Chapter 12 Dante
DANTE
I know she saw me kill him.
There’s no room for doubt. When I looked up after the shot, the hedge rippled and I caught a flash of her eyes—wide, horrified, locked on mine. She thinks she’s hidden, but nothing in this garden moves without me knowing.
She saw what I am. Not the man at the dinner table, not the hands that touched her last night, not the quiet monster her family told her about. She saw the truth—what I have to do to keep this city in line. What it means to be a Volkov.
I could drag her out and ask what she thinks of me now. I could tell her she’s no safer than anyone else. But I don’t.
The men do their work quickly—nothing left but silence and the faint metallic tang in the air. Markov slips away to his next call. Only Maksim lingers, standing just outside the shadow of the old wall, arms folded, gaze distant.
We haven’t spoken in months. He’s always been too clever for his own good, always watching from the edge of things. My father used to call him the house fox. Too useful to lose, too dangerous to let close.
He glances at me, jaw tight. “Clean job,” he says quietly, almost bored.
I nod. We both know that’s not a compliment.
Maksim’s eyes follow the retreating men. “You keep making messes, you’re going to run out of stone to clean.”
I bristle, but don’t show it. “You have a suggestion, or just commentary?”
He almost smiles. “If I had suggestions, you’d ignore them.”
We stand in silence. There’s history here—childhoods intertwined, families twisted together and then broken apart. He knows what I am. He knows what it costs.
Maksim scans the edge of the hedge, squinting against the sunlight. Then his gaze lands on something at the distance. “Adriana?” he calls out, voice cutting across the garden. “You can come out, you know.”
I turn, pulse ticking faster. So she didn’t run. She stayed.
I wonder what she’ll do next. And I realize I want to know.
There’s a long pause—then she steps out from behind the hedge. She’s pale, tense, but she faces us. No running, no denial. She stands in sunlight, her hair loose over her shoulders, eyes moving between us.
I watch the way Maksim’s entire posture shifts.
He smiles—an actual smile, something rare—and steps toward her with arms wide.
She goes right to him. Her arms slip around his waist, his around her shoulders.
It’s the kind of hug that comes from a lifetime of shared secrets, the sort of closeness people like me never really had.
Something in my chest tightens. I don’t let it show.
He murmurs something into her hair—too soft for me to catch. Her hand squeezes his back. She looks relieved, even a little shaky, like for a second she forgot where she was or what she just witnessed. I hate how easy it is for her to fall into his arms, how natural it looks.
She pulls away, but she doesn’t step back. They’re still close, and for a moment I catch the echo of kids running through old hallways, all innocence and trust.
I step forward, arms folded, voice easy. “You two know each other?”
Adriana glances at me, her face suddenly careful. “We grew up together,” she says, quiet but clear.
Maksim turns his attention to me then, finally, his expression somewhere between guarded and defiant. “Our mothers were close. I was at her house more than my own sometimes.” He smiles at her again. “Long time, huh?”
She nods, the corner of her mouth quirking up. “Feels like a different life.”
I can’t help but study her—the way she lights up around him, the way she relaxes, even in the middle of all this. It unsettles me. There are layers here I don’t know.
I watch the way she turns to him, the way her face softens, and something inside me coils tight. She leans in, almost conspiratorial. “Maksim, can we talk alone?”
The request scrapes across my nerves. I step in before he can answer, my voice just a little too smooth. “If you have something to say, you can say it here.”
Adriana blinks, frustration flickering across her face.
Bella, who’s been silent at her side, takes the hint—she slips her arm through Adriana’s, pulling her gently away with some excuse about needing to talk, her eyes darting warily between the three of us.
I watch Maksim watch Adriana go, his shoulders stiff, his mouth twisted with something that looks too much like disappointment.
He sulks, just for a second. I don’t miss it. The thought needles at me: Does he want her? I’m not blind. I saw how he looked at her, how she melted into his arms. The way old friends sometimes look at each other when they realize time has changed everything and nothing all at once.
Maksim clears his throat, trying for casual as we walk toward the house. “By the way, Dante, the invitation for next weekend still stands. The ball. I’d love to see you there—both of you.”
We’re nearly to the doors when my father’s voice breaks in—hard and certain, rolling down from the top of the marble stairs.
“We’ll be there,” he says, without waiting for my answer.
He sits in his wheelchair, hands folded neatly in his lap, eyes shrewd and dark as always. Even now, he commands the whole room, the whole damn family, without moving an inch. His presence fills every inch of this house.
I glance at him, then back at Maksim, who only grins and nods. “Good,” he says. “Wouldn’t be the same without the Volkovs.” He claps me on the shoulder.
After Maksim leaves, the house feels heavy again. My father wheels himself closer, his gaze fixed on the door Maksim just disappeared through.
I don’t bother to hide the edge in my voice. “I don’t trust him.”
My father’s mouth twists into a humorless smile. “Good. You shouldn’t trust any of the old families—especially his.” He glances at me, his eyes cold and knowing. “He and the Petrovs are cozy. They all are. You remember that, Dante.”
I nod once. It isn’t news, but the way he says it drives it deeper. The old families—the Petrovs, the Ivanovs, the Sokolovs, the Romanovs—have been circling each other for generations, trading favors and knives in the dark. Even now, with us holding the city, they close ranks when it suits them.
I think back to the way Adriana melted into Maksim’s arms, how easily she smiled for him—how that old trust flared alive in one look. Anyone could see it. Anyone could guess what their families once shared. Petrovs and Ivanovs, thick as thieves.
My father’s voice softens, almost to a whisper. “We are the outsiders, Dante. Don’t need a reminder of that, do you?”
I shake my head. He’s said it since I was a boy. Outsiders. No matter how much we win, this house will never be theirs, and this city will never forgive us for taking what we wanted.
I spot her later, coming down the hall with her arms full of books, hair slipping from its braid. I call her name—soft, not meant for anyone else—but she doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even look at me. Her steps quicken, like she can outrun the weight of what she saw this morning.
That’s when it hits me. She’s upset. Of course she is. She saw me pull the trigger—saw what I really am, no matter how careful I’ve tried to be around her.
She keeps her eyes fixed on the ground as she passes. I could let her go. I should. But the knot in my chest won’t loosen. I want a reaction. Anything but this careful, silent distance.
So I move, blocking her path. She tries to brush past, but I catch her wrist—gentle, but firm enough that she can’t ignore me. The books slip from her grasp and scatter on the carpet. She freezes, breath shallow.
I study her face. “Adriana,” I say quietly, my voice just for her. “Look at me.”
She doesn’t. Her lashes lower, jaw tight. I see the way her hands tremble, the way she presses herself into the wall as if she can disappear.
I step closer, not letting her escape. My fingers slip under her chin, lifting her gaze to mine. Her eyes are wide, haunted and angry all at once.
For a long moment, I just look at her. Her pulse leaps at her throat. She’s trembling, but not with fear. I can feel it—a spark between us, live and hungry.
“You liked what you saw this morning, didn’t you?” I say, my voice low. My fingers slip to her chin, coaxing her to meet my eyes. “Don’t lie. I saw you at the wedding.”
She tries to look away, but I won’t let her. I want to see the truth on her face.
Her mouth trembles. “You’re—” Her voice breaks. She swallows. “You’re not what I thought you’d be.”
I move closer, breath mingling with hers. “And what did you think I’d be, kotyonok?” I press, soft but relentless. “A monster? Or something you want to touch, even if you shouldn’t?”
I see her resolve falter. The mask cracks. Desire, defiance, and something softer all flicker in her gaze.
I can’t hold back anymore. I lower my mouth to hers, pressing her harder against the wall, tasting her surprise, her heat. For a second, she’s rigid—then she melts into me, kissing back just as fiercely, hands fisting in my shirt.
The kiss turns messy, teeth clashing, her breath hot against my mouth. I grip her waist with one hand, the other sliding down to hook under her thigh. She’s weightless when I lift her, her legs instinctively wrapping around my waist.
I press her to the wall, grinding my cock against the heat between her thighs, the thin fabric of her dress no barrier at all. She moans into my mouth, the sound low and desperate, and fuck—it shoots straight through me.
It’s dangerous to be out in the open like this. But I can’t stop. Not when she’s kissing me back like this, not when she’s trembling in my arms and I can feel how wet she is through the slip of lace.
I break the kiss just enough to drag my mouth to her throat, biting lightly, sucking until I know it’ll leave a mark. Her head falls back, lips parted, and the sound she makes damn near undoes me.
“Say you want me,” I growl against her skin, my cock grinding harder into her. “Say it.”
Her nails dig into my shoulders, and she whispers, breathless, “I want you.”
Her words hit me like gasoline on fire. I want you.
I kiss her hard, swallowing the sound, my hand sliding under her dress, fingers finding her panties soaked through. Christ, she’s drenched.
I push the lace aside, my cock throbbing at the heat pouring off her. I sink two fingers into her in one thrust, deep, my palm grinding against her clit as I fuck her with my hand. She jerks against me, her gasp muffled by my mouth, her thighs tightening around my waist.
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” I growl, thrusting my fingers harder, curling them just right to make her shudder. “You’re gonna come all over my hand, aren’t you?”
Her nails rake my shoulders, her head hitting the wall with a soft thud as her hips roll against me, chasing every stroke. Her moans spill into my mouth, broken and desperate, the sound of them echoing down the hall.
It’s reckless. Anyone could round the corner and see her legs wrapped around me, my hand shoved under her dress, my fingers buried in her soaked pussy. The thought only makes me pump faster.
Her walls clamp down around my fingers, her body seizing as her moan breaks free, sharp and needy. “Dante!”
I press my palm harder against her clit, working her through it, watching her fall apart against me.
She trembles in my arms, her pussy pulsing around my fingers as she comes, wetness slicking my hand.
I kiss her again, rough and claiming, until her moans soften into little whimpers, her body limp against me.
I pull my fingers free, soaked, and bring them to my mouth, sucking them clean with a low groan. Her eyes widen, cheeks flushed, chest heaving—and fuck, she’s never looked more beautiful.
I set her down gently, the hem of her dress falling back into place, books scattered across the floor at our feet.
My cock aches, hard and unrelieved, but I don’t care. Not when I just made her come undone against the wall where anyone could’ve seen.
And from the look in her eyes, she knows it too.