Chapter 8
Blood has a rhythm.
It’s the only sound in my head as I shove open the penthouse door.
The city’s night still clings to me—sirens, fists, the echo of gunfire. The smell of smoke and iron follows me in, sharp and familiar.
We found the bastard who took the shot at Isabella.
He didn’t talk easily.
He will now.
My shoulder burns where the knife slid across it, a shallow cut but deep enough to remind me I’m still human. I’d almost forgotten.
Nicole looks up from the entryway, startled. “Dante—”
“Not now,” I growl. “She’s asleep?”
“She went to bed a few hours ago. Sofia’s out too.”
“Good.”
I head straight for my room. The adrenaline’s fading, leaving behind a haze of exhaustion and ache. My shirt’s half-soaked in blood. I tear it open, muttering under my breath when the fabric sticks to the wound.
The city outside my window glows silver-blue, indifferent to the violence it hides. I grab the first aid kit, toss it onto the counter, and start cleaning the cut with one hand.
It stings like hell.
I don’t care.
The door creaks.
I don’t look up right away, but I don’t need to. The air shifts—softer, lighter—and I know it’s her before she speaks.
“Are you—”
Her voice catches.
I glance up. She’s standing barefoot in the doorway, drowning in one of my shirts, her hair loose around her shoulders. The lamplight hits her like a secret I shouldn’t have seen.
Her eyes widen when she sees the blood. “Jesus, you’re hurt.”
“It’s nothing,” I say. “Go back to bed.”
She steps closer anyway. “That’s not nothing. You’re bleeding.”
“It’s handled.”
“It doesn’t look handled.”
Her tone cuts sharper than any blade. I should send her away. I should close the space between us with walls, not footsteps.
Instead, I watch her enter the bathroom as if gravity itself had decided she belongs here.
She stops in front of me, gaze locked on the wound. “What happened?”
“A disagreement.”
“That looks like more than a disagreement.”
Her hand hovers near my shoulder but doesn’t touch. The scent of her skin—soap, coffee, something faintly floral—fills the air between us. I swear I can feel her hesitation on my skin before she even moves.
“Sit,” she says softly.
I raise a brow. “You’re giving me orders now?”
“Someone has to.”
She takes the gauze from my hand before I can stop her. Her fingers brush mine—warm, steady.
For a second, I forget to breathe.
She presses the cloth against the wound. I tense, jaw tight.
“Sorry,” she whispers.
“Don’t apologize for doing what I should’ve done an hour ago.”
She looks up then—right into my eyes—and it’s like standing too close to a flame you can’t walk away from.
“You shouldn’t do that,” I murmur.
“Do what?”
“Look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m not a monster.”
Her breath catches. “Maybe you’re not.”
My pulse kicks hard. Her words hang there, heavy and dangerous.
She finishes wrapping my shoulder, fingers lingering a second too long before she pulls away.
When she straightens, I’m already watching her.
She’s close enough that the space between us could disappear if either of us breathed too deeply.
Her lips part like she wants to speak, but the words die somewhere between us.
I reach up—slowly, carefully—and brush a strand of hair from her face.
Her breath stutters.
The world shrinks to the sound of our hearts, the heat of the air, the inch of space we haven’t yet crossed.
I shouldn’t want this.
I shouldn’t want her.
But her gaze drops to my mouth, and every ounce of control I’ve built begins to crumble.
I lean in—just enough that I can taste her breath, coffee, and courage and sin—and she doesn’t move.
Her lashes flutter, and for one suspended heartbeat, I think I might actually lose myself to her.
Then—
“Papà!”
The sound slices through the moment like a blade.
We both freeze.
Sofia’s voice echoes down the hall, trembling. “Papà!”
I pull back instantly. The air rushes between us, cold and real again.
“Nightmare,” I mutter, more to myself than her.
She nods, wide-eyed, stepping back. “Go. She needs you.”
I don’t look back as I cross the room, but I can still feel her watching me—the heat, the tension, the almost that shouldn’t have been.
Sofia’s crying when I reach her room, tangled in blankets, clutching her rabbit.
“Principessa,” I whisper, sitting beside her. “It’s just a dream.”
She sniffles and buries her face against my chest. “You were gone.”
“I’m here.”
I hold her until her breathing evens out, until the tremors fade.
But when I glance at the doorway, I see her.
Isabella.
Standing there, barefoot and quiet, her hand pressed against the doorframe. The worry in her eyes isn’t for herself—it’s for Sofia.
And that’s what finally breaks me.
Because at that moment, I realize she doesn’t belong in my world… but my world’s already wrapped itself around her.
Sofia falls asleep with her head against my chest, her small hand still gripping my shirt.
I stay until her breathing steadies, until the room is quiet except for the soft hum of the nightlight.
I brush her curls from her face and whisper, “Ti amo, Principessa,” before I finally stand.
The house is silent.
Too silent.
It’s late—past midnight, maybe later. The kind of hour when ghosts come easier.
I walk down the hall toward Isabella’s room. The door’s half open, a sliver of light from the city spilling across the floor.
She’s asleep.
Curled on her side, hair fanned across the pillow, one hand tucked under her cheek. The shirt she wore earlier slips off one shoulder, exposing the faint bruise at her temple.
For a long moment, I stand there.
Watching.
Listening to the slow rhythm of her breath.
She looks nothing like the woman who fought me at every turn today.
No fire. No defiance.
Just quiet.
It does something to me—something I don’t want to name.
I step closer, slow enough that the floor doesn’t creak. My hand hovers for a second over the edge of the blanket before I finally pull it up over her shoulder.
She sighs softly, turning her face toward the warmth, and my chest tightens.
I should leave.
But I don’t.
I watch her for a little while—minutes, maybe more. Long enough to memorize the sound of peace in a place that doesn’t deserve it.
It’s dangerous, what she makes me feel.
Not lust. Not yet.
Something quieter.
Something worse.
Footsteps break the stillness. I turn as Nicole appears at the end of the hall.
“Leaving for the night,” she whispers.
I nod, stepping out of the doorway, pulling the door to Isabella’s room closed until only a thin line of light remains.
Nicole hesitates. “Sofia talked to her today.”
My shoulders tense instantly. “About what?”
“About her mother.”
The air shifts, heavy, cold. “What did Isabella say?”
“She didn’t ask,” Nicole says quickly. “Sofia brought it up. She was showing Isabella her drawings—there’s one of your wife in the kitchen. Isabella didn’t pry. She just listened.”
I drag a hand down my face. “She shouldn’t have to hear about that.”
“She didn’t push,” Nicole insists. “You know Sofia. She talks when she feels safe.”
That word—safe—hits harder than I expect.
Nicole studies me for a moment, eyes soft. “You can trust her, Dante. Even if you don’t want to.”
“Trust,” I echo quietly. “That’s how people die in my world.”
She sighs, understanding but sad. “Goodnight, boss.”
“Goodnight, Nicole.”
When she’s gone, the silence fills the hall again. I linger outside Isabella’s door for one more heartbeat, then turn away.
The bedroom feels colder than it did when I left.
The bandage at my shoulder is already darkening at the edges, but I collapse back against the sheets.
The ceiling stares back at me.
I try not to think of her.
Of the sound of her laugh in my kitchen.
Of her voice when she told me to be careful.
But my mind doesn’t listen.
It goes back to blood and glass and the moment my wife died—five years ago, a lifetime and a heartbeat.
She’d begged me to walk away from this life.
I didn’t.
And she paid for it.
A car bomb meant for me.
A phone call that came too late.
A promise I made to the ashes I buried: No more attachments. No more love. Nothing left for anyone to take.
Now there’s a woman sleeping under my roof.
A journalist who should hate me.
A fire I can’t put out.
And I can already feel the universe sharpening its knives again.
Because I know how this story ends.
Every time I let someone close, the world finds a way to bleed them for it.
I close my eyes, jaw tight, forcing the thought away.
I can protect her.
I can want her.
But I can never have her.
Not without burying another piece of my soul beside the last one I lost.