Chapter 4
DANTE
Yes.
One word. One syllable. And my entire plan goes up in flames.
She’s standing three feet away, chin lifted, pulse fluttering in the hollow of her throat. I can see the tremble she’s trying to hide. Can catch the scent of her, soft and floral, too gentle for this room.
Close enough to do something stupid.
I should step back. Create distance. Send her home and find another solution, another bride, someone who doesn’t look at me like she can see past the monster to what’s underneath.
Someone who doesn’t make my blood run hot.
I don’t move.
She fills out that burgundy dress like a threat. Soft in all the places I want to sink my fingers. The neckline sits just low enough to make my pulse hammer, and when she shifts, the fabric whispers against her skin.
She’s heat and defiance wrapped in silk, and she hasn’t flinched once since she walked through my door.
Everyone flinches.
My father’s captains flinch. Men twice her age with blood on their hands look away. But this woman stands in my study like she belongs here, like she has every right to demand my attention. It makes me want to push her. Test her limits. See how far that steel spine bends before it breaks.
Or doesn’t.
Renzo is still against the wall. Waiting. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken, but I know my brother. He’s assessing her the same way I am. Threat assessment. Capability analysis. The cold calculation that keeps us alive.
I wonder what he sees.
I see a problem I didn’t plan for.
I had a strategy. A clinical marriage. Controlled distance. An heir and nothing more. A wife I could keep walled off for the rest of my life.
This woman is none of those things.
She admitted she’s terrified. Then she lifted her chin and told me she doesn’t run. My ribs loosened a fraction I didn’t authorize. Her words landed somewhere I’d bricked shut years ago.
I won’t run.
Three words. And I believed her.
I turn away. Face the window. The morning light cuts through the blinds in sharp lines, and I focus on that instead of the curve of her hips, fabric shifting when she breathes, the rapid flutter at the base of her neck.
She’s scared. She admitted it. But she’s still here.
Courage or insanity, I said.
I’m starting to think it’s both.
“Don.” Romano’s voice from the doorway. Smooth. Professional. “The calls from this morning. Should I continue to handle them?”
“Later.”
One word. He pauses, reads the room, and nods.
“Of course, Don.”
He doesn’t leave. His attention moves to the woman standing in my study, and his eyes narrow. Interest, maybe. Or calculation. Romano has been with this family for thirty-two years. He’s seen women come and go.
None of them walked in here uninvited and offered themselves as payment.
“The other daughter,” Romano says. Neutral. Testing. “Cassia, isn’t it?”
She turns her head toward him. Acknowledges him with a nod. No words. No explanation. No defense.
I file it away. She doesn’t trust him. Or she doesn’t know him well enough to engage. Either way, she’s sharper than she seems.
“That will be all, Romano.”
He hesitates. Just a fraction.
“Of course, Don.”
The door closes behind him.
Now it’s just her, me, and Renzo. My brother won’t speak unless I ask him to. That’s how we work. That’s how we’ve always worked.
I turn back to face her.
She’s studying me. Dark eyes steady, hands loose at her sides. She’s not fidgeting. Not filling the silence with nervous chatter. Just waiting.
Patient.
Like she already knows what I’m going to decide.
Maybe she does. Maybe she’s read the answer in my face before I’ve admitted it to myself.
My attention drags down her body without my permission.
Her collarbone catching the light. The dark hair spilling past her shoulders, thick enough to wrap around my fist. The tremble in her lower lip that she’s fighting to hide. A tiny mole just below her left ear that my mouth aches to find.
Fuck.
I take inventory of the rest because I can’t stop. Her hands hang loose at her sides, fingers relaxed but not clenched. The rise and fall of her chest, a fraction too fast, betraying the fear she won’t let reach her face. Feet planted like she’s bracing for a blow.
She’s waiting for me to refuse her. To dismiss her. To send her back to her father with her spine straight and her chin high.
She’s not going to beg. I can see that much. If I say no, she’ll turn around and walk out of here, and I’ll never see her again.
The thought hits like a fist to the sternum.
Terrified. But not running.
I won’t become him.
And now this woman is standing in my study, offering herself up like a gift I didn’t ask for, and I’m considering saying yes.
Not because of politics.
Because I need to know what she tastes like.
Cazzo. Focus.
“You said you’re terrified.” The words scrape out low and wrecked. I don’t correct it. “But you came anyway. Why?”
Her chin lifts. “I told you. To honor my father’s debt.”
“That’s not the whole truth.”
A pause. Her eyes search mine, and I see the instant she decides to give me something real.
“No. It’s not.”
She doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t explain. Just lets the admission hang between us, a thread I could pull if I wanted to.
I want to pull. My fingers ache with it.
Instead, I hold my ground. Keep the distance between us. Three feet of charged air that amounts to nothing.
“You have no idea what you’re walking into.”
“Then tell me.” Her voice steadies. Challenges. “Tell me what I should be afraid of.”
I don’t answer. Can’t. Because the truth is complicated and bloody and not for strangers.
But she’s not retreating. Not backing down. Just waiting for me to decide if she’s worth the risk.
The decision crystallizes. All at once. A blade dropping.
“We marry today.”
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. Before I can think through the implications, the complications, the thousand ways this could go wrong.
Her eyes widen. The first real waver in her steadiness since she walked in.
“Today?”
“Today.” I don’t look away from her. Don’t give her time to argue. “Renzo.”
My brother straightens from the wall. Instant. Alert. He’s been waiting for this. Waiting to see which way I’d fall.
“Find a judge. Get Gia here. Two hours.”
“The Valentino situation.”
“Can wait.” My voice leaves no room for argument. “This takes priority.”
He studies me for a half-second. Long enough to catch the crack in my composure. Not surprise on his face. Closer to recognition.
Then he nods once and disappears through the door.
I reach for the phone on my desk. Dial the extension for Romano’s office. He answers on the first ring.
“Don.”
“Inform the men. Secure the compound. No one in or out until I say otherwise.”
A pause. Brief.
“May I ask the occasion?”
“I’m getting married today.”
Silence on the line. I can hear him recalculating, adjusting whatever mental ledger he keeps of the family’s business.
Then, smooth as ever.
“Of course. Congratulations.”
He hangs up. I set the phone down. Turn back to the woman who just upended every plan I had.
Her lips are parted. That controlled composure fracturing.
“You.” She stops. Starts again. “You don’t want to discuss terms? Sign a contract?”
“No.”
“But the contract.”
“You offered yourself to pay your father’s debt.” I close the distance between us. One step. Two. Until I’m standing over her again, until I can see the gold flecks in her dark eyes.
“I’m accepting. Unless you’ve changed your mind.”
She swallows. Hard. I track the movement down her throat.
“I haven’t.”
“Then we marry today.” I let myself look at her. All of her. The curve of her mouth. The flush spreading across her cheeks. The way she’s holding herself so still, like any movement will shatter the moment.
“My sister will help you get ready. There’s a room at the end of the east wing.”
“Dante.”
My name in her mouth. The first time she’s used it.
My cock twitches. Goddamn it.
“Don Santoro,” I correct. My voice drops without my permission. “We’re not there yet.”
She holds my gaze. Searching. I don’t know if she finds what she needs.
Then she nods. Once.
“Don Santoro.”
She turns. Walks toward the door. And I track every step, that burgundy silk swaying, the fabric pulling across her hips in a way that makes my hands ache to follow.
She pauses at the threshold. Doesn’t look back.
“Two hours?”
“Two hours.”
A breath. Then she’s gone, the door clicking shut behind her, and I’m alone in my father’s study with the ghost of her perfume and a decision I can’t take back.
I move to the window. Stare out at the gardens my mother planted. Somewhere out there, my men are securing the perimeter. My sister is being summoned. A judge is being found.
In two hours, I’ll have a wife.
My hand flattens against the glass. Cool against my skin. Grounding.
This is practical. A solution to a problem.
That’s what I keep repeating while the scent of her still clings to the air. While my hands won’t unclench. While my blood runs hot and my jaw aches from grinding and my whole goddamn body calls me a liar.
Bullshit.
By sunset, she’ll be my wife.
And I’m already fucked.