15. Cassie
CASSIE
I freeze mid-step, every cell in my body locking up like I just walked into a zombie apocalypse.
My pulse flatlines. My skin goes ice-cold, but my blood’s still roaring in my ears, loud enough to drown out logic. I press closer to the wall, heart hammering, listening hard. The snap of his phone slamming shut nearly makes me jump out of my skin.
But I heard enough already.
Gino.
My ex. My mistake. The monster under the bed I’ve been running from like my life depends on it—because it does.
And Dante?
He’s hunting him down.
I had only come down the hall to check on Aria, and I did. But then I overheard something I wish I hadn’t. The right thing to do would be to walk away like some June Cleaver.
But I’m no June, and Dante’s not who I answer to.
I don’t think. I just storm down the hall like a woman with zero survival instincts, like my mouth’s moving faster than my common sense.
“Gino?” My voice cracks. “You’re going after Gino?”
Dante doesn’t flinch. Just turns real slow, like he’d never be caught dead surprised.
His eyes drag over me. “I have to.”
“You have to? You have to?” I laugh, wild and bitter. “God, you sound just like them.”
“Them?” He arches a brow, crossing his arms like he’s settling in to win this argument.
I shove a hand through my hair, pacing, fighting the chokehold of panic curling tight around my ribs. “The world I barely crawled away from, Dante. The goddamn mafia. The guns tucked under pillows like nightlights. I escaped that.”
“And now it’s back,” he bites out. “Or did you miss the guy casing the house? Watching my daughter sleep?”
The words sucker-punch me in the gut. His daughter.
My mouth opens—but no denial comes out.
Dante steps closer, his voice low, lethally calm. “I’m not your ex. I’m not some jealous asshole making your life hell for sport. But I’m not gonna sit on my hands while the man who’s been stalking you—stalking her —creeps around my house.”
I shake my head, chest cracking open. “You’re a bullet waiting to ricochet, Dante. That’s all you’ve ever been. You don’t fix things. You blow them up.”
Instead, he moves like lightning. One moment I’m standing there shaking with rage, the next my back hits the wall, his hand around my wrist, pinning it above my head.
“And yet,” he murmurs, eyes dragging over me, softening just enough to shatter my defenses, “you’re still here.”
His gaze drills into mine, silent, waiting for the one truth I refuse to speak.
I don’t say it. I can’t say it.
But I don’t deny it either.
And his eyes darken, like he’s already put the pieces together.
His body cages mine, all heat and coiled power. His face inches from mine, breath hot on my cheek.
“I would never hurt you,” he says. “Never. But I’d take down anyone who does.”
Our eyes lock, and I can’t breathe or think. Heck, I can’t remember why I was fighting him in the first place.
Because this close? This is where the danger really is. My pulse skips like it belongs to him already.
His grip loosens on my wrist, but he doesn’t back off. His free hand skims down my side, rough, greedy, settling on my hip like he owns it.
“You gonna run?” His voice curls around me like smoke, dangerous and impossible to resist.
“I should,” I whisper, but I don’t move. My voice is all breath, my knees weak, every cell in my body sparking like faulty wiring.
Instead, I lean in. It’s like striking a match over gasoline.
Dante doesn’t wait for permission after that.
His mouth crashes into mine, all fury and ache, his kiss a brutal collision of teeth, breath, and want.
It steals the air from my lungs, burns away the space between us.
His hand knots in my hair, tilting my head back.
My body responds before my brain can catch up, tongue meeting his in a clash that’s more battle than kiss.
The world blurs. The hall disappears. It’s just him—his hands, his mouth, the raw, unbearable heat that coils low in my belly.
My hands fist in his shirt, nails raking down his chest as I try to get closer, to crawl inside him, to disappear into this feeling that’s burning me alive.
He groans into my mouth, low and rough, the sound vibrating straight down my spine like a damn earthquake. His hands are everywhere—tangled in my hair, sliding down my back, gripping my hips like he paid a down payment on them.
“Fuck, Cassie,” he growls, lips dragging fire down my neck, voice all wrecked and dangerous. “You drive me insane.”
Yeah? Welcome to the club. I’ve got a lifetime membership to losing-my-damn-mind.
I can’t use my words and can barely breathe with the way my pulse is short-circuiting every rational thought.
His hands slide down, gripping under my thighs, and in the next breath, my legs are locked around his waist. He carries me like I weigh nothing—like I’m light as sin and just as tempting—stumbling down the hall, eating up the space between us like a man starved.
The first door we reach? He kicks it open like the damn Terminator.
Guest room. Empty. Dark. Perfect.
The door slams shut behind us, and the next thing I know, my back hits it hard, knocking the air from my lungs, but God, I don’t even care. All I care about is him—his mouth crashing back to mine, his hands sliding down my legs, up my ass, gripping me like I’m his last good decision.
His voice wrecks me, low and guttural against my throat, his teeth scraping skin. “I need you, now.”
“Yeah,” I tug at his shirt. “So do it already.”
His hands slide down, fingers gripping my ass so tight I swear I see stars behind my eyelids.
“Goddamn, Cass,” he mutters, voice all wrecked and hungry, like he’s been waiting for this as long as I’ve been stupid enough to run from it. “You always did know how to drive a man crazy.”
Suddenly, the floor’s gone. I yelp as he throws me over his shoulder like I’m some package, his hand landing a sharp smack to my backside for good measure.
“Be good, Cassie,” he tosses over his shoulder, low and smug, like he knows full well that’s never gonna happen.
And then he tosses me onto the bed, like I’m weightless, like I’m his to do with what he wants, and the mattress dips under me with a bounce.
I stare up at him, pulse tripping over itself, every nerve ending lit up and buzzing.
The room feels too small. Too hot. Too inevitable.
He stands over me, like some apex predator deciding exactly how he’s going to ruin me.
His hands dip, fingers hooking into the waistband of my shorts, yanking them down my legs in one sharp, rough motion that sends goosebumps racing across my skin.
Then he stops.
Freezes.
His eyes drag over me, slow, dangerous, pupils blown wide as they land between my thighs.
“No panties?” His voice drops an octave, pure sin. “Naughty little thing.”
Heat slams through me, pooling low, my pulse tripping all over itself. I didn’t plan this—just threw on the first thing after my shower—but the way he’s looking at me? Like I choreographed this whole damn disaster?
Yeah. Feels really orchestrated now.
“Wasn’t expecting company,” I shoot back, breathless, trying to cling to some ounce of dignity.
His eyes narrow, full of challenge, full of knowing. That smirk curves cruel at the edges. “Liar.”
Then he’s on me, tearing at my thin cotton robe, pushing it off my shoulders. His hands find my camisole next, and I arch up, letting him pull it over my head. Cool air hits my bare skin, nipples tightening as his gaze devours me.
“Fuck,” he breathes, reverent, voice thick, thumb brushing slow circles over my aching peak. His other hand ghosts down my thigh, staking his claim without saying a word. “You don’t even know what you do to me, Cass.”
My pulse hammers. My brain short-circuits.
I know exactly what I do to him.
And I’m about to let him do worse.
My back bows off the bed at his touch, every nerve ending lit up like I’m wired straight into the damn power grid. A whimper rips from my throat, pathetic and needy, but I don’t even care.
He doesn’t rush.
Doesn’t race to the good part like some overeager frat boy.
No—Dante savors, dragging this out like a man with all the time in the world and no intention of letting me off easy. His fingers roll my nipples between them, slow and punishing, watching every twitch of my body like he’s mapping out my destruction.
“Dante,” I gasp, hips rocking up, searching for friction, for him, for anything that’ll kill the ache crawling under my skin. “Please?—”
His mouth curves against my breast, dangerous and dark. “Patience, baby,” he drawls, bending lower to take one tight peak into his mouth. He sucks hard, teeth grazing just enough to make me cry out, back arching, thighs clenching.
“You’ve been fighting me for days,” he mutters against my skin, the rough scrape of his stubble sending goosebumps racing down my spine. “Now I’m taking my time. Call it punishment.”
Heat rolls through me, sharp and messy, the ache building low, molten, impossible to ignore.
But even as he plays it cool, I see it—the cracks in his control.
His hands shake, just barely. His jaw is clenched so tight it could snap. His eyes? Black with hunger. Dante Romano’s unraveling, and I’m the reason.
Good.
He stands, jerking his shirt over his head with none of the patience he just preached. My mouth dries out at the sight—hard muscle, ink trailing down his arms, curling around his ribs, disappearing under the waistband of his jeans.
I swallow, my thighs clenching tight.
God help me, I want him to wreck me.
His jeans hit the floor, kicked off with sharp frustration, and then he’s naked—completely, gloriously, terrifyingly naked.
My eyes drag down, pulse jackknifing at the sight of him—thick, hard, heavy, already flushed with need. My body remembers exactly how he feels inside me.
Every inch.
Every stretch.
Every time he ruins me so good, I forget my own damn name.
His hand wraps around the base of his cock, stroking slowly, teasing.