Chapter 26
Dante
The first sound that drags me from sleep isn’t the wind outside or the echo of waves against the shore. Not even the soft ticking of the clock across the room.
It’s her.
A breath—staggered, shallow, and wrong.
Harlow’s body shifts beside me, limbs caught in invisible restraints, a strangled whimper slipping through her lips before her entire frame begins to tremble. Her fists clench the sheets, her head turning side to side. She’s lost in it again, adrift somewhere I cannot follow.
But I try, as I always do.
I sit up and press a hand to her cheek, gentle despite everything burning beneath my skin.
“Leonessa,”
I murmur, my voice firm, but soft enough not to startle her.
“I’m here. You’re safe.”
She flinches, gasping sharply. Her eyes snap open, wild, unseeing at first, then dart to mine.
“It’s me,”
I say again, anchoring her. “Breathe.”
Her chest rises fast, erratic, and she presses her palms to her face, trying to hide from the world that’s already retreated. I don’t let her. I slide closer and wrap my arms around her, folding her into me as tightly as she can bear. She’s shivering, but I hold on.
I whisper against her temple.
“He’s gone. He can’t touch you again.”
Slowly, her breathing begins to match mine. One inhale. One exhale. Together. Eventually, her body eases, fraction by fraction.
When she lifts her eyes to me, they’re still glassy, her voice rasping faintly, “Library?”
I nod once.
In silence, I lift her into my arms. Her cheek rests against my shoulder as I carry her down the corridor, my steps even, unrushed. The estate is quiet, all of Naples sleeping under the weight of the early September heat.
Inside the library, I settle her gently into the armchair near the grand piano and drape a thin cashmere throw over her legs. The lamp beside her glows low, golden against her skin. She watches me, those eyes of hers still a little haunted, but clearer now.
I take my seat at the piano.
The keys are cool beneath my fingertips. The notes come slow at first, soft and unsure, like they, too, are waking from a long silence. Then muscle memory takes over. My hands move with purpose.
She doesn’t look away. And neither do I.
When the final note dissolves into the stillness of the library, I exhale, but I don’t move. Neither does she.
We remain as we are, suspended in the quiet, where silence speaks louder than sound.
“It surprised me, the first time you played,”
she says at last, her voice soft, no more than a thread in the dark.
I glance down at my hands.
“I haven’t touched a piano since the day my brother died.”
Her gaze flickers toward me, searching, but I continue.
“He was older. Steadier. Everything I wasn’t. Married to a woman who made him gentler, without dimming him. They were happy. Trying for a second child.”
I pause.
“Leonardo was ten when it happened.”
Harlow says nothing, only watches.
“They were traveling. A short trip, nothing unusual. But the plane went down. Engine failure, they said. But we all knew it wasn’t an accident. It was a message from a rival family. A declaration.”
I lift my eyes to her now.
“He died with her. His wife. And the baby she carried.”
She’s still, but I see the way her throat bobs, the way her fingers tighten slightly on the armrest.
“I took Leonardo in. He was shattered, and I had to become something I wasn’t ready for. A leader. A father figure. The next Capo dei Capi. A title I neither wanted nor asked for. But it was mine all the same.”
Another long pause. Then, quieter, like the words are being dragged out of something locked, I add.
“Everything changed that day. I changed. A part of me died the moment he did.”
My eyes settle on the piano beneath my hands.
“I haven’t touched this instrument since. In fact, I ordered my men to dispose of it entirely.”
She leans in slightly, her tone low.
“You never talk about your parents.”
“No,”
I say simply.
“Because my father’s nothing worth remembering. And my mother… even now, after all these years, the thought of her is still too much to bear.”
She says nothing, doesn’t press, just waits.
“My father was a fucking monster,”
I say, eventually.
“There’s no polished version of it. Violent. Cruel. Addicted to power. He beat my mother when the wine ran low and blamed his sons for every failure the world handed him.”
Her breath catches, but what I see in her eyes isn’t pity. It’s fire. Anger.
She’s furious on my behalf.
“My mother...”
I inhale slowly.
“She was good. Gentle. Too gentle for the life he forced her into.”
A bitter laugh escaping me, empty of any humour.
“She’s the one who taught me to play.”
I draw a breath.
“But that bastard couldn’t help himself. Couldn’t even fucking die quietly. He took her with him. And we—”
My voice breaks off for a moment, tight with fury. I need a second to steady my breathing, to unclench my jaw, to rein in the urge to destroy something.
“We couldn’t stop it. We were too late.”
I close the piano lid with care, the sound soft but final. Guilt churns in my chest, old, relentless, ever present. We were powerless to save her from the man who destroyed everything he touched.
“My brother and I... we were biding our time. Planning to kill him ourselves. Once we were strong enough.”
I exhale, sharp and bitter.
“But the bastard turned the cards on us. Got himself and our mother killed before we ever had the chance.”
Harlow doesn’t speak right away. The silence stretches, but it isn’t uncomfortable. Then she rises, crossing the room, and stops in front of me.
Her hand comes to rest over my chest, light but grounding. I draw her into my lap, one arm wrapping around her.
“I’m sorry about your mother… and your brother,”
she says gently.
“I don’t doubt she was an extraordinary woman. And I know she would be proud of you, just as your brother would be.”
Her words cut clean through me, as if she’d reached into my chest and sliced it open without ever raising her voice. I don’t reply. I just cover her hand with mine. Because for once… there’s nothing I need to say.
She sees me.
I watch her in the low, golden light of the library, my gaze tracing the angles of her face, the strength in her jaw, the softness in her mouth, the weight in her eyes. I never get tired of looking at her.
“Do you think you’ll ever be ready to talk about what you’ve been through, leonessa?”
I ask the question quietly, almost afraid the sound alone might break her. Her gaze lifts to mine.
There’s a shadow in her expression, one I rarely see. Not fear. Not hesitation. But something far more difficult, the deliberation of someone choosing to step toward pain rather than run from it.
She inhales. Slowly. Deeply.
“I killed a girl,” she says.
The words don’t echo, they cut, slicing clean through the space between us.
I don’t move. I don’t speak. I let the silence hold her steady, I give her strength without touching a single word.
Her eyes close, and the smallest tremor moves through her frame.
“He… I tried to run. I actually made it out, escaped that basement. But he found me...”
Her voice frays at the edges, but still holding.
“And after that, he wanted to make sure I’d never even think of running again. He wanted to break me, shatter whatever was left. And he did.”
My hands curl into fists, the bones tight beneath my skin. My jaw locks, I say nothing. But inside, I want to tear his corpse from the earth and break every piece of it.
Again. And again.
“As punishment… he brought in a girl.”
Her breath catches.
“She was barely more than a child. Nineteen, maybe. Just a young woman.”
She swallows hard.
“In his twisted mind, he thought it’d be fun to play Russian roulette.”
My throat goes dry.
“I couldn’t do it,”
she whispers.
“When he handed me the gun, I knew… I knew I had to try to kill him. To save us.”
Her lips part. Her next breath is jagged.
“I fired once. Aimed at him. Nothing. No bullet.”
Her voice cracks.
“So I pulled the trigger again. And again. I was furious, desperate, I just kept pulling, praying one would hit him.”
Her eyes open, and the wreckage behind them is staggering.
“She was on my left. He stood to my right. And when the haze lifted… she was at his feet. Lifeless. Blood everywhere.”
I exhale through my nose, harsh and slow, rage pulsing behind my teeth.
“He moved,”
she breathes.
“That coward, he moved and used her body to shield himself.”
I lean forward, threading a hand through her hair, steadying myself in the living proof that she’s here.
She keeps speaking, but her voice is unravelling now, the grief too heavy to contain.
“There were others,”
she says.
“I didn’t have to pull the trigger again. He did. But it was always because of me. To punish me.”
Her voice falters.
“And it worked.”
She pauses. A beat of silence too heavy to fill.
“He struck me. Again and again. But that never truly broke me.”
The rage that coils in my chest, is sharp and volatile, ready to detonate. But outwardly, I remain composed. In control.
She exhales, her voice barely more than breath.
“But watching those girls suffer… innocent girls, hurt simply because he was obsessed with me, watching them violated, discarded, as if their lives held no value… that is what finally broke me.”
I reach for her, cradling her face between both hands. Her skin is cold. Too cold.
She lifts her gaze to mine, eyes luminous, but still dry. There are no tears yet. Only that look. The one that splinters something deep in my chest.
“He left them with me for days,”
she whispers.
“I had to look into their dead eyes.”
Composure splintered beneath the weight of fury I refuse to unleash.
“You didn’t kill them,”
I say, my voice strong. “He did.”
“I was the reason—”
“No.”
I shake my head once, firmly.
“You don’t get to carry that weight, Harlow.”
Her lashes flutter, and the first tear falls.
“I see them in my sleep,”
she answers softly.
“Their eyes.”
“It wasn’t your fault,”
I say again, more forcefully now.
“It wasn’t.”
And then she cries, quiet at first, her body trembling, until the sobs take over completely.
I kiss the tears as they fall, her cheeks, her jaw, the corners of her mouth, until my lips find hers, staying there without pressure, without need.
Just being.
She doesn’t pull away.
And when I whisper again.
“It wasn’t your fault,”
I add, deeper.
“He wanted to break you. But you survived. You got justice for them, and for yourself. And he paid. In the only way that matters.”
I pull her tighter against me, my arms locked around her. Too tight, maybe. But I won’t loosen them.
Not tonight.
Not ever again.
Her face remains cupped in my hands, lashes still damp, eyes wide and unguarded. And she looks at me, truly looks, as if she sees every part of me, even the ones I thought I’d buried beyond recognition.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
She blinks, her brow faintly drawing in, caught off guard by the shift. “Why?”
I draw a breath through my nose. It feels like dragging gravel through my lungs. We’re already drowning in heavy truths, there’s no point in leaving this one unsaid.
“For the way I responded that day… the day he stole you from me.”
My voice is rough, stripped of all armour.
“I’ve replayed it more times than I can count. I remember the look on your face, how your eyes changed the moment the words hit. It was like I’d already betrayed you. And I had.”
She doesn’t move, just listens.
“I failed you. In the worst way. I’ll never forgive myself for it, but… I can only hope that one day, you will. Even if I don’t deserve it.”
My grip tightens slightly, grounding myself in her.
“Leonessa… you’d have to kill me to make me let you go. I won’t survive losing you a second time.”
She stays quiet. So I go on.
“I lost control. I saw you in the same room as the enemy, and every instinct I have, every violent, protective reflex, screamed danger. So I reacted the only way I knew how. I pushed you away. Hard. With pain. With words meant to wound.”
I search her face, but she doesn’t look away.
“I know what I did. I know it hurt you. And believe me, love… That is the one moment in my life I will regret until the day I die.”
A silence settles, thick and charged. Then she smiles. A wry tilt of her mouth.
“Don’t think I won’t make you grovel,”
she murmurs.
But then her expression shifts, it softens, hardens.
“You hurt me.”
Fuck.
I knew it. But hearing it from her lips, it cuts deep. Because I put that pain there.
Without a word, I rise with her in my arms and carry her from the room, down the stairs, and out the back door. The heat of the night greets us, thick and still.
I don’t stop at the garden, our usual place. I keep walking.
I push open the gate and step onto the path that leads to our private beach, the gravel crunching beneath my steps, the scent of salt brushing against my skin.
As we near the shore, the world quiets. No voices. No past. Only the rhythm of the sea, and the weight of her in my arms.
Candles flicker in the sand, their golden light casting soft shadows across the shoreline. In the centre, a thick blanket waits, warm, inviting, untouched.
I had it prepared the moment she woke from the nightmare, because I knew she’d need this.
She would need air.
She would need stillness.
She would need peace.
And I’ll give her that.
Whatever it takes.
I lower her gently onto the blanket, settling beside her. One arm slips around her shoulders, guiding her to lean against me.
She doesn’t ask questions.
She simply turns her head and watches the waves, the firelight from the candles flickering softly across her profile.
We sit there for what feels like forever, saying nothing, letting the rhythm of the ocean speak for us, steady and constant.
And then, I break the silence.
“I never thought I’d be capable of saying this to anyone,”
I tell her.
“Because what I feel for you, Harlow… it’s not love. It’s something far more fucked up than that. It’s ruin. It’s madness. It’s a need that makes breathing without you feel like a punishment.”
She turns to look at me, and I don’t blink.
“When you were taken…”
I shake my head once, jaw locked.
“My world collapsed. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t fucking think. It felt like my skin was closing in, like the air itself was strangling me.”
“I needed you back like I need oxygen in my lungs. Like a fucking addict needs his next hit. Without you, I was drowning.”
“When you’re hurt, I feel it like a blade between my ribs. When you smile, my entire fucking chest burns like it’s trying to remember what happiness feels like. And when someone makes you cry…”
I inhale through my nose, even the thought angers me.
“All I want is blood. Slow. Painful. Loud.”
She takes a shaky breath beside me, her fingers curling into the blanket like she’s holding herself together.
“You didn’t just find a place in me, Harlow. You invaded. You stormed every wall I’d built and carved your name into what was left.”
I take her hand and press it flat against my chest.
“I don’t even know if love is the right word. It’s too small. Too soft. What I feel for you is hunger. Obsession. A craving that doesn’t fucking end. You’ve claimed me. Body, mind, soul. Every inch of me belongs to you. It’s violent. It’s possessive. It’s eternal. And I wouldn’t survive losing you again.”
She remains silent. Then she leans in and kisses me. It’s searing and fierce.
The second time today my wife has kissed me first, and somehow, this time, it feels even more urgent. Her fingers slide into my hair as her mouth deepens against mine.
She pulls my shirt over my head without breaking the kiss, and I undress her slowly, carefully, watching every inch of skin I reveal like it’s sacred.
She ends up in my lap, straddling me, still kissing like stopping isn’t even a possibility.
I barely manage to speak between kisses.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,”
she breathes, and closes the distance again.
I kiss her collarbone. Her shoulders. The delicate hollow at the base of her throat. I take my time, tasting every inch, every scar, every story she doesn’t need to say out loud.
“You’re so fucking beautiful, Harlow,”
I whisper against her skin.
She trembles beneath my hands. Her gaze searches mine, burning, and then her fingers drift slowly down my chest. She pauses.
Her eyes drop to the ink etched over my heart. And when they snap back to meet mine, she’s already tracing it with a trembling hand.
“Is this…?”
A lioness.
Tattooed exactly where my heart beats. Because she is my lioness.
I don’t answer with words. I just pull her back into a kiss, deep, consuming. Our hands rediscovering each other, reacquainting ourselves with a kind of intimacy that never really left us.
My palm slips between her thighs. Her moan is quiet but wrecked, and when I feel how wet she is, my cock twitches with need. She shifts in my lap, grinding, seeking friction. Impatient.
She kisses me hard, then rises just enough to guide me to her centre. She lowers herself onto me slowly, taking me inch by inch until I’m buried deep.
“Fuck,”
I groan, my eyes rolling back as her heat wraps around me.
“I missed this. Missed you.”
She doesn’t move at first. Neither do I. Her legs stay wrapped around my waist. Her arms lock around my neck. We stay like that, forehead to forehead, breathing each other in.
And then we move.
I thrust into her with slow, devastating power. She meets every movement, desperate, controlled, perfectly in sync with me.
I bite her shoulder. She moans, loud and unfiltered.
“You’re fucking mine.”
Thrust.
“I’ll never let you go again.”
Thrust.
“Say it,”
I growl against her skin.
“I’m yours,”
she cries out, the sound raw against my throat as she comes, tightening around my cock, trembling in my arms. I follow with a groan, spilling deep inside her.
We stay like that for a while, our bodies locked together, her chest rising against mine, my hands stroking her spine, claiming.
Eventually, I slip out of her gently. We settle into silence, watching the stars, her head against my shoulder.
I think she’s asleep, until her voice breaks the quiet.
“I’m in desperate need of a shower,”
she murmurs.
“I’m a mess… I can feel your come dripping out of me.”
I smirk, pressing a kiss to her temple.
“I happen to like you messy.”
I’m about to suggest we head back to the bedroom when she suddenly rises, completely bare, and bolts toward the sea.
I stand fast, still aching from every part of her, and chase after without hesitation. She lets out a breathless laugh as I catch up, my arm sweeping around her waist before I lift her into the air. “Dante!”
“What a foolish notion,”
I murmur darkly, voice low against her ear as I hold her close.
“to believe you could ever run from me.”
I pause, my grip firm, gaze dipping to the sea curling around our feet.
“You’re afraid of the water. You can’t swim. So what possessed you to run straight into the sea?”
A mischievous smile tugs at her lips, her eyes glinting beneath the moonlight.
“Because I knew you’d catch me,”
she says simply.
“Hold me. Not let go. I knew I was safe.”
Her words settle a feeling within me.
Fierce and quiet.
Perhaps it’s contentment, for the first time in far too long.
With her in my arms, we stay in the sea a little longer, the moon casting its glow over the water, over us.
Eventually, I carry her back up the steps, across the garden, and into our bedroom. Her eyes are already growing heavy, lids fluttering as her head leans against my chest. But just as I’m about to lay her down on the bed, she stirs and jolts upright, heading for the en suite.
I laugh darkly under my breath and follow after my wife.