13. Nora
— ? —
Nora
Two Weeks Later
Sophia’s engagement party is everything our family does best - loud, chaotic, and drowning in wine. The villa is packed with cousins I haven’t seen in years, aunts who pinch my cheeks and ask too many questions, uncles arguing about football in three different languages.
I came because I love my sister. That’s what I tell myself.
I didn’t know Dante was invited.
“He’s family,” Sophia says when I corner her by the bar. “I couldn’t not invite him.”
“You could have warned me.”
“Would you have come?”
I don’t answer. We both know.
“Just - be civil,” she says. “One night. For me.”
“Fine.”
“And maybe talk to him? Actually talk? You’ve been avoiding each other for two weeks and I’m exhausted by proxy.”
“I said fine.”
She kisses my cheek and disappears into the crowd, leaving me alone with a glass of wine and a growing sense of dread.
***
I feel him before I see him.
That pull in my chest. The awareness that prickles along my skin when he walks into a room. Five years of marriage couldn’t kill it. Two months of separation didn’t even dent it.
“Nora.”
I turn.
He looks - different. Good different. The exhaustion is still there, but underneath it there’s something steadier. More present. He’s wearing a dark suit, no tie, and his eyes are fixed on me like I’m the only person in the room.
“Dante.”
“You look beautiful.”
“You already said that. At the gala.”
“I’ll say it every time I see you.” He steps closer. “You look beautiful, Nora.”
I take a sip of wine to hide the flush climbing my cheeks.
“What are you doing here?”
“Sophia invited me.”
“I know that. I mean what are you doing? Here. Talking to me. After everything.”
“I’m trying.” He holds my gaze. “Isn’t that what you asked me to do?”
The band starts playing. Something slow. Something familiar - a song from our wedding, I realize with a jolt.
“Dance with me?”
“Dante-”
“Please.” He holds out his hand. “Just one dance.”
I stare at his outstretched palm. The last time he offered to dance was - I can’t remember. He always said no. Every wedding, every gala, every party where I tried to pull him onto the floor.
I don’t dance, he’d say. You know I don’t dance.
“You hate dancing.”
“I took lessons.”
“You what?”
“Two weeks.” His hand is still extended, patient, waiting. “Private lessons, every day. Because you asked me to dance a hundred times and I always said no, and I thought-” He swallows. “I thought if I ever got the chance to ask you again, I wanted to be able to do it right.”
My chest aches.
“Dante-”
“One dance. Then I’ll leave you alone. I swear.”
I take his hand.
***
He leads.
Not the awkward shuffle I remember from our wedding, the reluctant swaying that barely counted as movement. This is real dancing - confident, controlled, his hand firm at the small of my back.
“You really took lessons.”
“Every day for two weeks.” He spins me out, then pulls me back in. “My instructor thought I was insane. Who takes that many lessons for one dance?”
“Someone trying to prove something.”
“Someone trying to earn something.” His eyes hold mine. “I’m not trying to prove anything, tesoro. I’m trying to show you who I’m willing to become.”
The party is fading around us. The noise, the crowd, the chaos of my family - all of it dims until there’s nothing but the music and his arms and the way he’s looking at me.
“Dante-”
“I know.” His voice is soft. “I know you’re not ready. I know one dance doesn’t fix anything.”
“Then why-”
“Because I want you to feel what I couldn’t give you before.” He pulls me closer. “Presence. Attention. A man who shows up even when it’s terrifying.”
We’ve danced ourselves into a corner of the room. A hallway opens behind us - dark, quiet, leading to one of the villa’s side parlors.
“Come with me,” Dante whispers.
I should say no. This is a terrible idea. We’re at my sister’s engagement party, surrounded by family, and I can’t think clearly when he’s this close-
I follow him into the dark.
***
The parlor is cold and empty.
Moonlight streams through the windows, casting silver shadows across the furniture. Dante closes the door behind us, and suddenly the party feels very far away.
“Nora-”
I don’t let him finish.
I grab his lapels and pull him down and kiss him like I’ve been starving.
His response is instant. One hand fists in my hair; the other grabs my hip, yanking me against him. He groans into my mouth - a raw, wrecked sound that makes my knees buckle.
“God-” He breaks the kiss, panting. “Nora, if you don’t want this-”
“Shut up.” I pull him back. “Shut up, Dante.”
He walks me backward until my shoulders hit the wall. Cold plaster through the thin fabric of my dress. His body hot against mine.
“I’ve missed you.” His mouth drags down my throat. “Every second. Every fucking second.”
“Don’t talk.”
“Let me talk.” His hands are shaking - I can feel them trembling against my waist. “Let me tell you-”
“I don’t want words.”
“What do you want?”
“Show me.” I grab his hand, push it lower. “Show me.”
He freezes. Pulls back to look at me.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Something changes in his face. Goes darker. Hungrier.
“Then hold on,” he says. “And don’t make a sound.”
***
He drops to his knees.
My breath catches. He’s looking up at me with an expression that’s almost reverent - like I’m something sacred, something he doesn’t deserve to touch.
“Dante-”
“I said don’t make a sound.” His hands slide up my thighs, pushing my dress up as they go. “The whole party’s on the other side of that door.”
“Then we should-”
“We should nothing.” His fingers hook into my underwear. “I’ve been dreaming about this for two months. You’re going to let me.”
He pulls the fabric down. Lets it drop to my ankles. His breath is hot against my inner thigh.
“Look at you.” His voice is raw. “Still mine even when you hate it.”
“I don’t-” My voice catches as his mouth brushes against me. “Dante-”
“What did I say about sounds?”
I press my hand over my mouth.
And then his tongue is on me, and I stop thinking about anything at all.
He’s ravenous. Precise. He knows my body better than I do - knows exactly where to press, where to linger, where to make me shake. His hands grip my thighs, holding me open, holding me still, and I can feel myself winding tighter with every stroke of his tongue.
“That’s it.” His voice vibrates against me. “Good girl.”
I whimper behind my hand.
“You’re close already.” He pulls back slightly, and I nearly scream at the loss. “Not yet.”
“Dante-”
“Not yet.” He kisses my inner thigh. Waits until the tension in my body eases slightly. “I’m not rushing this.”
“I need-”
“I know what you need.” He returns to his work, slower now. Deliberate. Building me back up one careful stroke at a time. “I’m going to give it to you. When I decide you’ve earned it.”
It’s torture. The sweetest kind of torture. He brings me to the edge twice more - twice more stops, pulls back, lets me hover there shaking and desperate.
“Please-” The word comes out cracked. “Dante, please-”
“There it is.” His voice is dark with satisfaction. “There’s my girl.”
And then he’s not stopping anymore. His mouth is relentless, his hands holding me up because my legs have stopped working, and I’m climbing, climbing, climbing-
I come with his name in my teeth, biting down so hard I taste blood. The orgasm tears through me like a storm, and Dante doesn’t stop, doesn’t ease up, just keeps working me through it until I’m shaking, until I’m crying, until I’m nothing but nerve endings and sensation.
When it finally ebbs, he stays where he is. On his knees. Forehead pressed to my hip. Breathing hard.
“Tesoro.” His voice is wrecked. “I missed you.”
I look down at him. This man - this proud, powerful man - kneeling at my feet. His suit is rumpled, his hair is a mess, and there’s desperation written across every line of his face.
He didn’t ask for anything. Didn’t take anything. Just gave.
“That wasn’t a yes,” I hear myself say.
He looks up. His eyes are wet.
“I know.” He presses a kiss to my hip. “I’ll take the no and thank you for it.”
My heart cracks open.
I sink down to his level. Cup his face in my hands. Kiss him softly - tasting myself on his lips.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“For what?”
“For waiting.”
I stand. Fix my dress. My underwear is somewhere on the floor and I can’t bring myself to care.
My lipstick is ruined - I can feel it smeared across my face - and there’s no mirror in here to fix it.
“Nora-”
I kiss him one more time. Quiet. Soft. And then I walk out of the parlor alone.
My mouth is swollen. My heart is pounding. And I’m absolutely terrified of how easy it would be to go back.