Chapter 8 - Elena
"I don't care what you think is best. I'm staying here tonight where it's safe," I tell Marco, my patience wearing thin. His voice rises on the other end, demanding, controlling. The same tone he's used my entire life.
"Because I choose to, that's why," I snap back. "For once in your life, respect that I can make my own decisions."
There's a heavy silence, then Marco's voice comes through, quieter but tense.
"Fine. Stay there tonight if that's what you want. But be careful, Elena. Veneziano isn't what he seems. He's a double-faced bastard who'll use anyone to get what he wants, even you."
"I'm not naive, Marco," I respond, meeting Dante's watchful eyes across the room. "I know exactly who he is and what he does. The same could be said about you."
Marco sighs, the sound crackling through the phone. "Just... be careful, please. I respect your decision, but this isn't a game. These men—"
"I know what these men are capable of," I interrupt. "I witnessed it firsthand tonight, remember? When your business associates tried to attack me?"
"They weren't—" He cuts himself off. "We'll talk about this tomorrow. In person."
"Fine," I agree, suddenly exhausted. "Goodnight, Marco."
"Let me speak to Veneziano again," he demands before I can hang up.
I hand the phone back to Dante, who takes it with those long, elegant fingers that hours ago had incapacitated armed men without hesitation. He moves toward the windows as he speaks, his silhouette sharp against the city lights behind him.
I can't help but stare. In the soft amber lighting of his penthouse, Dante Veneziano looks like something carved from marble by a master's hand.
The bloodied sleeve of his shirt is rolled up to reveal a forearm corded with lean muscle and wrapped in the bandage I applied.
His dark hair, slightly disheveled from the earlier fight, falls across his forehead in a way that softens his otherwise severe features.
He's not classically handsome. His nose has been broken at least once, and there's a small scar at the corner of his right eyebrow that interrupts its perfect arch.
But these imperfections only enhance the overall effect, like deliberate flaws in an otherwise perfect diamond.
His mouth moves as he speaks to my brother, the lower lip fuller than the upper, creating a permanent hint of a pout that contrasts with the hardness in his eyes.
Those eyes—deep-set beneath strong brows, they catch the light as he turns, revealing hints of amber within the brown. They're watchful, assessing, missing nothing. I've never felt so thoroughly seen by someone's gaze.
"Your men need to stand down, Rossi," he's saying, voice low. "This doesn't need to escalate further tonight."
A pause as he listens.
"She's here by choice. I gave her the option to leave." His eyes flick to me, lingering. "Ask yourself why she chose to stay."
Another pause, longer this time. His jaw tightens, the muscle there flexing beneath stubble that's beginning to shadow his cheeks.
"That's your prerogative. But understand this… If you move against me, you're moving against yourself." His voice drops even lower, becoming something dangerous. "We both know you can't afford that right now."
Whatever Marco says next causes Dante's mouth to curve into a cold smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
"Tomorrow, then. Noon at the Riverside Club. Bring whoever you need to feel secure." He ends the call without waiting for a response, turning back to me.
"Your brother has agreed to meet tomorrow," he informs me, sliding the phone into his pocket. "He's withdrawing his men, for now."
He turns to Franco, who's been a silent presence by the security panel. "Go outside. Confirm Rossi's men are leaving the premises. Stay there for an hour to ensure they don't return."
Franco's eyebrow arches slightly, his eyes moving between Dante and me. "An hour, boss? Isn’t that too long?"
"Just do it," Dante says, his tone leaving no room for argument despite the ambiguity in Franco's question.
Franco nods once, his expression neutral as he moves toward the elevator. "One hour." The doors close behind him, leaving Dante and me alone in the vast penthouse.
My stomach tightens with sudden awareness.
Privacy. He's arranged for us to be completely alone.
But why? Surely a man like Dante Veneziano has supermodels and socialites throwing themselves at him nightly.
The kind of women who don't come with the complication of being a rival family's sister.
The kind who don't have paint perpetually embedded under their fingernails and who know how to navigate his world.
Why would he want privacy with me unless it's to extract information about Marco? That has to be it. This isn't about attraction; it's strategy.
And yet... the way he's looking at me now, settling into the leather chair across from me, arms crossed over his chest in a way that makes the expensive fabric of his shirt pull tight across his shoulders... it doesn't feel strategic. It feels like something else entirely.
"You're quite fierce when provoked," he observes, that hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "You'd make an incredible family head in another life."
I can't help but laugh at the absurdity of his statement. "Me? Running a criminal empire? I think not."
"Why not?" He seems genuinely curious. "You have the spine for it. The intelligence. The ability to command respect."
"I had to grow a spine," I tell him, running a hand through my tangled hair. "In my family, in this city, you either develop one or get stepped on. Just because I don't like this life doesn't mean I'll let people dictate my choices."
For the first time, Dante laughs—a rich, velvety sound that vibrates through the room and settles somewhere low in my abdomen.
"We should have met months ago," he says, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "Perhaps if you'd known what your brother was doing before it reached this tipping point, you could have intervened."
"Maybe," I concede, though I doubt it. "But I don't think Marco would have listened. He's determined to forge his own path, even if it leads straight off a cliff."
I hesitate, then make an impulsive decision. "Help him, Dante. Help my brother. I'll do anything you ask."
His expression changes, something dark and concerned replacing the amusement. "You shouldn't make offers like that in this world, Elena. 'Anything' could get you killed or worse."
"I know what I'm offering," I insist, leaning forward to match his posture.
"Marco is a dumbass sometimes, but he's still my brother.
My father made me promise to look after him, to keep him from losing his way.
" I dig my nails into my palms, frustration welling up. "I've failed at that, obviously."
Dante reaches out, his hand covering mine, gently uncurling my fingers from their tight fist. The touch is unexpected, electric.
"You're not responsible for your brother's choices," he says, his voice softer than I've heard it. "Marco is a grown man making his own decisions. Bad ones, currently, but his nonetheless."
"Then why do I feel like I could have prevented this?" I ask, not pulling my hand away.
"Because you care," he says simply. "It's your greatest strength and your most dangerous vulnerability."
His thumb traces small circles on my wrist, just above my pulse point. The gesture feels oddly intimate, more so than if he'd kissed me.
"There might be a way you can help," he says after a moment, withdrawing his hand. I immediately miss the warmth of his touch.
"How?" I sit up straighter, hope flaring.
"Convince your brother to join forces with me," Dante says, watching my reaction. "A true alliance, not just a temporary ceasefire."
"Join forces?" I repeat skeptically. "Or surrender to you? There's a difference."
That goddamn smirk appears again. Confident, arrogant, and irritatingly sexy. "That depends entirely on how well your brother and I can work together." His eyes hold mine. "You might need to spend more time with me. Mediate. Ensure we're both... satisfied with the arrangement."
The double meaning isn't lost on me. "Aren't you tired of me already?" I challenge him. "I must be boring compared to your usual company."
"Why would I be tired of you?" He seems genuinely confused by the question.
"I'm still the enemy," I point out. "And I'm sure you could find a more interesting woman to spend your nights with. Someone who actually belongs in your world."
Dante stands suddenly, "Get up," he says, the command soft but unmistakable.
Curiosity overtakes caution, and I rise from the sofa, smoothing down my wrinkled dress.
He leads me to the floor-to-ceiling windows, positioning me before him.
The view is breathtaking. The city spread out below us, buildings twinkling with thousands of lights, the distant river a ribbon of darkness snaking between them.
"Look at it," he says, his voice close to my ear, sending shivers down my spine.
"I have everything a man could want. Money.
Power. Respect. Fear." His hand comes to rest lightly on my shoulder, the warmth of it seeping through the thin fabric of my dress.
"What I've missed, for longer than I care to admit, is a night like tonight.
A genuine conversation with someone who wants nothing from me.
Someone who could walk away tomorrow and continue their life as if I never existed. "
I turn to face him, suddenly aware of how close we're standing. The city lights cast half his face in shadow, the other half illuminated in a way that highlights the perfect cut of his jaw, the sensual curve of his lips.
And god, those lips… Slightly parted, the bottom one full and tempting, practically begging to be kissed.
No. I can't. He's my family's enemy. This is insane.
But then... I've spent my entire life separating myself from "family business." I've built walls between my gallery and Marco's world. If I truly believe in that separation, then why can't I do what I want? Why can't I have this moment?
"There's something else you should know," Dante says, his expression turning serious. "Your brother's right-hand man, Pietro. He's been making moves without Marco's knowledge. He needs to be eliminated."
The words snap me out of whatever spell had been building between us. "Pietro? That's impossible. He practically raised us after our father died. He's like a second father to Marco and me."
"Which makes his betrayal all the more dangerous," Dante says gently. "I have proof, Elena. Multiple sources confirming he's been skimming from your brother's operations for years. Recently, he's begun negotiating with other people behind Marco's back."
"No," I shake my head, stepping back. "I don't believe it. Pietro would never—"
"He would and he has," Dante interrupts, his voice firm but not unkind. "Think about it. How else would Moretti's men know exactly when and where to find you tonight? Who else knows your routines, your habits, where your brother's weak points are?"
My mind races, trying to process this information. Pietro, who used to bring me art supplies when I was a child. Pietro, who attended every one of my gallery openings, always buying a piece to support me. Pietro, betraying us?
"If what you're saying is true," I say slowly, "then Marco is in even more danger than I thought."
"Yes," Dante confirms, watching me closely. "Which is why tomorrow's meeting is so crucial. We need to present a united front. You, me, and eventually your brother."
"And if he refuses?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
Dante's expression hardens. "Then I can't guarantee anyone's safety. Not his, not yours, not even mine. The situation has become too volatile."
I move back to the sofa, sinking down as the weight of everything crashes over me. The gallery, the attack, Pietro's betrayal, Dante's unexpected alliance... it's too much to process in one night.
"I need to think," I say, rubbing my temples where a headache is beginning to form. "This is all happening so fast."