Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Dante
New York nights never stopped screaming.
I sat in the conference room—the power center of Manhattan's underworld—flanked by six of the city's most dangerous mob bosses.
They were arguing over the hijacked smuggling routes at the Brooklyn docks, slamming the table over and over. I listened to their bickering, irritation crawling under my skin.
The irritation had been clawing at me since this morning. I tried to focus on the turf dispute in front of me. But the trick that usually worked didn't do a damn thing today.
Every time I closed my eyes, Natasha's pale, fragile face flashed through my mind.
She'd stood outside the master bedroom door, looking at me with that quiet, suffering expression, then stepped up to cover for me in front of my mother. She'd accepted living in the attic without a fight. Agreed to play the trophy wife without protest.
But that compliance made me furious.
My fingers drummed the table, tapping out a monotonous rhythm. The arguing stopped instantly. Everyone turned to me, waiting for my call. I glanced impatiently at Dmitri.
"Ten tonight. Send your best crew to the docks. Anyone shows up, grab them all. Make it clean."
Dmitri nodded immediately. I stood and walked straight out of the conference room.
A bunch of useless idiots. Half a day wasted on this small-time bullshit.
I returned to my private office and went straight to the bar, pouring myself a glass of whiskey—neat, nothing to cut it. The burn traveled down my throat.
It pulled me back to reality. Barely.
I didn't know why thinking about Natasha made me so irritable. Had to be disgust. A ruthless climber who'd do anything to rise now lived in my house, playing innocent, fooling my mother.
Disgusting.
While I was planning how to make her pay, someone knocked on the door.
Leo, my intelligence chief, hurried in. He carried a tablet and a sealed plastic evidence bag.
His face was grim. That usually meant bad news.
"Sir, we finally found Miss Vera Kornilov."
I set down my empty glass and walked to my desk. Leo placed the tablet on the surface, tapped open a video file, and turned the screen toward me.
"Sir, we pulled all internal surveillance from JFK yesterday. We found this."
I stared at the screen.
The footage was crystal clear. The timestamp in the corner showed the day Vera and I were supposed to get married.
Vera looked brand new. She wore an expensive designer trench coat, rolling a massive suitcase behind her. Alone in the international departures terminal.
She walked to the first-class security lane, took off her sunglasses, and flashed the agent a brilliant smile.
I studied every movement on screen.
Vera's steps were light. Her expression relaxed. She even pulled out her phone at security and took a cheerful selfie. No fear of being coerced. No panic of being kidnapped.
Just a happy woman about to go on vacation.
Dread settled in my gut.
Leo opened the sealed bag and pulled out a folded sheet of white paper.
"Not only that, sir. We got confirmation from inside the Kornilov family. Vera left willingly. She left a note. Our man broke into Nikolai's bedroom and took it."
I grabbed the paper. Blue ink stared back at me. I'd recognize that handwriting anywhere. Vera's own hand.
In the letter, Vera wrote that she didn't want to be dragged into the mob's brutal world. She craved real freedom. Wanted a normal life without chains. So she decided to run and hoped no one would look for her.
I finished the last word and finally accepted the worst-case scenario—Vera hadn't been forced. She'd chosen to abandon me.
For her so-called freedom, she'd turned me into a joke in front of every mob boss in New York.
I slowly set down the note and looked at Leo, my voice rough.
"What about Natasha? What role did she play in this?"
Leo swallowed hard. His expression darkened further.
"Sir, I traced everything that happened the morning of the wedding. Mr. Kornilov made the switch to protect the Kornilov family from your wrath. Miss Natasha Kornilov was the scapegoat they threw out. From the beginning, she never had a choice."
Vertigo hit me. Natasha's pale face appeared before my eyes. Wouldn't leave.
For the first time, I felt like a complete fool.
Dante Romanov, the most powerful man in New York's underworld, thought he controlled everything.
But a woman I believed I had locked down had played me.
Vera had planned her escape right under my nose, and I'd known nothing.
Worse—I'd treated an innocent victim, a girl coldly betrayed by her own family, like a trash can for my rage.
I'd used every ounce of power I had to torture her. Even planned to kill her myself.
All of it—a mistake. I'd been completely wrong about her.
Damn it. How could I fix this?
That night, I canceled every scheduled gang meeting and turf negotiation. All I wanted was to get back to the Manor as fast as possible.
My mood was a tangled mess. My hands rested on my knees, fingers clenching and unclenching. I didn't know how I'd face Natasha when I got home.
I'd been raised in the mob's brutal training from birth. I was used to ruling through fear and violence. I never bowed to anyone. Never admitted mistakes. Apologies didn't exist in my vocabulary. I had no idea how to express remorse to a woman.
The Manor was quiet. The staff had all gone to bed. I took the stairs quickly, crossed the Persian-carpeted hallway, and stopped at the master bedroom door.
I took a deep breath and told myself I didn't need to grovel for forgiveness.
I was the head of this family. I could always compensate. She needed money, I'd give her money. She needed status, I'd give her the highest position in the family. Whatever she wanted, I could provide.
I pressed the handle gently and pushed open the door.
The room was dim, only a few wall sconces casting weak light. The bed was empty. The blankets were folded neatly, untouched.
I frowned and scanned the spacious bedroom.
Then I saw her.
In a corner far from the bed, near the floor-to-ceiling window. Natasha lay on the floor with only a thin blanket beneath her, curled into a small ball.
This was ridiculous. Had she forgotten she still had a fever? And she dared to sleep on the floor?
Maybe she heard my footsteps. Natasha's eyes snapped open. She looked confused for a moment, then saw me. Fear and wariness crawled into her gaze.
She immediately braced her hands on the floor and scrambled upright.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stay in this room. It was Katerina. She insisted on watching me move in. But don't worry, I'll sleep on the floor. I won't touch your bed. I won't touch anything in the room."
She babbled explanations, desperate to prove she was harmless, desperate to draw a line between us.
That humble tone, that frantic avoidance—for a moment I didn't know how to react. I felt like my throat was stuffed with cotton. The apology I'd prepared felt pathetically inadequate.
I took a deep breath, trying to tell her I knew the truth. But Natasha didn't give me a chance. She jerked her head up and cut me off.
"Dante, let's be clear. I admit it—I used to have feelings for you." Her hands gripped the blanket tightly. "During that crush, I watched you every day. But that's over. It was just an unrealistic teenage fantasy. I'm grown up now. I've moved on completely."
My breathing stopped.
Natasha pressed on recklessly. "So you don't need to be on guard around me. Whatever you do next—whether you bring Vera back or marry someone else—I won't get in your way. You can bring me divorce papers anytime. I'll sign them. I'll never stand between you two."
She rushed through it all in one breath, no pauses. Like she was afraid if she stopped, I'd lunge forward and strangle her.
I stood there. Listened to every word that came out of her mouth. For once, I felt intensely irritated. The irritation even overpowered the guilt I'd felt before. I watched her face, desperately pretending not to care, and felt like my pride had been challenged somehow.
I was getting dumped? Again?
"So? You're saying that your feelings for me are something you can just drop whenever you feel like it. What am I to you, then? A toy you use and throw away after you're done?"
Natasha stared at me like I'd lost my mind. I looked down, feeling a flash of regret. What was I doing? Begging like a scorned wife for Natasha to take me back?
"Anyway, I won't bother you anymore. I'm tired. I'm going to sleep."
I snapped my head up. Natasha had already turned away, lying back down on the floor, wrapping herself completely in the blanket.
The line of her back was rigid, using that defensive posture to declare the conversation over.
Watching that blanketed silhouette, rage shot straight from my chest to my head.
What right did she have to end this? What right did she have to casually erase her feelings for me? What made her think I'd accept this absurd proposal?
I walked straight toward her and stopped beside her. I bent down, grabbed the edge of the blanket covering her, and yanked it off.
Natasha gasped and instinctively curled into herself, arms crossed over her chest. But the gesture came too late.
She wore a nightgown—fabric so thin it was nearly transparent. The ivory silk glowed faintly in the dim wall light. One strap had slipped off her shoulder, hanging loose on her thin upper arm, exposing her entire smooth collarbone and a stretch of pale shoulder.
Her curled position had pushed the hem up to the top of her thighs, revealing two long, straight legs.
Her waist was tiny—thin enough I could probably wrap one hand around it.
The silk clung to her body, outlining every curve—flat stomach, smooth narrowing waistline, and below that, a full, soft arc.
My gaze lost control.
It traveled from her face down her neck to her chest. Her lips were slightly chapped from dehydration. Her chest rose and fell sharply with her rapid breathing. That flimsy nightgown clung and loosened with each breath.
Heat flared in my abdomen without warning.
This wasn't the reaction I'd expected. I came here to apologize. To tell her the truth. But every prepared word in my head had been scrambled into murky white noise.
I shouldn't be thinking this right now. But I couldn't stop it—I wanted to fuck her.