I should have known better than to share my woes with a literal captive audience. What else could she do but listen? What else could she do but take it? It was an exploitative, self-indulgent plan to maintain my sanity.
She wasn’t supposed to be…happy about it.
She wasn’t supposed to light up every time I walked into the hallway. She wasn’t supposed to insult me in charmingly accurate Italian. She wasn’t supposed to tell me she’d be forced to marry someone more than twice her age.
And I’m reading into it too much. And that’s very dangerous, because I’m looking for things I hope are there when they most likely are not.
It’s very dangerous for me, who would be crucified by Leon before I even landed in Brooklyn, but only if my mother didn’t get there first.
It’s very dangerous for Carmen, whose purity is apparently worth more than her actual feelings on the matter.
And dear God, have I been thinking about that, fantasizing about all the ways I could destroy a man like Hernando Lacruz. About all the ways I could tarnish his precious virgin and show Carmen her true worth.
I swallow down the champagne in my hand abruptly and turn to find something to distract me from the growing strain in my pants.
Luckily, my mother isn’t too far away.
“Dante, amore mio,” she beckons me over. “I would like you to meet someone.”
With a resigned sigh, I make my way across the veranda. The cool evening air plays with the long, dark hair of the woman she’s talking to. Waves of hair that fall almost to her waist make her backless dress feel tastefully less exposed.
As I’ve quickly learned, these “balls” tend to be an excuse for high society to spend an evening scantily clad on Emilia-Romagna’s most expensive rooftops.
As I approach, the woman turns to me, and something jolts in the back of my mind. It takes me a moment to differentiate the instant attraction from the recognition.
“Dante Grasso,” she says with a playful, sultry lilt to her voice. “It’s been a while.”
Finally, my mind provides a name. “Rina?”
Then, a memory. Fifteen years old and watching the daughter of an affluent Conte dancing at a club none of us should have been in. My peers immediately rallying for her attention. The eyes that fell on me. The rumors that followed.
My mother clears her throat. “Signora Marina Roma,” Evelina introduces her formally.
She greets me with a kiss on both cheeks, smelling of something rich and expensive and husband ensnaring.
Suddenly, the attraction dims quite a bit.
“It seems the last decade has been kind to you, Dante,” she purrs as she pulls away.
“I’d return the compliment, but I’m sure you’ve always been this beautiful.” I smile back.
Dickhead.
“Marina was just telling me about her studies abroad,” Mother interjects with a little too much eagerness. “She’s just returned from America herself.”
Rina flushes modestly. “I was in London for a year, but my degree took me to UCLA.”
And the attraction dims again.
Because Carmen went to Princeton and it’s not a competition but…
But the darkness of Rina’s sultry eyes doesn’t stir me like caramel glares do.
I hastily find myself another drink.
“That’s really interesting,” I hear myself saying as I pluck a flute of champagne from a wandering tray.
“Dante has been in New York…”
“Brooklyn,” I correct on reflex.
Evelina scowls right back. “Dante has been in business with some of our… distant relatives in preparation for taking up the family mantle.”
The euphemism feels unnecessary, considering we’re all aware of exactly the kind of business I’ve been engaging in.
“Not to mention that glorious castle of yours,” Rina adds to my mother’s polite amusement.
I can almost picture the way Carmen would laugh. The small crease in the corner of her eye and the valiant attempt she’d make not to show her amusement, but it would be right there on the quiver of her lips, bubbling right to the surface, her eyes shining with mirth?—
“Would you care to join me?”
I blink to find both Rina and my mother looking at me expectantly.
Shit. I wasn’t paying attention. Rina was talking, and I just zoned out because, of course, my mother's bachelorettes would only be interested in Castello di Ferro . Carmen said it herself?—
“Yeah, all right,” I say instead of allowing that thought to blossom into something more distracting.
To my complete horror, Rina reaches for my hand and begins to drag me away. She smiles as we weave through the crowds of preening heirs and heiresses toward a staircase I hadn’t noticed before.
I try desperately to politely acknowledge the faces that turn to us. The Ferraros and the De Lucas—important names that I’m still struggling to remember. Those who would consider it a slight if I ignored them.
I’m mentally exhausted by the time we ascend the staircase, and I find myself grateful that the rooftop here is far quieter, equipped only with a small bar and a stunning view of Modena below.
Thankfully, whatever Rina has planned requires alcohol, and a few moments later finds us leaning over the railing, glasses in hand.
“It’s beautiful, is it not?” Rina sighs after a pregnant pause.
The city lights twinkle below, bouncing from pale buildings that are finally cooling down from the summer heat. It’s romantic in a way Brooklyn could never be, and I find myself surprised that I’m comparing the two cities at all.
“I think I’ve missed it,” I offer quietly.
“You think?”
I shrug with easy nonchalance. “Jury is still out.”
I can feel Rina’s eyes boring into the side of my face, the attention sending an uncomfortable prickle down my spine.
“I recall you used to value strong intentions,” Rina says, ceasing the preamble. “So I intend to make mine clear.”
A glance her way is all the encouragement she needs to continue.
“I’m aware you’re in need of a wife. Your mother has not been particularly subtle about it, but even if she weren’t, the Grasso di Ferro will need new leadership soon. Your return here is inevitable, but this isn’t your stomping grounds anymore.”
“But it is yours, right?” I predict a little harshly. “Even though you’ve been in America almost as long as I have?”
She purses her lips. “I’ve stayed in touch, visited, kept up appearances. You, however, greeted Maria De Luca as Maria Ferrero just now. Your mother will pay for that tomorrow, you know.”
I cringe slightly at that. “Teething problems.”
“These are old families, Dante. Don’t think for one second they won’t take advantage of you while you’re scrambling to keep up.”
And she’s right. Of course, she is. Suddenly, it makes a lot more sense why my mother wants me to marry a local. I need someone at my side who can fill the gap created by nine years of absence.
“You intend to secure an engagement with me.” It’s a fact. I state it like one.
Rina tilts her head, endlessly long hair cascading beautifully over her shoulder, teasing smile on her lips. “Don’t sound so displeased by it. As I recall, you didn’t seem to mind my company that night at the club.”
“We were teenagers.”
“Mmmm,” her eyes become hooded. “Now we’re all grown up. I can only imagine how much more experienced we both are.”
I should flirt back, offering a demonstration or something equally shameless. It’s not like she’s not very, very beautiful, and it’s very clear how she wants this night to end.
And yet.
And yet, and yet, and yet.
I knock back the rest of my drink, hoping to buy myself some time. The alcohol burns down my throat. I want it to burn away my hesitation.
But it just leaves a lingering note of caramel in my mouth.
With a final, displeased swallow, I lean away from her. “I’ll certainly take your intentions under consideration.”
* * *
It’s late.
It’s very late.
When I got into the back of the car, this seemed like a good idea, but the journey considerably sobered me up.
Now, I’m hesitating by the door. Which is stupid.
So I push it open and stagger through.
Okay, so maybe I'm not as sober as I thought.
“Dante?”
And oh, her voice is like fresh air. Her accent sounds like home, like Brooklyn, and late nights in bars surrounded by friends and lovers and possibilities. She sounds like freedom from responsibilities, and yet she’s my responsibility now. All mine.
“Miss me, princess?”
Carmen holds onto the bars of her cell as she peers through. Surprise is evident in her lovely, soft features despite the fact her brows are furrowed in a scowl.
She really is so lovely.
“I thought you were at the ball tonight?” She responds to my question with one of her own. She does that a lot, actually now that I think about it.
“I could hardly break my visitation streak, could I?” I grin back. “I take your sanity very seriously.”
She narrows her caramel eyes at me. “If you cared for my sanity, you wouldn’t come at all. Dickhead. ”
I find myself standing before her now, leaning heavily against the bars. “And deny you the pleasure of my company?”
“What pleasure?”
“Pleasure, indeed.” A thought hums through me that sparks like a live wire. “I have a question for you.”
The problem is that Carmen has her own kind of gravity. It tugs you in if you get too close, like a star that barely recognizes its ability to shine.
I find myself at its mercy more often than I care to admit. Only, this time, Carmen doesn’t shuffle away as I draw in close. It’s likely that she’s confident that the metal bars will be able to keep me from acting uncouth.
But her face pokes through them defiantly and her chin rests on the cool iron as she looks up at me.
“In your quest to remain the virtuous little debutant that you are,” the question could very well send her running, but there’s a stubbornness in her posture that makes me want to take the risk, “have you ever allowed yourself to experience pleasure?”
Her chin juts out slightly. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Have you ever touched yourself?”
The words come out softer, breathier, more desperate than I intended.
But I see the way her breath hitches, the flash of panic in her eyes as she glances down at my lips for a fraction of a second. So close now, too close.
All she’d need to do is tilt her pretty little head up. All she needs to do is step away from the bars.
But she does something even worse.
She bites down on her bottom lip.
I grip the bars tightly to stifle the groan that roars in my chest.
“I’ve never,” she whispers. “It was never…I wouldn’t call it pleasure.”
“Perhaps you were doing it wrong.”
Her eyes are glued to my lips now. The tension is so thick I can’t imagine another person existing in the world we both inhabit.
“Perhaps.”
Unable to stop, I close some of the distance, resting my forehead against hers. The contact causes a small whine to escape those pretty, pretty, kissable lips.
I can’t. I can’t do any more than this. It’s impossible. If she wants more…
“Perhaps I could show you,” I make the offer anyway.
There’s a sharp little gasp.
Then her lips press against mine.
And well…
Fuck it.