Chapter 5
Dante
Ipoured two fingers of bourbon in the study and watched the amber liquid catch the lamplight. Twenty-four hours since I'd extracted Julietta Altieri from that hotel suite. She’d slept for ten, paced the penthouse after our conversation like a caged panther, cataloging every lock and exit.
Twenty-four hours of pretending I'd done this for strategy. Even though taking her wasn’t part of the original plan.
The lie tasted worse than the bourbon.
Vince had called twice already, asking about next steps. Marco wanted to know if we were leveraging her for territory or ransom. Even Sal—who knew better than to question me—had sent a text asking what the endgame looked like.
I didn't have an answer.
Because the truth was, I'd torpedoed a cartel alliance, assassinated a prince, and kidnapped a mafia princess for one reason: I couldn't stomach the thought of her belonging to anyone else.
Obsession wore a thousand masks, but beneath them all, it was just hunger.
It was just after noon. I finished the bourbon and set the glass down harder than necessary.
The crystal rang out like a bell in the silence.
Somewhere down the hall, I heard water running.
She was in the shower again—third time today.
Trying to wash away the memory of Miguel's blood. Trying to wash away me.
Good luck with that, princess.
My phone buzzed. Another message from Vince.
Lorenzo's put a bounty on her. Two million. Word's spreading fast.
I typed back: Let it spread. No one touches her.
What's the play here, D?
I stared at the question for a long moment before deleting my draft and pocketing the phone. The play was keeping her. The play was making her understand she belonged to me. The play was patience I didn't possess and control that was slipping through my fingers like sand.
Footsteps in the hallway pulled my attention. Light. Barefoot. I'd learned the sound of her already—the way she moved through space like she was mapping escape routes with every step.
That would change.
I turned as she appeared in the doorway, hair damp and falling in dark waves around her shoulders. She'd changed into black leggings and an oversized sweater that hung off one shoulder. No makeup. No armor. Just skin and defiance and fire in those whiskey-colored eyes.
"We need to talk," she said.
"Do we?"
"You can't keep me here indefinitely."
"Watch me."
She stepped into the study, and I watched her take in everything—the books lining the walls, the mahogany desk, the hidden safe behind the Caravaggio. Smart girl. Always learning the terrain.
"What do you want from me?" The question came out sharp, but there was something underneath it. Something vulnerable she was trying to hide.
"I already told you."
"No. You told me what you don't want. You told me my father's plans. You told me I'm safer here." She crossed her arms, the gesture both defensive and defiant. "But you haven't told me what you actually want."
I moved around the desk, putting distance between us because proximity was dangerous. "Maybe I haven't decided yet."
"Liar."
The word hung in the air like a thrown knife. I felt my jaw tighten, felt the mask I wore for everyone else start to crack.
"Careful, Julietta."
"Or what?" She took a step closer, and I watched her hands ball into fists at her sides. "You'll lock me up? You already did that. You'll threaten me? You already did that too. What else is left?"
Everything. Nothing. The space between damnation and redemption.
I closed the distance between us in three strides, and satisfaction flared when her eyes widened. She didn't retreat. Didn't flinch. Just lifted her chin and met my gaze head-on like she wasn't five-foot-five and unarmed in a locked penthouse with a man who'd killed for less.
"You really want to know what I want?" My voice came out low, dangerous. The bourbon and restraint and hours of denying myself burned through every word.
"Yes."
"You already know."
Her breath hitched. Just a fraction. Just enough to tell me she understood exactly what this was.
"Say it," she whispered.
"No."
"Coward."
The word detonated something inside me. I grabbed her wrist—firm enough to make a point, not cruel enough to hurt—and pulled her flush against me. Her gasp was sharp, startled, but she didn't pull away.
"Careful, princess." I bent my head until my lips were a breath away from her ear. "You might like what happens next."
"You don't scare me."
"I should."
"You don't."
Her pulse was hammering against my thumb where I held her wrist. I could feel every ragged breath she took, could smell the hotel shampoo in her hair and something underneath it that was just her.
Clean skin. Defiance. Something sweet and dangerous that made my control fray like rope over broken glass.
"Dante—"
Hearing my name on her lips snapped the last thread.
I released her wrist and cupped her face instead, tilting her head back until those whiskey eyes were locked on mine. Her lips parted. Her hands came up to my chest—whether to push me away or pull me closer, neither of us knew.
"You drive me insane," I whispered against her cheek, my lips barely touching skin. "Every thought. Every plan. Every calculated move I've made for fifteen years, and you walk into a ballroom in an emerald dress and burn it all down."
"I didn't ask for this—"
"Neither did I."
I traced a path with my mouth from her cheekbone to her jaw, feeling her shiver beneath my hands. Not fear. Something else. Something that matched the fire clawing through my chest.
"Tell me to stop," I murmured against the hollow of her throat, my lips ghosting over her pulse point. "Tell me you hate this. Tell me you'd rather be back in that compound with your father's guards and Miguel's ring on your finger."
"I—" Her words dissolved into a sharp inhale as I grazed my teeth over the sensitive skin below her ear.
"Tell me, Julietta."
"I can't."
The admission broke something open between us.
Her hands fisted in my shirt, and when I pulled back just enough to look at her, I saw the same hunger I felt reflected in her eyes.
The same confusion. The same terrifying recognition that this—whatever this was—had been inevitable from the moment I'd seen her across that ballroom.
"You should hate me," I said.
"I know."
"I killed your fiancé."
"I know that too."
"I'm keeping you prisoner."
"Are you?" Her fingers relaxed against my chest, spreading over my heart. "Or are you keeping me safe?"
The question hit harder than any accusation could have. Because she was right. Because underneath the obsession and possession and hunger, there was something else. Something I couldn't name and didn't want to examine.
I slid one hand into her hair, the damp strands tangling around my fingers like silk. Her eyes fluttered closed for just a second before snapping open again, obstinate even in surrender.
"What are you doing to me?" she whispered.
"Same thing you're doing to me."
Our mouths were inches apart. One movement. One moment of weakness. One kiss and this whole carefully constructed arrangement would detonate.
I wanted it.
God help me, I wanted it more than I'd wanted anything in my entire blood-soaked life.
But not like this. Not when she was still wearing the dress with Miguel's blood on it in her mind. Not when she was trapped here with nowhere to go and no choice but me.
I pulled back.
Her eyes flew open, confusion and something that looked like disappointment crossing her face.
"Dante—"
"Not yet." The words cost me everything. My hands were shaking as I stepped away from her, putting necessary distance between us before I did something we'd both regret. Or wouldn't regret. Which was worse.
"Why?"
"Because when I kiss you—" I had to stop and breathe through the want clawing at my chest. "When I finally kiss you, princess, it won't be because you're confused or scared or looking for an escape. It'll be because you chose it. Chose me. Knowing exactly what I am and what this means."
"You're insane."
"Probably." I retreated toward the door, my jaw clenched so hard I tasted copper. "But I'm also patient. And you're not ready."
"Don't tell me what I'm ready for."
"Prove me wrong then." I paused in the doorway and looked back at her—flushed, breathing hard, eyes blazing with anger and arousal and confusion. "Dinner's at 4:30 p.m. Don't be late."
I made it to my bedroom before the control finally shattered. I braced my hands on the dresser and stared at my reflection in the mirror—jaw tight, eyes wild, breathing ragged like I'd run a marathon instead of walked away from the one thing I wanted most.
The cold, calculating Don who'd built an empire on blood and strategy was gone. In his place was just a man, drowning in desire. Burning with frustration. Completely undone by a mafia princess who was supposed to be leverage and nothing more.
My phone buzzed again. Vince.
Need an update. What's the status?
I typed back with hands that weren't quite steady: Complicated.
Because that was the truth. Julietta Altieri was supposed to be a pawn in a game I'd been playing for years, and instead she'd walked in and flipped the whole board.
And the worst part—the truly terrifying part—was that I didn't care.
Let Lorenzo come. Let the Suarez cartel mobilize. Let the whole damn city burn.
I wasn't giving her back.