Chapter 30
Harlow
Several days have passed since the stalker incident, yet the feeling lingers, clinging to me like decay, vile and inescapable.
I was showering.
He was in the room.
And I had no fucking idea.
It isn’t just the invasion of privacy, it’s the mockery of it. The sheer audacity of a man who dared to come so close, to watch, to wait, to slip past every barrier Dante put in place to protect me.
A chill burrows beneath my skin, deep and unrelenting. I feel defiled.
No amount of scrubbing, no scalding-hot showers, no freshly laundered sheets have erased the sensation. His presence lingers. In that room. In my mind. I can still hear my own panicked breaths echoing against the tiles, still feel the weight of unseen eyes violating the space meant to be mine alone.
Dante has doubled security.
Tripled it, even.
I can’t take a single step without a shadow at my back, a man at my door, a gun always within reach. I can’t so much as enter the bathroom without a guard stationed outside.
Dante watches me like a hawk, his fury a barely leashed beast beneath the surface, his guilt eating him alive.
But it wasn’t his fault.
It wasn’t his failure.
And yet, the apprehension persists.
I feel it now, seated on the bleachers at Mattia’s football practice. The ever-present weight of my security detail looms behind me, their eyes scanning the field. The coaches, the parents, anyone could be a threat. My gaze sweeps over the crowd, flicking from face to face, tension coiled tight in my stomach.
Yet after everything, after the invasion of my own home, being out in the open no longer feels like the greatest danger.
He was in my home.
In my fucking bathroom.
There’s nowhere safer, and yet he still got in.
So what’s the point of hiding?
I exhale, adjusting the baseball cap on my head and pushing my sunglasses further up my nose. My body is covered, leggings hugging my legs, an oversized t-shirt draped over my frame, but the unease is still there.
The coach offers me a nod from across the field, but something about him unsettles me.
I know I’m being irrational. Maybe I’m simply seeing threats where there are none, searching for danger in every shadow.
Exhaling slowly, I shift my focus back to the game, my gaze instinctively finding Mattia. Beside him, a boy says something, his smile curling with cruel intent.
I catch the subtle change in Mattia’s stance, the tension coiling in his shoulders, the way his fists tighten at his sides. A second later, his knuckles crash into the other boy’s face.
Damn it.
I’m already on my feet, sprinting forward.
The kid stumbles back but retaliates swiftly, his fist connecting with Mattia’s side. He barely flinches.
They’re brawling now, fists flying, angry shouts echoing across the field. The coach rushes forward, but I reach them first. I step between them, my arm shooting out to grab the boy by the collar, yanking him back before he can land another punch.
“Enough!”
My voice cuts through the air like a whip.
The coach halts in front of us, eyes flashing with barely restrained frustration.
Mattia stands rigid beside me, chest heaving, jaw clenched tight, fists still coiled at his sides. The other kid wipes the blood from his nose, glaring.
“Stupid idiot!”
He mutters under his breath.
I step forward, my gaze sharp, deadly.
“What was that?”
The boy swallows.
Smart.
I turn back to Mattia, but he’s already storming off, his shoulders rigid, his small frame vibrating with rage.
I follow him, the guards flanking us as we move toward the car. Mattia wrenches the door open, slamming it shut behind him.
Piero steps forward to take the driver’s seat, but I hold up a hand.
“I’ll drive.”
His brow furrows.
“Mrs. Salvatore, I—”
I cut him off, my voice flat, absolute.
“We have three cars tailing us. A security team in the front, one in the back. I think I’ll manage.”
He pauses. And I raise a brow, daring him to argue. Finally, he hands me the keys, stepping aside.
I slide into the driver’s seat, starting the engine, glancing at Mattia. He’s silent, his jaw set. I pull out of the lot, the other cars following behind. For a few minutes, there’s only silence.
Then, I speak.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Silence.
I glance at him from the corner of my eye. Arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes locked on the window. His scowl is deep, lips pressed into a firm, stubborn line.
I sigh, adjusting my grip on the wheel.
“I’m not going to force you. But I’m here.”
More silence.
Just as I think he’s going to ignore me completely, a small voice mutters.
“He was talking shit.”
I keep my tone even.
“About what? And watch your language, you’re far too young to speak that way.”
He falls silent for a moment, hesitation hanging heavy in the air. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he murmurs, “You.”
A warmth blooms in my chest, unexpected and unbidden. Did he just protect me? This boy, so small, yet so fierce.
I say nothing, allowing him the space to continue. Mattia inhales sharply through his nose, his hands curling into fists in his lap. “He said…”
His jaw tightens, his small body coiling with rage.
“He said you’re just some whore my dad picked up. And that I finally got myself a mommy.”
My grip tightens on the wheel, rage coiling hot and sharp along my spine. There’s no way a boy his age came up with this on his own, he must have heard it from an adult. Beside me, Mattia’s voice quiets, his small shoulders curling inward.
I hate seeing him like this.
“It's been happening for a while,”
he mumbles, kicking at nothing.
“They know I don't have a mom. They always say stuff. Mean stuff.”
His tone drops even further, almost as if he's trying to convince himself.
“I don’t care. It’s stupid anyway.”
I don’t get the chance to reply because he scoffs, shaking his head, but there’s something raw beneath the bravado.
“I don’t need a mom anyway.”
His voice turns rigid, like he’s trying to force himself to believe it.
“She left me. I don’t need her.”
A slow breath pushes past my lips as I swallow down the ache in my throat.
I want to tell him she didn’t deserve him.
I want to tell him he’s allowed to be angry.
But instead, I keep my voice soft.
“I’ll be here for you, Mattia. Always.”
He stiffens, his small hands balling into fists in his lap. But I don’t stop.
“I’m not asking you to see me as a mother or a replacement.”
My voice remains steady.
“All I’m saying is that I can be whatever you need, a friend, a confidante, someone who will always stand in your corner.”
He stares out the window, silent.
And I let him sit with it. With the truth. Because I won’t force him to say anything he isn’t ready to.
But I hope, one day, he believes me.
After a few minutes, he finally exhales. With a dramatic huff, he mutters.
“I saw how you grabbed that boy. If the coach and parents weren’t there, I think you were about to fight for me.”
A smirk tugs at my lips as I focus back on the road.
Damn right, I almost did.
If those little shits think they can mess with my kid.
They’re about to learn exactly who they’re dealing with.
The ride home is short, the silence between us comfortable. Mattia feels lighter, visibly better, even trying to lift the mood.
But I’m still furious.
Furious at the woman who left him.
How fucking dare she abandon him, leave this gaping wound in his chest, one he tries so desperately to pretend isn’t there?
I hate the way he hardens himself, fists always at the ready, walls built far too high for a child his age.
And I hate her for making him this way.
Pulling into the estate, I shift the car into park just as Mattia pushes the door open and dashes inside.
A slow breath escapes me, an attempt to steady the anger still burning beneath my skin. Once inside, I head straight for Dante’s office, knowing he’ll be there.
I don’t knock.
I burst in, and within a second, his gun is pointed at me. I don’t even flinch. I just lift a brow, arms crossing as I stare him down.
Dante exhales, lowering his weapon. A flicker of amusement dances beneath the icy veneer of his expression.
“If you were anyone else,”
he muses, his tone edged with quiet menace.
“you’d be dead for barging in like that.”
“Yeah, yeah. No one ever taught me manners.”
I mutter, rolling my eyes as I stride further inside, utterly unfazed.
Dante watches me carefully as I sink into the chair across from him, one leg crossing over the other. His sharp gaze narrows, studying me.
“What’s wrong?”
I don’t answer immediately. Instead, I let my eyes flick over the organized chaos of his desk, the stacks of documents, the gun beside his laptop, the faint smell of his cologne blending with the scent of leather and smoke.
Finally, I meet his gaze.
“Mattia got into a fight today.”
Dante doesn’t react right away. Then, slowly, he leans back in his chair, fingers tapping against the armrest. “Oh?”
I glare. That’s it.
“Yes, oh. And from what I gather, it’s not the first time.”
He exhales, a quiet breath of contemplation, shaking his head.
“I’m well aware. But things have been markedly better since you came into our lives.”
The casual way he says it shouldn’t make my heart clench, but it fucking does.
I push past it.
“If you know he’s been struggling, Dante, why haven’t you done anything?”
His gaze sharpens.
“I can’t get involved.”
I scoff.
“He’s a child.”
“He’s my child.”
His tone darkens.
“And he was born into my world, Harlow. You know how it works.”
I shake my head, exasperated.
“He’s eight.”
I emphasize.
Dante doesn’t waver. Not even a little.
“It’s irrelevant,”
he says, his tone clipped, unyielding.
“This is the life he was born into, and it is no place for the weak. He must learn to fight his own battles now, or this world will devour him and spit out what remains. Strength is not a choice, Harlow, it’s a necessity. I won’t coddle him.”
I grit my teeth, frustration burning in my chest. But the worst part?
He’s not wrong.
And he knows it.
Dante watches me for a long moment before exhaling, dragging a hand through his hair.
“I know he struggles,”
he says.
“I know exactly what those little bastards say.”
His voice is a quiet promise of violence.
“How they try to tear him down, strip away his pride, make him feel small.” A dangerous gleam flickers in his eyes, his tone steeped in something merciless.
“But you know what?” He exhales sharply. “I’m fucking proud. Proud that he fights, that he doesn’t cower, that he gives as good as he gets. Because weakness in this world is a death sentence, and I’ll be damned if my son ever wears it.”
I huff, shaking my head, but a small, unwilling smile tugs at my lips.
“He’s so much like you,” I mutter.
Dante’s grin is slow, knowing, wicked.
“He’ll be worse.”
He holds my gaze for a beat, before he crooks a finger, gesturing me forward.
“Come here.”
I falter for half a second before pushing myself up and moving toward him.
Dante remains seated, his gaze locked onto mine as I close the distance between us. His hands find my waist, pulling me into his lap. Slowly he removes my cap, letting my hair spill free. His fingers slide into the strands, gripping just firmly enough to tip my head back. He inhales deeply, his lips grazing my throat, a whisper of heat against my skin.
“I missed my wife.”
His voice is rough.
Heat flares through me as his lips graze my pulse, then travel lower, his mouth trailing kisses down my neck. I shift, my hands resting against his chest.
“Dante, what if someone…”
I murmur, but my breath catches when his teeth nip at my skin.
He smirks against my throat.
“No one’s coming in.”
he assures, his hands sliding down to my hips, gripping tight. And then, in one swift movement, he lifts me, setting me on his desk. I suck in a sharp breath, my legs parting instinctively as he steps between them.
His hands trail down my thighs, his touch possessive, demanding.
“Let me show you just how much I missed you.”
I don’t get a chance to answer before his mouth crashes onto mine. His kiss is raw, fervent, an unspoken vow, a claim reignited with every bruising press of his lips. I moan into his mouth as his fingers hook into the waistband of my leggings, dragging them down in one smooth motion, stripping away every barrier between us. I shiver at the feeling of the cool air against my bare skin. Dante groans, his hands gripping my thighs, spreading them wider.
“Fuck, you’re dripping.”
I gasp as his fingers tease my entrance, barely touching me, just enough to drive me insane. “Dante—”
He doesn’t answer.
Instead, his hand moves to undo his belt with a sharp pull. A whisper of fabric follows as his pants and boxers are discarded in an instant. Heat radiates from him as he positions himself at my entrance.
He sinks in with one deep thrust, stretching me to the brink of sensation. My head falls back, a strangled moan escaping my lips as his grip tightens, holding me precisely where he wants. His lips ghost up the line of my jaw, his voice dark, raw, and possessive.
“Mine.”
Thrust.
“My fucking wife.”
Thrust.
“My possession.”
Thrust.
Each movement unravels me, each thrust wiping away everything that isn’t him, until I am lost in nothing but the feeling of Dante Salvatore consuming me whole.
He worships me with his body, with his touch, with every sharp snap of his hips against mine.
I don’t know how long we go on, but when I finally shatter, he’s right there with me, my name a curse and a prayer on his lips as he follows me over the edge.
I am breathless. Claimed.
Marked in a way that can never be undone.
Ruined for anyone else—body, mind, and soul.