9. Cassie
CASSIE
H e’s here.
Dante fucking Romano himself, of all the people in the world.
He’s towering over me like he owns the oxygen in here. His voice is low, careful. We need to talk. Somewhere private.
The look on his face is far from friendly, ‘ Hey, can I bum a coffee even though you’re closed? ’ vibe. Instead, it’s pure ‘ I’ll burn this whole fucking town to the ground if anyone so much as breathes wrong near you ’ serious.
He’s here.
For me.
Or worse, for the truth.
I glance over at Aria, who’s still wiping down chairs like a good little helper, oblivious to the hurricane that just blew through our door.
“Not here,” I whisper back.
He nods, his eyes flicking to her, and my pulse does a whole tap dance against my ribs. Can he see it? The resemblance? Is that why he’s here? To ask the inevitable—the thing I’ve been running from for three years?
“Aria, sweetie,” I call, keeping my voice light. “Why don’t you finish up the glitter project in the back room for a bit? Mommy needs to talk to her... friend.”
Friend.
What a goddamn joke. That word doesn’t even touch what Dante Romano is to me. To us. And the way he’s standing there with his jaw clenched like he’s ready to devour me whole doesn’t spell friendly, does it?
“Okay!” Her eyes light up, and she beams from ear to ear as she walks over. I swear my kid would sell her soul for some extra time with glitter.
Aria looks up and gives Dante a big smile that hits me like a sucker punch. “Hi, party man!”
His mouth quirks up. “Hey, sunshine.”
Sweet buttery hell.
Why does it feel like I’m watching two magnets find each other? Those eyes, planted from the same seed.
I need to get her out of here.
“Aria, go on now.” I plaster on a smile like my world isn’t seconds from imploding.
Dante steps aside as she trots past him, his gaze tracking her movements. My chest caves a little. He doesn’t know. Fuck. Does he?
I wait until she disappears behind the door. And then I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath for weeks. It’s just Dante and me now. And the silence? Thick enough to choke me.
Our eyes meet, and they look like trouble’s here for answers. Don’t look at him, I tell myself, but it’s easier said than done.
How does he look like that at seven in the morning?
Like he just rolled out of bed and straight into my bloodstream.
That black t-shirt might as well have been sewn onto him, his hair perfectly mussed and his eyes cutting into me with such sharp confidence, like they already know every filthy thought sprinting through my head.
I’m screwed. Completely, hopelessly, morally bankrupt levels of screwed.
The heat pools low in my belly, the way it always has around him. My thighs clench. My brain short-circuits. So, naturally, I do the one thing that’s saved me from spontaneous combustion before.
“Coffee?”
“Sure.”
I bolt behind the counter and start making coffee like it’s a damn emergency drill.
I busy my hands by making coffee because it’s something to do. Something to keep me from grabbing the panic and wearing it on my sleeve. I grind the beans with such fury, just enough to forget that this isn’t my personal apocalypse happening live.
I keep my eyes on the mug like it’s the Holy Grail, because if I look at him again? Game over.
I can’t afford to lose right now.
“You’re up early,” I say, because silence makes my mind go haywire with possibilities.
“Never really went to bed.”
I glance over my shoulder. “Trouble sleeping?”
“You could say that.”
The espresso machine hisses, and I pour out two cups. Dante takes the coffee without a word. His fingers brush mine and zap—every fucking nerve I’ve got lights up like we’re running electricity through the floorboards.
We sit across from each other in the empty bakery—the lights dim, chairs stacked, CLOSED sign still swinging in the window. It feels like a damn interrogation room with better pastries.
“Coffee’s good.” He takes a sip, his tall frame making the bakery chair look like doll furniture.
“So.” My voice comes out all wobbly, like a teenage girl at prom trying to ask the quarterback for a dance. Smooth, Cassie. Real smooth. “You, uh… wanna talk?”
His stare? All quiet power. Like a lit fuse with nowhere to run. Calm on the outside, but I can feel the explosion coming.
“You work too hard,” he says. “I’ve seen it. Taking care of this place. Taking care of her.”
I swallow at the acknowledgment. “That’s life.”
His gaze hooks onto me and doesn’t let go, stripping like he’s pulling answers straight out of what I choose not to say. “How are you, Cassie? Really.”
And just like that, I’m two seconds from folding like cheap patio furniture.
I grab my coffee, fingertips knocking against the ceramic like I’m in withdrawal. “I’m fine.”
“Fine?” He sounds like he’s already called bullshit and is just waiting for me to catch up.
My throat closes. I can’t handle this. I can’t handle him . He’s too calm. Like he knows I’m lying but wants me to say it out loud, anyway.
“You’re doing all this alone, and you’re fine? Where’s that ex of yours? He giving you trouble?”
His voice dips lower, colder. Like he could rip the roof off this town if I say yes.
I flinch. Stupid reaction. Stupid truth.
“I’m fine.”
A simple lie I’ve been saying to myself on a goddamn loop.
Dante tilts his head—not buying an ounce of my bullshit. “Cass.” His tone drops like a threat wrapped in concern. “I know that divorce didn’t go down clean.”
“I’m tired.” It slips out before I can cage it. “I’m so—” My voice cracks. “—so tired of carrying all of this alone.”
There it is. Out in the wild. Vulnerability, front and center.
But God… I’ve been holding my whole world together with a schedule and caffeine for too long.
The note still burns in my memory.
You can’t hide forever.
“Someone left a note,” I blurt it before I can stop myself—my mouth running faster than a Real Housewife at a reunion show. “It’s… probably a prank.”
Dante leans forward, his forearms braced on the table, jaw clenching so sharply I could grate cheese off it. “Pranks don’t make your hands shake like that.”
Busted wide open.
“What note?” His voice is low. Dangerous.
I regret saying anything. But there’s no rewinding now. So I fumble through it. “It’s—stupid. Just… words. Someone being an asshole.”
His stare pins me in place. “What. Did. It. Say.”
I should lie. He doesn’t need to be involved in this, because if Dante cares? I’ll find myself an inch away from trouble. But his eyes? They’re not budging.
I drag in a shaky breath. “You can’t hide forever. Gino’s always had trouble letting go.” I try to let out a laugh, but it sounds like I’m being throttled. “But he’s harmless.”
The air between us freezes. His face looks like a ticking bomb, now. I feel it in the floorboards. In my chest.
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“You tell anyone?” His eyes narrow over every inch of me. “Cops? Tina?”
I shake my head. “It’s probably just—Gino being dramatic. Or stupid. Or both.”
“Or it’s worse.”
I can’t breathe. Not with him looking at me like that. Not with every nerve ending in my body lit up, screaming run and stay at the same damn time.
“Dante,” I start, but my voice barely works now. “This isn’t your problem.”
“Helping you isn’t a problem,” he says, sounding furious at me for how I think.
I shove my chair back an inch, pulse thudding against my ribs like a war drum. His protectiveness? It’s not sweet. It’s not some Hallmark bullshit wrapped in a bow. It’s raw, suffocating, a hurricane wrapped in tattoos.
I can’t let this happen.
“You don’t get to waltz in here and—” I gesture wildly between us, nearly knocking over my coffee. “—do this caveman routine. I’ve been surviving just fine.”
He levels me with that storm-blue stare. “Is that what you call surviving? You look exhausted, Cassie. You’re shaking. You got a goddamn threatening note.”
“It’s my life,” I snap. “I’m the one raising her. I’m the one holding it all together.”
“You shouldn’t have to do it alone.” His jaw ticks again.
“I’m not your problem. I’ve handled this for three years?—”
His eyes darken, voice dropping like a warning shot. “Cassie.”
“No,” I repeat, chest tight, heart thundering like it’s trying to punch out of my ribcage. “I don’t need saving.”
The space between us sizzles, my body traitorously lighting up under his stare. His fists unclench, but he doesn’t move. His restraint? Barely hanging on by a thread.
And God help me… a small, stupid part of me wants to let him save me.
But I can’t.
Because the second he steps in? The truth comes crashing down.
And I’m not ready to lose everything.
Not yet.
“You tell me what he’s done, then we’ll see,” he demands.
“It’s mostly threats,” I say, just to get him to stop talking about saving me. “Phone calls. Notes. People watching the house. The car yesterday…” I clench my hands. “But he hasn’t… he hasn’t touched us. Not in a long time.”
“You really believe that’s where it ends?” His jaw flexes as if he’s grinding his molars to dust. “You think he’ll just leave you alone now?”
My throat burns. I shake my head because I don’t believe that either. I never have.
“Let me help,” he says, his voice softer now. Careful. Like I might break if he says it too loud. “I can make this go away, Cassie.”
“I don’t need saving, Dante.” I sound sharp, tired of repeating myself.
His look is dangerous now. “You’re right. You don’t need saving. You need someone who’ll burn the whole fucking world down for you.”
That silences me. His words crawl under my skin, coil around my ribs, squeeze my lungs until breathing feels optional.
You need someone who’ll burn the whole fucking world down for you.
No one has said I deserve that before. My brain’s running circuits that it didn’t know it had. My body? It’s got its own goddamn agenda now. My thighs clench, my nipples perk up like they’ve RSVP’d to this shitshow.
I should shut this down.
I should stand up, back away, build the walls higher, lock him out?—
But his eyes lock with mine and make me forget the world outside. When he leans in over the table, I meet him halfway, like this is some kind of peace negotiation that’d do me good.
His hand moves lightning-fast, curling around the back of my neck—warm, rough, grounding—and then his mouth crashes onto mine.
Holy shit.
It’s hunger. It’s three years of bite-your-tongue longing, three years of every filthy, forbidden thought detonating like fireworks behind my eyes.
His lips devour me. His tongue sweeps into my mouth like he’s claiming territory that was always his. My insides? Molten. My brain? Static. My panties? Flooded.
I moan—God help me—and that stupid, traitorous noise earns me a low growl from his chest. His fingers tighten in my hair, tipping my head back so he can kiss me deeper, rougher, like I’m oxygen and he’s been drowning since the day I left.
I’m spiraling. Spiraling so hard my knees nearly buckle.
But I kiss him back.
Because I’m weak and starving. Because my body’s been on a Dante-shaped hunger strike for years.
It’s unhinged. It’s reckless. It’s?—
Too much.
I rip away, chest heaving, lips swollen, breath barely functioning.
“This… can’t happen again,” I gasp, fingers trembling as I press them to my kiss-bruised mouth.
Liar, my body screams. Do it again, do it again, ruin me.
But my heart? My heart’s still clawing for control. For caution. For the distance I’ve fought so damn hard to keep.
His eyes? They say we’re already past that point.
And I…
Yeah, I’m fucked.