CHAPTER 11
SIENNA
The hard plaster of the wall bit into my spine, but I barely registered the discomfort. All I could feel was the heavy, solid heat of Dante’s body pressing against mine and the absolute demand of his mouth.
I tangled my fingers in his dark hair, pulling him closer, chasing the taste of him. He tasted like dark coffee, adrenaline, and something entirely ruinous. The thick leather straps of his shoulder holster pressed directly into my chest, a physical reminder of exactly who I was kissing.
I was kissing the executioner. And I didn't want him to stop.
Dante’s large hands gripped the backs of my thighs, holding me effortlessly against the wall. He deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping along my lower lip, demanding entry. I opened for him with a soft, involuntary sound, completely surrendering to the overwhelming force of his attention.
A quiet, distressed murmur broke through the haze in my brain.
“No, please…”
Dante froze.
The lethal, consuming rhythm of his kiss stopped instantly. He didn't pull away completely, but his entire body went rigid, the muscles in his back turning to stone under my hands.
I turned my head, my breathing ragged and far too loud in the quiet room.
Clara shifted on the massive king-sized bed, her face buried in the pillows. She let out another soft, fractured whimper in her sleep, her hands twitching against the duvet. She was having a nightmare.
The reality of the situation crashed over me like a bucket of ice water. My sister was sleeping ten feet away, bruised and traumatized, while I was wrapped around the Don of the New York syndicate like a climbing vine.
Dante slowly lowered my feet to the floor. His hands lingered on my hips for a fraction of a second, steadying me as my knees threatened to buckle.
He looked down at me, his whiskey eyes dark and completely dilated. The exhaustion was gone, replaced by a raw, predatory hunger that made my pulse hammer wildly against my throat.
He didn't apologize. He didn't look embarrassed. He simply reached out and gently brushed a stray lock of hair away from my face.
"Not here," he whispered, his voice a rough, dark scrape of sound.
He took a step back, creating a necessary distance between us. He looked at the heavy brass fire iron leaning against the wall, then extended his right hand toward me, palm up.
"My room," Dante offered quietly. "Unless you want to put the chair back in front of the door."
I looked at his large, calloused hand.
I had spent the last two days fighting for control. I had used sarcasm as a shield and defiance as a weapon. I had convinced myself that I was a hostage in this house. But looking at Dante now, knowing what he had done to protect my family, the illusion shattered.
He wasn't forcing me. He was giving me a choice.
I reached out and placed my hand in his.
Dante’s fingers closed around mine, his grip firm and incredibly warm. He didn't smile, but the tension in his jaw relaxed slightly. He led me out of the guest room, pulling the heavy oak door shut behind us with a quiet click.
The two guards stationed in the hallway immediately averted their eyes, staring blankly at the opposite wall as we walked past them.
Dante’s master suite was directly across the hall. He pushed the double doors open and pulled me inside.
The room was massive, decorated in shades of charcoal and slate. A wall of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the dark, sprawling gardens of the estate. There was no clutter, no unnecessary decoration. It was the bedroom of a man who required ruthless order.
Dante let go of my hand to lock the door.
The heavy deadbolt slid into place. Yesterday, that sound had sent me into a panic attack. Tonight, it sent a sharp, electric jolt straight to my core.
I was locked in with the monster, and I was exactly where I wanted to be.
Dante turned around. He shrugged off the leather shoulder holster, setting the heavy rig and the Glock 19 on the dark wood of the nightstand. The metallic clatter seemed incredibly loud in the quiet room.
He looked at me standing in the center of his bedroom, wearing oversized sweatpants and a baggy sweater.
"You are shaking," he observed, closing the distance between us with slow, deliberate steps.
"I’m not scared," I told him, lifting my chin.
"I know." He stopped right in front of me, his hands coming up to grip my waist. "That is what makes you so dangerous."
He leaned down, capturing my mouth again. This time, there was no hesitation. The kiss was slow, deep, and entirely possessive. He walked me backward until the backs of my knees hit the edge of the mattress.
I reached for the buttons of his white dress shirt, my fingers clumsy with urgency. I managed to undo the first three before Dante’s hands covered mine, stopping my frantic movements.
He pulled back, his breathing heavy.
"Look at me, Sienna," he commanded softly.
I forced my eyes open, meeting his intense, amber gaze.
"You just handed me the key to your father’s execution," Dante said, his thumbs brushing against the inside of my wrists. "You are running on adrenaline and betrayal. I will not take you if you are going to wake up tomorrow and regret it."
The blunt honesty of his words stripped away the last of my defenses.
"I don't regret giving him to you," I whispered, the truth burning my throat. "He left Clara to be tortured. He left me to be a casualty in a war he started. He stopped being my father the second he took that money."
"And us?" Dante asked, his gaze dropping to my mouth before snapping back to my eyes. "What are we?"
"We are a very complicated transaction," I murmured, a tiny, breathless smile touching my lips. I slipped my hands out from under his, sliding them up his chest to rest against his shoulders. "Take your shirt off, Dante."
A dark, incredibly wicked satisfaction flared in his eyes.
He stepped back just enough to pull the shirt over his head, tossing it onto the floor. His chest was broad, covered in a light dusting of dark hair and a map of faded scars that told the story of a very violent life.
I didn't have time to analyze them. Dante reached for the hem of my oversized cashmere sweater and pulled it over my head in one smooth motion.
The cool air of the bedroom hit my skin, but it was instantly replaced by the burning heat of his hands. He traced the line of my ribs, his touch surprisingly gentle for a man who dismantled criminal empires for a living.
"You are beautiful," he murmured, his voice thick with reverence.
He pressed a kiss to the hollow of my throat, his lips trailing down to my collarbone. I let out a soft, ragged breath, my fingers digging into the hard muscles of his arms.
Dante pushed me backward onto the mattress. The dark sheets were cool against my back, but he followed me down immediately, covering my body with his. The weight of him was grounding, chasing away the lingering echoes of the last forty-eight hours.
His mouth found mine again, hungry and demanding. He shifted his weight, his knee parting my legs, pressing exactly where the ache was building.
I arched into him, a soft sound escaping my throat.
Dante broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. He braced his weight on his forearms, looking down at me with an intensity that made my chest tight.
"Tell me," he demanded, his voice a low, rough vibration. "Tell me you want this."
"I want you," I answered, looking straight into his eyes. "I want you, Dante."
He didn't need to hear it twice.
The rest of my clothes hit the floor a second later. Dante stripped out of his trousers, his eyes never leaving mine. When he settled back over me, skin to skin, the contrast between us was stark. He was all hard lines, scars, and lethal power, while I felt entirely exposed.
But I didn't feel weak.
Dante kissed his way down my jaw, his hand sliding down my stomach, his fingers finding exactly what they were looking for. I gasped, my back arching off the mattress as a sharp, blinding wave of pleasure hit me.
"Dante," I choked out, my hands gripping the dark sheets.
"I’ve got you," he whispered against my skin. "Let go, mia sposa."
He didn't rush. He was methodical, entirely focused on unraveling my control.
Every touch, every kiss was designed to push me closer to the edge.
I writhed beneath him, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in my stomach until I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but hold onto his broad shoulders.
When I finally shattered, crying out his name, Dante caught my mouth, swallowing the sound.
I was still trembling when he shifted, settling himself between my thighs. He looked down at me, his jaw tight with his own restraint.
"Mine," he whispered, a dark, absolute claim.
He pushed into me.
A sharp gasp tore from my throat. He filled me completely, the sensation so intense it bordered on pain before melting into a heavy, consuming heat. Dante went perfectly still, giving me a moment to adjust, his forehead resting against mine.
"Okay?" he asked, his voice strained.
I nodded, wrapping my legs around his hips. "Don't stop."
He began to move. The rhythm was slow at first, deep and deliberate, but the control he was so famous for quickly began to slip. The pace accelerated, the friction building a new, desperate fire in my blood. I matched his rhythm, my nails dragging lightly down his back, urging him on.
Dante let out a harsh groan, burying his face in the curve of my neck. The rigid control of the Don vanished, leaving only a man completely consumed by the woman beneath him.
The second wave of pleasure hit me harder than the first, a blinding crash of white-hot sensation that left me entirely breathless. A second later, Dante’s body went rigid against mine, a deep, rough sound vibrating in his chest as he found his own release.
He collapsed against me, his heavy weight pressing me into the mattress.
We lay there in the quiet room, the only sound the harsh, uneven rhythm of our breathing. Dante rolled slightly to the side, pulling me flush against his chest, pulling the dark duvet over us.
I rested my head against his shoulder, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
The adrenaline was gone, leaving behind a profound, heavy exhaustion. But as I lay in the dark with the most dangerous man in New York, the reality of what I had done began to creep back into the edges of my mind.
"I killed him," I whispered into the quiet room.
Dante’s hand, which had been tracing lazy circles on my bare hip, stopped.
"Your father?" he asked quietly.
"Yes." I closed my eyes, a tight knot forming in my throat. "I gave you the ledger. I gave you Marcus. I pointed the gun at his head."
Dante shifted, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look down at me. The shadows of the room cast sharp angles across his face.
"Listen to me," Dante said, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. "You gave me information. That is all. When Antonio Rossi is found, I will be the one holding the weapon. I will be the one who pulls the trigger. The blood will be on my hands, Sienna. Never yours."
"But I wanted it," I admitted, a single tear slipping down my temple. "When I saw Clara’s face... I wanted him to die."
"Good." Dante leaned down, pressing a firm kiss to my forehead. "You have a right to your anger. But you do not carry the sin of his execution. I carry it for you. That is my job."
He wiped the tear away with his thumb, his touch incredibly gentle.
Before I could respond, the sharp, jarring buzz of a cell phone shattered the quiet of the bedroom.
Dante’s jaw tightened. He reached across me, grabbing the encrypted phone from his discarded trousers on the floor. He checked the screen.
"It’s Luca," he said, accepting the call and putting it on speaker so I could hear. "Report."
"Marcus cracked," Luca’s voice filled the room, sounding slightly out of breath. "He gave up the routing numbers. The money hit Zurich, but Rossi isn't in Europe."
I sat up, pulling the duvet over my chest. "Where is he?"
"He tried to charter a private flight, but the Petrovs flagged his passport," Luca explained. "He’s trapped in the country. Marcus says he has a backup plan. A private marina in Miami. He’s trying to buy a boat to get to the Caribbean."
"When does the boat leave?" Dante asked, sitting up as well, the tactical focus instantly returning to his eyes.
"Tomorrow night," Luca said. "But Dante... the Russians found out too. We intercepted a chatter on their frequencies. The Petrovs are sending a hit squad to Miami right now."
Dante looked at me. The quiet intimacy of the bedroom vanished, replaced by the cold, hard reality of the ticking clock.
"Get the jet ready," Dante ordered, his voice flat and lethal. "We leave for Florida in an hour."
"You want me to lead the team?" Luca asked.
"No." Dante stood up, completely unbothered by his lack of clothing, and walked toward the closet. "I am going to handle this myself. And I am bringing my wife."