Chapter 13 Dante
The bathroom smells like copper and violence. Ana kneels in front of me where I sit on the tub’s edge, her hands gentle on my split knuckles. The contrast makes my chest tight. Those same hands that clutch knives in the dark now tend wounds I earned protecting her.
"Hold still," she murmurs, dabbing antiseptic on a particularly deep cut. The sting is nothing compared to the torture of her proximity. Her shampoo, jasmine and something sweeter, fills my lungs with every breath.
She shifts closer, trying to get a better angle on my left hand.
Her knee bumps mine, and without thinking, she swings her leg over, straddling my knee for stability.
The innocent practicality of it nearly undoes me.
She's focused entirely on cleaning blood from my knuckles, not realizing she's pressed against me, her thigh warm against mine through the thin fabric of her cotton dress.
Her thigh presses harder against mine as she leans in, and my cock hardens instantly.
She's so focused on my wounds she doesn't notice how I'm imagining yanking her fully onto my lap, grinding her against me until she admits she bought that red dress to make me want her.
Until she signs my name while coming apart.
The cotton is warm from her skin, damp with sweat from the day's terror.
My free hand grips the tub's edge until my knuckles match the white porcelain.
Every instinct screams to pull her fully onto my lap, to show her exactly what this proximity does to me.
Instead, I hold perfectly still, letting her work.
Her breath ghosts across my wrist as she leans closer, examining a cut near my thumb. Each exhale makes my cock throb harder.
"You killed for me," she says quietly, not looking up from her work. Her voice carries a tremor. Fear or something else.
I reach for my phone with my free hand, type one-handed: "Killed near you. Not the same as for you."
The lie sits between us. Every blow was for her.
Would do it again. Would do worse. When Giuseppe's gun swung toward Ana, my world stopped.
Not slowed. Stopped. My heart forgot to beat, my lungs forgot to breathe.
Then pure, liquid rage flooded my system like poison.
Not her. Never her. I'll paint the street with his blood before he touches what's mine.
She looks up then, and suddenly realizes our position. How she's practically in my lap, how close our faces are. Her pupils dilate, breath catching. She feels it too, this dangerous thing building between us.
Her eyes widen and she springs back, nearly falling in her haste to put distance between us. The loss of her warmth makes me want to growl.
I let her go, though every muscle protests. She stands quickly, the cotton swishing around her legs, blood spotting the dress like promises of more violence to come.
The bedroom door opens without warning. Marco enters like he owns the place, which technically he does, his presence filling the room with the weight of authority.
"Giuseppe Moretti is in the hospital," he says, voice measured. "He's asking for sanctuary."
My response is immediate, absolute. I sign sharply, aggressively enough that Marco takes notice: "No."
"He was her father's man," Marco starts.
The look I give him could strip paint. He stops mid-sentence, understanding perfectly. Giuseppe pointed a gun at Ana. There's no sanctuary from that. No forgiveness. No mercy.
What surprises me is that Marco even brings this to me at all.
Normally he'd make the decision without consulting anyone.
He's the Don, his word is absolute. But this is about Ana, my wife, and perhaps that's why he's here.
"Understood," Marco says, then his eyes shift to Ana.
"He was your father's man. You should know we're denying him sanctuary. "
She straightens, chin lifting with that defiance I'm starting to crave like cigarettes. "Was," she says in careful English. "Not any more. He made his choice when he attacked me."
Pride surges through my chest, hot and possessive. She's choosing us. Choosing me. She said "Rosetti" in front of thirty witnesses, claimed my name when it mattered. Mine. The word pounds through my blood like a drum. The word 'was' carries the weight of severed loyalty, of bridges burned.
Marco nods once, decision made. "Then he gets nothing." His eyes find mine, and the message there is clear: You're compromised, brother.
I don't care. She said Rosetti on that street, claimed my family as hers. She's mine now, and Marco sees it written across my face. The dangerous satisfaction of a man whose wife just chose him publicly.
After he leaves, I sign, fingers aching and knuckles splitting open again: "You understand what you just did? The message you sent?"
"That I'm untouchable?" she signs back, her movements sharp but not aggressive.
"Because you're mine," I type, the truth slipping out too raw, too honest.
She doesn't argue. Just looks at me with those green eyes that promise violence and something else I'm not ready to name. Progress. We're making progress, even if it's measured in blood and broken bones.
She locks the bathroom door. The click echoes like a gunshot, reminding me she still doesn't trust me. Not fully. I know the knife she brandished on our wedding day is hidden somewhere in this room. Of course it is. She's a survivor first, my wife second.
The shower starts, and I sink onto the bed, head in hands.
Through the door, I hear everything. Water hitting tile, her soft gasps that could be sobs or could be something else.
The sound of her washing blood away, scrubbing at skin that still trembles from shock.
Is she crying? The not knowing is its own kind of torture.
When Giuseppe pointed that gun at her… I haven't felt rage like this in years. Not since the massacre, since that night when…
No. Focus on now. On Ana, safe behind a locked door.
At dinner, she can't eat. Maria's perfect pasta sits untouched on her plate while Ana pushes a piece of bread around like a child avoiding vegetables. Her hands shake slightly. Aftershock setting in. The adrenaline crash makes her eyes glassy, unfocused.
Without thinking, I slide my plate across to her. Simple cacio e pepe, nothing that requires thought or decision. The ceramic scrapes against wood, drawing her attention.
She looks at it, then at me, something shifting in her expression. Confusion, maybe. Or recognition that I'm trying to care for her.
She takes a small bite. The pepper makes her cough slightly, and I push my water glass toward her too. Another bite follows. Not because she's hungry, but for Maria's sake. For the woman who keeps trying to mother her. Good girl. Let me take care of you, even in small ways.
Maria beams from the doorway, and I catch Ana almost smiling before she remembers she's supposed to hate me.
Her walls are cracking. I see it in the way she looked for me during the attack, body moving toward me instead of away.
Trust building despite her best efforts to resist. The way her eyes sought mine when the guns appeared. Not looking for escape, but for me.
Back in our suite, she changes into her nightgown while I settle into my chair. The leather creaks under my weight, familiar now after nine days of this torture.
She turns to face me, backlit by moonlight, and her hands move in the silver darkness. Gentle, almost hesitant: "I was scared today."
The admission stops my breath. First time she's admitted weakness to me.
"Not of them," she continues, fingers trembling slightly. "Of you."
My chest tightens. She still fears me? After I…
"No." Her signs turn urgent, frustrated with her inability to explain. "Scared of how I felt. Safe. With you."
The words hit harder than any blow. She felt it too. That rightness when I stood between her and danger. The click of pieces falling into place.
"I'm supposed to hate you," she signs, and there's desperation in the movement, her hands almost pleading.
"You do hate me," I sign back, keeping my movements controlled despite the chaos in my chest.
"It's getting complicated."
"Good."
The word hangs between us. Complicated means feeling. Means possibility. Means maybe she'll let me touch her soon, before this want destroys me completely.
She climbs into bed, pulling covers up to her chin. And tonight, tonight for the second time since she arrived, she faces me instead of the wall.
"I still have to try," she signs, her hands poking out from beneath the cover, the moonlight catching her fingers. She signs as though speaking would shatter the night. "To kill you."
"I know."
"But maybe… not tonight."
First reprieve she's given me. My breath catches. Did she just…?
"Sleep, Ana. You're safe."
And miraculously, she does. Her breathing evens out into a rhythm I've memorized, real sleep instead of the pretense we've been maintaining. She trusts me enough to actually rest, facing toward me like I'm something more than the monster in her story.
Nine days of this torture. Nine days of watching her sleep, or pretend to sleep, while I burn in this chair. Nine days of her knife-edge promises and reluctant softening.
She's actually asleep now, genuinely resting for the first time since our wedding. Her face is soft in the moonlight, unguarded in a way that makes my chest ache. One hand rests outside the covers, palm up, fingers slightly curled. Trusting. Vulnerable.
I want to reach across the space between us, trace those fingers that sign death threats and sometimes, rarely, something softer.
Want to press my mouth to her pulse point and feel her heart race.
Want so many things that this chair and my promises prevent.
Want to spread her thighs and taste her while she signs my name.
Want to corrupt every inch of innocence she has left.
I stay awake to guard her sleep, to watch over this fragile peace she's given me.
Every breath she takes is one I count, memorizing the rhythm of her trust. The sound changes when she dreams. Shorter, sharper inhales.
She's dreaming now, fingers twitching slightly.
The want burns through me like fever, but I won't move from this chair.
Won't break the promise that keeps her safe from what I want to do to her, with her.
Tomorrow marks ten days since our wedding. Something has to give soon. The tension between us has wound so tight it's either going to snap or explode. Either she'll finally succeed in killing me, or I'll break my promise about not touching without permission.
Both feel inevitable now. We're circling each other like fighters who've forgotten why they entered the ring, each waiting for the other to make the decisive move. But tonight, she gave me peace. One night without assassination attempts. One night of facing toward me instead of away.
The composition I've been writing for her sits on my desk downstairs, nearly complete. A symphony of our violent courtship, all the words I cannot speak transformed into notes she pretends not to find beautiful.
She shifts in sleep, murmuring something in Italian I can't quite catch. Her hand moves, fingers signing something unconsciously. My name, rendered in sleep-soft movements. "Dante" spelled out letter by letter in the darkness.
Nine days, and she dreams in sign language. Dreams of me.
Either she kills me or I kiss her. At this point, I'm not sure which would be the greater mercy.
But I'll guard her sleep tonight, watch over her peace, want her with every fiber of my being.
Because that's what I do now. That's who I've become.
Her guardian monster, burning with want in the darkness, harder than I've ever been just from watching her trust me enough to sleep.