8. Chapter 8
Chapter 8
Evelyn
T he villa's musty interior fades away as I sink into the plush leather of Dante's sleek Maserati, the lingering haze of desire still clouding my senses.
"God, you're insatiable," I breathe, unable to resist reaching for him as he slides behind the wheel. My fingers trail along the firm line of his jaw, reveling in the rough texture of his stubble.
Dante's eyes blaze with undisguised hunger as he captures my wandering hand, pressing a lingering kiss to my palm. "You act as if that's news to you, tesoro ."
A grin curves my lips at the endearment. Emboldened, I lean across the console to ghost my mouth over his in a feather-light tease. "Maybe I just can't get enough of you."
A low, rumbling growl vibrates against my lips just before he surges forward, capturing me in a blistering kiss that leaves me breathless and aching for more. His hand fists in my hair, holding me firmly in place as he ravages my mouth with the same smoldering intensity he'd unleashed against the villa's ancient walls.
Only the sound of the engine turning over finally breaks the heated spell woven around us. With a muttered curse, Dante tears himself away, leaving me flushed and panting in the passenger seat.
"Temptress," he accuses, though the husky timbre of his voice takes any sting out of the words.
I merely arch a brow, making a show of adjusting my tousled hair and rumpled clothing. "I seem to recall you starting this particular game."
His answering smirk is all sin and roguish charm as he peels away from the villa's crumbling facade, the powerful engine rumbling to life beneath us. "Then you'll have to accept the consequences when I finish it."
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry as the implications of his words sink in. Before I can formulate a suitably provocative retort, however, something catches my eye in the rearview mirror. There's a nondescript sedan trailing us, hanging back just enough to avoid drawing overt attention.
Dante sees it, too.
"We've got company," he murmurs. His expression is unreadable as those piercing dark eyes take in our unwanted shadow.
Then, without a word, he guns the engine, sending the Maserati surging forward with a burst of speed that leaves my heart in my throat.
Instinctively, I grip the door handle, my knuckles blanching with the force of my grip as the world outside blurs. The trailing sedan accelerates to match our speed, the distance between us rapidly closing.
"Dante..." I can't quite conceal the waver of uncertainty in my voice.
"Easy, tesoro ." His tone is calm, the complete antithesis to the adrenaline spiking through my veins. Reaching across the console, he settles his free hand over mine in a silent gesture of reassurance. "Just stay low and let me handle this."
Before I can so much as draw another shuddering breath, the unmistakable crack of gunfire splits the air behind us. My entire body goes rigid, every nerve ending alight with terror.
Dante, however, doesn't miss a beat. Twisting the wheel with one hand, he sends the Maserati hurtling around a sharp bend, the tires shrieking in protest as they struggle for purchase. The sedan follows suit a heartbeat later, the staccato pop of more gunshots ringing out in its wake.
I flinch instinctively, ducking lower in my seat. "Christ, Dante, they're shooting at us!"
"I'd noticed." The dry response is accompanied by another dizzying maneuver. The powerful engine howls as the speedometer needle edges ever higher.
Somehow, his unflappable calm steadies me, anchoring me against the surging tide of panic threatening to drag me under. My fingers tighten around his in a silent gesture of gratitude—and a bone-deep trust that he knows precisely what he's doing.
Sure enough, the instant we break free of the winding backroads, he floors the accelerator. Daring a glance behind us, I can just make out the pursuing sedan, its dark silhouette rapidly receding in the rearview mirror.
The engine's roar fades to a dull thrum as Dante eases off the gas, the Maserati coasting along a quiet residential street lined with stately brownstones. I chance another glance over my shoulder, but the sedan is nowhere in sight.
Relief washes over me. "I think... I think we're clear."
The adrenaline ebbs, leaving me lightheaded in the aftermath of the harrowing chase. My hands tremble faintly as I glance at Dante, searching for any hint of reassurance or comfort in those rugged features.
But the man beside me is utterly unrecognizable.
His jaw is set in an unyielding line, those dark eyes narrowed to flinty slits as he barks orders into the phone pressed to his ear. The words are clipped, laced with a hardness that sends an involuntary shiver rippling down my spine.
"...I want every possible angle covered." A muscle ticks in his cheek as he listens to the response, his knuckles whitening around the phone's sleek casing. "And find me something concrete on Valtieri's involvement while you're at it."
My breath hitches at that name—Marco Valtieri, the man from the chapel. Is that who orchestrated the brazen attack? A fresh surge of unease swirls through me, curdling into a knot of dread in the pit of my stomach.
As if sensing my disquiet, Dante cuts a glance my way, his expression as unreadable as chiseled stone. "Secure the north perimeter first and double the guard rotations. I don't want so much as a stray cat getting through unchecked until we have this handled."
With that final, brusque command, he disconnects the call and tosses the phone onto the console with a sharp clatter.
"Dante..." I begin tentatively, my throat dry as a bone. I reach for him again, desperate to bridge the sudden, cavernous distance that seems to have sprung up between us. "What's going on? Talk to me."
His only response is a low, rumbling exhale that could almost be mistaken for a growl. He doesn't so much as spare me a second glance, his jaw still rigid with tension as he maneuvers the Maserati through Arcadia's familiar streets.
Finally, the car glides to a smooth halt in the circular drive of the Romano estate. Before I can even unbuckle my seatbelt, Dante is already uncoiling from the driver's seat, his movements sharp as he exits the vehicle without so much as a backward glance in my direction.
This is all wrong. The man I've come to know is nowhere to be found.
In his place is someone else entirely. Someone hard and unreachable, utterly entrenched in the cold brutality of the underworld that spawned him.
The driver's side door slams shut with a resounding thud, the sound like a death knell for whatever fragile thing had blossomed between Dante and me. Throat tight, I force myself to exit the car, trailing numbly in his wake as a familiar figure emerges from the estate's gaping maw.
Aldo, Dante's second. His gaze slides over me with an indifference bordering on disdain as he exchanges a few terse words with Dante in rapid-fire Italian. Then, without preamble, Dante pivots on his heel and strides toward the front door.
My heart stutters in my chest as Aldo turns his attention to me, his gaze as cold and assessing as I've come to expect from Dante's inner circle. "You're free to go, Miss Hughes."
The words hit me like a physical blow. "What?"
He arches an imperious brow, as if questioning my comprehension. "Mr. Romano is no longer in need of your assistance. You're to collect your things and return to your normal life."
The dismissal lances straight through me with all the force of a serrated blade. Dante is done with me. I’ve been used up and cast aside like some disposable pawn in his grand game.
Hot, stinging tears prick at the corners of my eyes as the hurt blazes to life, quickly smothered beneath an inferno of white-hot anger. How dare he? After everything we've been through, every step of this twisted journey we've walked together, he has the audacity to simply discard me without a second thought? But what can I do?
In this world, I'm utterly powerless.
The anger drains out of me in a raging torrent, leaving me hollow.
"A car is waiting to take you wherever you need to go." Aldo's words slice through the roaring silence.
I nod numbly, the fight utterly drained out of me. There's no point in chasing after Dante, in demanding answers or begging for closure. He's made his stance abundantly clear through his actions, callous and uncompromising as they may be.
With leaden steps, I trail after Aldo toward the idling town car, sliding into the plush leather interior without a word. It isn't until the heavy door thunks shut, cocooning me in the vehicle's stifling silence, that the first rogue tear streaks a glistening path down my cheek.
The driver glances back at me expectantly. "Where to, miss?"
The question hangs heavy in the stillness as I cast one last look at the imposing facade of the Romano estate. At the man who had stormed back into its depths without so much as a backward glance.
I need the safe haven of familiarity now, a sanctuary far removed from the chaos and peril that have turned my life utterly upside down.
"The library," I murmur at last. "Take me to the Arcadia Historical Library."
There, surrounded by the dusty tomes and quiet stillness that have ever been my solace, I can begin the long journey of piecing myself back together.