Chapter 9 - Dante
"I need to think," she says, rubbing her temples where a headache is beginning to form. "This is all happening so fast."
I watch her, this woman who hours ago was hosting an art exhibition and is now sitting in my penthouse, processing betrayal and danger with remarkable composure.
Fear radiates from her in subtle waves: in the slight tremble of her fingers against her temple, in the too-rapid blink of her eyes, in the way she's curled slightly into herself on my sofa. But she's not breaking. Not running.
Good. In our world, fear isn't always a weakness. Sometimes it's the very thing that keeps you alive.
"Being afraid is appropriate in this situation," I tell her, moving to the bar to pour her a glass of water. "Only fools feel no fear when the foundations of their life are shifting."
She accepts the water with a small nod of thanks. "You sound like you're speaking from experience."
"I am." I sit beside her, close but not touching.
"I told you before. When I first took control, I discovered people I'd trusted my entire life had been secretly undermining my father for years.
Men who'd attended my birthday parties as a child.
Who'd brought me gifts. Who'd watched me grow up. I did what was necessary."
She shudders slightly. "And now I have to do the same? Watch Pietro be... eliminated?"
"You don't have to watch," I say, my voice gentler than I intended. "But you do need to accept that it's necessary. For your brother's survival. For yours."
"It just feels..." She trails off, searching for words.
"Cold," I finish for her. "Like ice settling in your chest. Like wondering if you can ever trust anyone again."
Her eyes widen slightly in recognition. "Yes. Exactly like that."
"The feeling passes," I assure her, though I'm not entirely sure that's true. Even now, years later, I sometimes wake in the night, wondering which of my closest allies might be plotting against me. It's the price of power in our world. Perpetual vigilance, perpetual suspicion.
"Does it?" she challenges, seeing through my platitude. "Or do you just get used to it?"
I smile, appreciating her perception. "Perhaps a bit of both."
She sighs, leaning back against the sofa cushions. The movement causes her dress to ride up slightly, revealing another inch of her thigh. I force my eyes back to her face, annoyed at my own distraction.
"If I help you with Marco," she says after a moment, "if I convince him to ally with you, what happens then?"
"Then we stabilize the situation. Eliminate the mutual threats. Restore order."
"And eventually? Long-term?"
Smart woman. Always thinking ahead. "Eventually, we see if the alliance holds. If it benefits both families. If not..." I leave the implication hanging.
"You'll take over anyway," she concludes.
"If necessary." I don't see the point in lying to her. "But not yet. There are too many uncertainties. Too many potential spies, too many moving pieces. A war right now would be costly for everyone."
She nods, processing this. "At least you're honest about your intentions."
"With you, yes." The admission surprises me as much as her.
Her eyes search my face, looking for deception. Finding none, she asks, "Why? Why be honest with me when lies would serve you better?"
It's a fair question, one I've been asking myself since our dinner.
What is Elena Rossi to me? What began as a strategic opportunity—getting close to Marco's sister, gaining information, creating leverage—has somehow evolved into something more complex.
I find myself wanting her around not for what she represents, but for who she is.
Her mind. Her perspective. Her unflinching honesty in a world built on deception.
Most women in my life are temporary diversions.
Beautiful, eager to please, and ultimately forgettable.
But Elena... I want to protect her. To show her things.
To take her to the private warehouse where I keep the art collection too valuable or controversial for public display.
I want to see her face when she views the Caravaggio sketches or the early Basquiat works that have never been exhibited.
Christ, I'm turning into a fucking schoolboy with a crush.
Franco would mock me mercilessly if he could hear these thoughts.
Then he'd warn me, with his usual bluntness, that sentiment is fatal in our business.
That's exactly why I sent him outside. To give myself one hour of weakness. One hour to decide.
If I don't act now, I won't allow myself to act later. I'll return her to her brother tomorrow and maintain a purely professional distance. The thought leaves a hollow feeling in my chest.
"Are you okay?" Her voice breaks into my thoughts, soft with concern.
"Just thinking," I reply, studying the way the dim lighting catches the gold flecks in her green eyes.
"You do that a lot?" she asks, a hint of teasing in her tone.
"Do what?"
"Get lost in your own head," she clarifies. "Retreat to that place where everything is black and white, where threats need to be eliminated and strategies plotted."
Her perception is unsettling. "Not everything in my world is bleak," I say, moving to sit beside her, close enough now that I can smell the subtle floral scent of her perfume, still clinging to her skin despite the evening's chaos. "I find time for enjoyment."
"Besides art, what do you enjoy?" she asks, turning slightly to face me, her knee brushing against my thigh.
"Food," I answer, thinking of our dinner earlier. "Travel. Good wine. Architecture, still, though I no longer design."
"More," she presses, her voice dropping lower. "Tell me something that would surprise me."
I look at her. The slight flush coloring her cheeks. The way she's leaned toward me, unconsciously seeking connection. The parting of her lips as she awaits my answer.
This is the moment. The opening I've been waiting for, consciously or not. If I don't take it now, I won't allow myself to take it at all.
Fuck it. I'm Dante Veneziano. What I want, I take. And right now, I want her, consequences be damned.
I close the distance between us, one hand coming up to cup her cheek as my mouth finds hers. Her lips are soft, yielding for a startled moment before responding with unexpected hunger. She tastes like expensive scotch and something sweeter, something uniquely her.
I expect her to pull away, to slap me, to express outrage at my presumption. Instead, her hands come up to frame my face, fingers sliding into my hair as she deepens the kiss with a soft sound that vibrates through my chest and straight to my cock.
She moves with the same decisiveness she's shown all evening, shifting to straddle me, her dress hiking up around her thighs as she settles her weight across my lap. The feeling of her—warm, soft, alive—against my hardening cock draws a groan from deep in my throat.
My hands find her ass, gripping the firm curves through the thin fabric of her dress, pulling her closer against me. She rocks against my erection, seeking friction, her breathing becoming ragged against my mouth.
I open my eyes to find hers already open, watching me with a mixture of desire and uncertainty. She pulls back slightly, lips swollen from our kisses, chest rising and falling rapidly.
"Is this a mistake?" she whispers, her fingers still threaded through my hair.
I can't help the smirk that forms on my lips.
"Yes," I admit, sliding my hands up her sides, feeling her shiver at my touch. "It's absolutely a mistake. But it's going to be the most pleasurable mistake we've ever committed."
She laughs, the sound breathy and aroused. "I shouldn't want this. I shouldn't want you."
"And yet, here we are," I say, grinding up against her, watching her eyes flutter closed at the sensation.
"Here we are," she agrees, then crashes her mouth back to mine with renewed urgency.
I stand suddenly, gripping her thighs as she wraps them around my waist, her arms encircling my neck. Her slight weight is nothing to me as I carry her through the penthouse to my bedroom, our mouths still fused together, tongues battling for dominance.
The bedroom is dark except for the city lights filtering through the windows. I set her on her feet beside the bed, reluctantly breaking our kiss.
"Last chance to change your mind," I tell her, giving her space to retreat if she wants. "Once we start this, I won't be able to stop."
Elena looks up at me, her hair wild around her flushed face, lips swollen from my kisses. Instead of answering, she reaches behind herself and slowly lowers the zipper of her dress. The black fabric pools at her feet, leaving her in nothing but a lace bra and matching panties.
"Do I look like I want to stop?" she challenges, voice husky with desire.
"Fuck," I breathe, taking in the sight of her. She's gorgeous. Curvy, smooth skin, her breasts full above the delicate lace, her hips flaring out to those thick thighs that had been wrapped around me moments ago.
I've been with beautiful women before. Models, actresses, socialites with bodies sculpted by the finest trainers and surgeons. None of them compare to Elena standing before me now, her body real and warm.
I reach for her, running my hands down her sides, feeling her shiver under my touch. "You're fucking beautiful," I tell her, voice rough with need. "More beautiful than any of the art on these walls."
She laughs softly, her fingers working at the buttons of my shirt. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Veneziano."
"Not flattery," I correct her, helping her push the shirt from my shoulders. "Just truth."
Her eyes widen as she takes in my bare chest, her fingers tracing the tattoo that covers my left pectoral and shoulder—a stylized Venetian lion, symbol of my family for generations. Then her gaze drops to the various scars that mark my torso. Knife wounds, bullet grazes, evidence of a violent life.
"So many," she whispers, fingers gently tracing a particularly vicious scar that runs along my ribs.
"Occupational hazards," I say lightly, not wanting to dwell on the violence of my past, not now when she's half-naked and willing before me.
She looks up, something determined flashing in her eyes.
"Show me," she says, backing toward the bed, pulling me with her. "Show me that not everything in your world is about violence and control."
I follow her down onto the bed, covering her body with mine, slowly to keep most of my weight on my forearms. Her skin is hot against mine, her breasts pressing against my chest as I capture her mouth again.
"I'm going to taste every inch of you," I promise against her lips. "Make you come so hard you forget your own name."
"Big talk," she breathes, arching against me as I trail kisses down her neck. "Let's see if you can deliver."
I chuckle against her skin. Even now, she challenges me. Fights back. It's intoxicating.
I make my way down her body, taking my time, savoring her responses.
The soft gasp when I nip at her collarbone.
The way her back arches when I take a lace-covered nipple into my mouth, teasing it through the fabric before pushing the bra aside to taste her properly.
The tremble that runs through her thighs when I settle between them, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin.
By the time I hook my fingers into the waistband of her panties, she's writhing beneath me, her composure shattered. I pull the lace down slowly, revealing her to my hungry gaze.
"Dante," she moans, half plea, half demand.
"Patience," I murmur, spreading her thighs wider, positioning myself between them. "Good things come to those who wait."
"I've been waiting all night," she counters, propping herself up on her elbows to watch me.
I lower my mouth to her pussy, giving her one long, slow lick that makes her collapse back onto the bed with a strangled cry. I take my time, learning what makes her gasp, what makes her moan, what makes her hands fist in the sheets.
When I slip two fingers inside her while sucking gently on her clit, she comes apart with a broken cry of my name, her body clenching around my fingers. I work her through it, not letting up until she's pushing at my shoulders, oversensitive.
I move up her body, kissing my way back to her mouth, letting her taste herself on my lips. She responds with enthusiasm, her hands working at my belt, then my zipper.