Chapter 32 Dante
DANTE
Glass crunches beneath my boots as I cross the main hall.
The windows are shattered, frames hanging in jagged pieces.
Spent shell casings litter the marble floor, dozens of them scattered among overturned furniture and bullet-scarred walls.
The villa looks like a war zone because it was one.
My shoulder throbs where a bullet grazed it during the firefight.
Enzo wrapped it with gauze, but blood's already soaked through the bandage.
I can feel the warm, sticky liquid dripping down my arm beneath my shirt.
Outside, the courtyard is way worse.
Bodies sprawl across the stone pathways, some of them Antonelli's men, a few of them mine.
The Christmas lights strung between the olive trees still glow, making a soft golden aura over the carnage that feels wrong and obscene.
But this victory is no less of a gift than the wrapped packages in my den that mercifully avoided being disturbed.
Rico stands near the fountain, coordinating with Kemal's men.
The Turks arrived halfway through the assault, and their reinforcements turned the tide when Antonelli's forces were pushing through the east wall.
Without them, we'd have been overrun.
"The perimeter is secure, Boss, but we'll have a mess on our hands. We're lucky the polizia aren't here yet," Rico reports when he sees me approaching. "The last of Antonelli's men fled twenty minutes ago. We're tracking them, but most won't make it far."
"And Antonelli?" I ask.
"Dead, sir. Enzo put three rounds in him during the final push. His body's in the garden." Rico's face seems carved from granite.
These men fighting beside me are true soldiers.
If we manage to escape a huge police presence, it’ll be a miracle, and I'll owe it all to my soldiers.
Gerard is finished and this war is finally over.
I feel like I should be celebrating with a round of drinks with my men like normal, but there's something more important to tend to first.
My family.
"Get the cleanup crews in here," I tell Rico. "I want everybody moved before sunrise. And sweep the grounds again. Make sure there are no stragglers hiding in the shadows."
"Already on it, sir, and Enzo is raising Detective Caine to bring him in on this. We'll set it up to look like a home invasion and our dead men playing self-defense. If that's okay?"
He waits for my response, but I wave him off.
However they spin it is fine.
Caine is a capable detective and I pay him enough to make problems like these go away.
I turn toward the house.
My legs are heavy and exhausted from days of fighting.
But I have one more thing to do before I can rest.
The hallway outside the saferoom is one place still untouched in the house, though most of the main floor will need major remodeling.
I'll hire a team to come help Marta get things cleaned up, but I'm more concerned with making sure this doesn’t affect Sofia.
The back stairwell was blessedly untouched.
Marta can take her up to her room that way.
When I get to the saferoom door, I enter the code with trembling fingers.
The lock disengages with a mechanical hiss, and the door swings open.
Angelica sits on the single bed with Sofia in her lap, both of them huddled against the far wall.
Marta stands near them with her hands clasped in front of her and two of my guards flank the door, their rifles lowered but ready.
My family is the most beautiful sight I've seen in weeks, and I hold my hands out as Sofia sees me first.
Her eyes widen, and she scrambles out of Angelica's arms, running toward me on wobbly legs.
"Papa!"
I crouch down and catch her as she crashes into me.
The impact sends a jolt of pain through my shoulder, but I don't care.
I wrap my arms around her, pulling her close.
I can see she's been crying—they all have. But it's over.
"I'm here, Piccola," I murmur into her hair. "I'm here."
She clings to me like she's terrified and starts crying again. "I heard the fireworks. They were so loud."
"I know, Piccola, but they're over now."
I smooth my hand down the back of her head and kiss her cheek through a mass of curls stuck there by her tears.
Angelica stands slowly.
Her face is pale and streaked with tears.
Her eyes move over me, taking in the blood on my shirt, the torn fabric, the exhaustion etched into every line of my face.
When our eyes meet, hers brim with relief and affection.
"Is it over?" she asks quietly as I look up at her.
"It's over." I lift Sofia and move toward her. "Antonelli's dead. His men are scattered. Rome is ours again."
Her knees buckle slightly, and I reach out with my free arm to steady her.
She presses her hand against my chest, her fingers trembling.
"You're bleeding," she says.
"It's not bad, just a graze."
"Dante—"
"I'm fine." I look past her to Marta. "Can you take Sofia upstairs? Give her a bath. Use the back hallway so she doesn't see the courtyard."
Marta nods and approaches, her arms outstretched.
I'll have to thank her properly for this when dawn comes and the real work begins.
"Come, little one. Let's get you cleaned up."
Sofia tightens her grip on my shirt.
"I don't want to leave Papa."
"I'll be right behind you," I tell her. "I just need to talk to your mama for a moment."
She hesitates, then releases me reluctantly.
Marta takes her hand as I set her down and leads her toward the door.
The guards follow them out, leaving Angelica and me alone in the safe room, and the door closes behind them.
Angelica stares up at me with eyes full of emotion.
"I thought you were dead. When the gunfire stopped, I thought—"
"I'm here, Bella." I step closer, closing the distance between us. "I kept my promise."
She lets out a sound that's half laugh, half sob, and throws her arms around my neck.
I wince as her weight presses against my injured shoulder, but I don't pull away.
I hold her as tightly as I can, burying my face in her hair.
"I was so scared," she whispers. "I kept listening to the radio, hearing your voice cut out, and I didn't know if you were okay. If you were still alive."
"I'm okay." I pull back slightly so I can see her face. "We're all okay."
Her hands move to my face, cupping my jaw.
Her thumbs brush over my cheekbones as if she's trying to convince herself I'm real.
"You're bleeding everywhere. You need a doctor."
"Silvio's on his way. But right now, I need you… Okay? I just need you."
I stare into her eyes, and she seems to understand I don’t mean just her body or her presence, but all of her.
She searches my eyes for a long moment, then fingers slide from my jaw to the back of my neck, pulling me down until our foreheads touch.
“I need you too,” she whispers in a raw voice that almost verges on tears. “All of you. Right now.”
Her lips crash into mine without warning, and it takes my breath for a moment.
I groan into her mouth, as her tongue slips past my teeth, claiming me with a hunger that feels almost violent.
My good arm bands around her waist, hauling her flush against me; the other hangs heavy at my side, as the wound pulses with every heartbeat.
She’s trembling, the thin cotton of her dress is damp with sweat and tears.
I feel it cling to her skin as I fist the fabric at her lower back, bunching it until my knuckles brush the soft dip just above her tailbone.
She breaks the kiss only to tug at my shirt, careful around the bandage but frantic all the same.
“Off,” she orders, breathless, voice shaking. “I need to see how bad.”
“It’s fine—”
“Dante.” Her eyes flash with a dark urgency. “Let me.”
I release her long enough to yank the shirt over my head, wincing as the motion pulls at the graze.
The gauze is soaked crimson, peeling at the edges; beneath it, the bullet carved a shallow trench just above my collarbone—it's raw and ugly, but not deep.
Blood wells in the furrow, bright against the older bruises across my ribs.
She hisses through her teeth, fingers ghosting over the edges, then lower, tracing the ridges of old scars with a reverence that makes my throat tight.
Her touch is feather-light, but it burns.
I wince, and she pulls back but I lead her to the bed.
It's narrow, a military cot bolted to the wall with rusted brackets, and the thin mattress is sagging in the middle from years of breakdown.
It creaks under my weight as I sit, and pull her closer.
Angelica straddles me in one fluid motion, knees bracketing my hips, nightgown riding up her thighs until the hem catches on my belt.
The lace edge of her panties is pale blue, soaked through at the center; I can see the dark shadow of her through the fabric, and my cock jerks against my zipper.
“Easy,” she murmurs, sensing the tension in my shoulder. “Let me handle this."
Her hands frame my face again, guiding me back until I’m reclining against the cold wall.
She follows, never breaking contact as her weight settles over me.
Then her lips meet mine again in a searing union I never want to break.
My hands find her hips as she rocks against me slowly, and the friction through denim and lace maddening.
I grip her hip with my good hand, fingers digging into soft flesh hard enough to let her know how bad I want her.
She gasps, arches against me, then reaches between us to free me.
The zipper rasps and cool air hits my skin; then her fingers wrap around my length, stroking once, twice, thumb swiping over the bead of moisture at the tip with a pressure that makes my hips buck involuntarily.
“Angelica—” I growl in a gravelly, hoarse tone.
“Shh.” She rises on her knees, shoves her panties aside with trembling fingers, and guides me to her entrance.
She’s slick and ready, and her heat makes my vision blur at the edges.
The head of my cock nudges her folds, slips through wetness, and she sinks down—inch by torturous inch—until I’m buried to the base.
Her inner walls flutter around me, clenching tight, and I have to clench my jaw to keep from coming right then.
She starts to move, hips rolling in a rhythm that’s both gentle and torturous at the same time.
Her hands brace on my chest, careful to avoid the wound and her mouth claims mine again possessively.
I've never seen her so hungry for me that she'd take charge, and I don't mind yielding.
After hours of being in charge, letting her have her way feels like a treasure.
Each rise and fall drags a low moan from her throat, muffled against my lips as she continues kissing me.
I thrust up to meet her, limited by the injury, but she takes control, grinding down harder, chasing friction against her clit with every circle of her hips.
The cot’s springs squeal in protest.
The metal frame rattles against the wall with every impact.
Sweat beads between her breasts, trickling down the valley of her cleavage and vanishing into her nightgown, but I have the rest of my life to enjoy her.
I lean forward to lick it away, tasting salt and her, the faint floral trace of her soap now mixed with the musk of sex.
She shudders, pace faltering, then rights herself, riding me with single-minded focus.
Her thighs tremble against mine; the muscles in her back ripple under my palm as I slide my hand up her spine, under the dress, fingers splaying over the sweat-damp skin between her shoulder blades.
The saferoom’s sterility amplifies every sound—her breath hitching in tiny, staccato bursts, the wet slide of our bodies, the slap of skin on skin, the creak of the cot’s springs in a frantic, syncopated rhythm.
The air grows thicker and humid with exertion and my shoulder throbs in time with my pulse, a dull counterpoint to the sharp pleasure building low in my gut.
“Dante,” she gasps, voice breaking on my name, “I’m—”
“Come for me, Bella.” I slide my good hand between us, thumb finding her clit, circling in tight, relentless strokes. “Let me feel it.”
Her walls flutter, then clamp down hard.
She cries out—my name, a broken sob—her body seizing as she comes, pulsing around me in waves that milk my cock.
The sight of her unraveling, head thrown back, drags me over the edge.
I thrust up into her and spill inside her with a guttural groan, hips jerking as pleasure rips through me.
She collapses forward, forehead against mine, both of us panting.
The cot's too small.
Her knee slips off the edge, but I catch her, holding her close.
My shoulder throbs but the pain's distant, drowned out by the warmth of her body, the steady thump of her heart against my chest.
After a moment, she lifts her head, eyes soft, sated.
"So, it's really over?" she asks with my dick still buried inside her.
"It's really over."
Her head turns, eyes fixing on the wound she lightly touches.
"This is going to need stitches."
"I know."
Her eyes fill with tears again and she sits up to look me in the eyes.
"I can't lose you, Dante. I can't do this without you."
"You won't have to." I grab both of her hands and clutch them in mine and kiss her knuckles. "I'm not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever."
She closes her eyes, her breath hitching. "Promise me."
"I promise." And that's a promise I intend to keep. "Let's get you to bed," I tell her softly, but she doesn't budge and this time, her rebellion is just fine with me.
I'll sit here forever if it means she stays.
Because more than anything, I did this for her and for Sofia.
And if she asked me, I'd let her go back to Naples and return to her normal life.
But after all of this, I pray she doesn’t ask.
Because I don’t want to do this without her either.