6. Dante
DANTE
F uck.
All it takes is Cassie fucking Russo on my goddamn porch, and all my careful plans not to seek her out are gone like cheap tequila on Spring Break.
She’s all tight little denim pants, legs for days, and that white shirt unbuttoned low enough to make a saint lust. Her hair’s a mess, sun-streaked, curling at the ends like she just rolled out of bed, and Christ—the things I’d do to her if I could get her in mine.
But it’s not the clothes that get me. Not the legs, or the mouth I still dream about, or the eyes that cut through me like glass.
It’s the little girl gripping her hand.
Blonde curls. Big blue-gray eyes.
My pulse skips. I hide it well. Years of Bratva training kicked in to smother panic.
“Cassie,” I say, like my body isn’t a goddamn war zone right now.
She freezes. It’s almost cute the way her grip tightens on that little girl’s hand like I’m a monster hiding behind the welcome mat.
She’s not wrong.
“Dante,” she replies, voice thin, a breath shorter than her temper probably is. “I didn’t know you’d be… door duty.”
She’s losing words with her train of thought. Looks like I’m not the only one affected around here.
“Yeah, well, being the host means I get to open the door.”
I lean on the doorframe, cool as hell, like I wasn’t five seconds away from pacing this house with nerves myself.
“Tina invited us,” Cassie explains, suddenly fascinated by a spot on the ground. “For the barbecue.”
Christ, I’d forgotten what seeing her does to me. Correction: I forgot nothing. I’ve just been lying to myself for three damn years.
“Good to see you, Cassie,” I offer casually, eyeing her legs like they owe me rent. “You look great.”
The little one tugs at her hand, that curious stare fixed on me, eyes like mirrors.
My stomach knots tighter.
It doesn’t mean anything. Gino claimed her as his.
“Everyone’s out back.” I open the door wider to let them in like it’s no big deal, like the ground under my feet didn’t just tilt sideways. “Food’s ready. Drinks flowing.”
Cassie hesitates, like she’s thinking about turning around. Running. I wouldn’t blame her. But then she squares her shoulders and walks past me, her daughter by her side, and when I turn, I can’t help but notice how juicy her fucking ass looks.
Fate? Luck? Bad decision? Whatever it is, it got us here—her walking through my house.
I’m not letting you slip through my fingers again.
I catch up with her. “Let’s get you a drink,” I offer, because if I open my mouth and say what I’m thinking? We’ll have bigger problems.
“I won’t mind something strong,” she says, like being here is the worst idea in the world. Her eyes dart past me to the bar.
Me too, sweetheart. I need steel cables and a straitjacket to survive you standing this close.
As we walk to get her that drink, my gaze drifts over her—hips swaying, shirt clinging to curves I remember too well. It’s torture, plain and simple, standing still when my body’s ready to pin her to the nearest flat surface.
I caused her enough trouble. Enough grief. This isn’t about me.
I get her the drink. Double bourbon, neat—because from what I remember, the girl could drink a group of boys under the table and still walk out like nothing happened.
I hold the glass out.
She reaches for it, those pretty fingers brushing mine?—
Zap.
It’s not a spark—it’s a fucking electric fence snapping to life between us. My pulse hits the gas. Her eyes jerk up, wide, like maybe she felt it too.
I shouldn’t enjoy that look so much. But I do. Hell, it feeds me.
Her hand tightens on the glass. I could swear her grip falters, just for a second, but she masks it like the pro she is. Still, her cheeks flush that soft pink I’ve seen up close, pressed against me, panting my name.
“Careful,” I murmur, voice rougher than intended. “Strong pour.”
Her throat works like she’s swallowing words better left buried. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, playing it cool. But her fingers are trembling.
Tina’s shriek shatters the moment like a rock through glass.
“Cassie! You made it.”
She barrels toward us like we’re filming Real Housewives: Lake Edition —blonde ponytail bouncing, designer shades shoved on top of her head, already four mimosas deep, judging by the chaos in her eyes.
Cassie practically exhales relief, like I’m the villain in this scene. And maybe I am. Maybe I look too much like trouble.
But that relief? Yeah, that part cuts.
My jaw ticks as my gaze rakes down Cassie’s legs, those denim cut-off pants hugging her curves like sex was sewn into the seams. The shirt’s unbuttoned just enough to fuck with my pulse. Hair messy, lips pink from chewing on them.
She looks… fuck, she looks edible.
And the idea that Tina’s parading her into a yard full of half-drunk, useless rich boys who can’t spell “commitment”?
Yeah, no thanks.
I lean in as they pass, voice low, sharp with a smirk. “Half the guys here couldn’t find their dicks with both hands, and a map.”
Tina gasps, scandalized, but grinning. “They’re our friends, asshole. And cousins.”
“Exactly.” I arch a brow, deadpan. “The gene pool’s not deep around here.”
Cassie snorts under her breath, eyes darting away, and I swear she’s fighting a smile.
Tina rolls her eyes, still dragging Cassie toward the patio. “Behave, Dante. And don’t scare the new arrivals.”
I lift my hands in mock surrender. “I’m the one they should be scared of?”
Cassie laughs, nervous, flustered, but she follows—because nobody says no to Tina when she’s on a social tear.
She glances back, eyes flicking to the kid like she’s about to bolt. Like she doesn’t trust me alone with a toddler.
“I’ve got her,” I say, soft but firm, tipping my chin toward the little girl left standing by my side.
Cassie hesitates, just for a heartbeat, like maybe she doesn’t believe me. Something is flickering behind her eyes—fear? Am I reading too much into it? Wouldn’t be the first time my head’s made shit worse.
Tina snickers, pulling Cassie out of reach, and suddenly I’m left standing there, the spot where her hand gripped that little girl’s tightening like a noose.
This day’s gonna be a fucking mess.
I look down at the kid, and she looks up, all expectant. She’s small. She might come up to my thigh.
What the hell am I supposed to do with a kid?
There’s no manual for this. No Bratva protocol for toddler management.
She blinks at me, waiting. Probably expecting me to conjure a unicorn or braid her hair or some shit.
I clear my throat. “So… what do you like?”
“Ummm,” she cocks her head, thinking for a while. I brace myself for some Einstein-level shit for an answer on how hard she thinks. “Cupcakes?”
My lips twitch. “Cupcakes, huh? Dangerous choice. We talking vanilla or chocolate?”
Her eyes widen like I just suggested robbing a bank. “Chocolate’s better. Vanilla’s for babies.”
I huff a quiet laugh. Kid’s got standards.
“Alright, chocolate it is,” I nod, playing along, ignoring the fact that my pulse hasn’t slowed since the second Cassie walked through my door—and now her damn mini-me’s holding court with me. “We have some cake that’s chocolate, but no cupcakes. Want some?”
“Oh yes! Please, sir!” She beams, thrusting her tiny hand out.
I stare at it for a long moment before reaching out with my own. Hers is so warm and so damn small. Ridiculously small. Like her whole hand barely covers two of my fingers. That shouldn’t hit me like a gut punch, but it does.
And for the first time all fucking day… my grip falters.
“Alright, sunshine,” I say, forcing steel back into my voice before I completely lose my shit. “Let’s go find you that cake.”
She tips her head as we walk. “You’re tall.”
“Yeah,” I reply, biting back a grin. “You’re short.”
She giggles like that’s comedy gold and shuffles closer without fear. Either this kid’s got zero stranger-danger instincts, or Cassie taught her to always be nice. Both possibilities seem wrong.
“What’s your name, nugget?” I ask, though I already know, but I want to hear her say it.
She straightens like a soldier. “Aria.”
It really is a beautiful name. Definitely something I would’ve picked for a kid.
I swallow it down.
Not mine.
I was only with Cass once. Fast, messy, unforgettable, but one time doesn’t make a kid. The chances for that are too low. Especially since she was still married—soon-to-be-divorced—at the time.
“Mommy says I can’t have cupcakes before lunch, but I like ‘em anyway.”
I smirk. “Me too.”
“And I like dragons,” she announces. “And singing. Mommy sings when she thinks no one’s watching.”
My chest tightens.
“Yeah?”
Aria nods, all wide-eyed and conspiratorial. Then, she tilts her chin, studying me with that unnerving stare.
“Hey, guess what?” she says, the corners of her little mouth turning up into a smile. “You have the same eyes as me.”
My throat dries out like desert sand.
Fuck.