Chapter 11
Dante
The moment I’m inside the car, I pull out my phone and dial. The call is answered on the second ring.
“Mr. Salvatore.”
Harlow’s landlord greets, his voice careful.
“You have a tenant.”
I state flatly, my tone devoid of emotion.
A long pause follows, and I sense his uncertainty before he finally responds.
“Yes, I...”
“She’s moving out.”
I inform him.
A silence stretches between us, before he speaks again, clearly caught off guard.
“I... what?”
I glance at my watch.
“Within the hour.”
I reply, my voice as cold as steel.
“Sir, I...”
He stammers, but I don’t let him finish.
“You will come here and personally escort her out. Alternatively, you will make it absolutely clear that she has no other option but to leave immediately. Should she refuse, remind her that accepting is the only choice she has.”
My voice remains calm, but there’s an undeniable weight to it.
“If I discover she sets foot in that apartment again, it won’t be just you who pays the price. Your family will feel it too.”
A shaky exhale comes through the receiver.
“Understood.”
I end the call.
It’s done.
She wants to challenge me? Fine. Let her believe she’s won. But she’s coming with me, one way or another.
Naturally, I have the landlord’s details. The moment I uncovered that she was Ricci’s long-lost daughter, I had my team conduct a thorough background check. I know everything, where she’s resided, every person she’s communicated with, even the precise manner in which she takes her coffee.
My jaw clenches as I type a message to Mario, my second-in-command. I need answers. I need to know what transpired in that apartment. Was the blood from an animal or something else? He’d better find out. But I have a sickening feeling in my gut that it was someone’s.
I also need him to tighten security around Harlow. The writing on the wall seemed personal. No one dares threaten what belongs to me. If anyone so much as breathes in her direction, I’ll have them eliminated before they even realize the mistake they’ve made.
Mario had returned to Naples after the incident at the police station, someone had to oversee my territory, and it was clear I would be delayed in Palermo for a bit longer. Leonardo headed back to his duties as well, no longer required here. That left only my men, and not one of them had the faintest clue about what had transpired here.
I have questions. A lot of them.
And Harlow has a lot of explaining to do.
My grip tightens around the phone. I don’t know why I react to her this way. Possessiveness is not something I entertain. Not for a woman. Not for anyone.
But at the party, something surfaced, something raw, something unshakable. I’d slipped the ring onto her finger, and in that moment, a part of me had settled, had claimed. And despite everything, my cock had been rock hard all evening. This woman has a mouth on her, one that never knows when to quit, one I want to stuff full of my cock when she disobeys me so fucking prettily.
And I fucking hate it.
Harlow Moretti, Ricci, or whatever the fuck she is, needs to remain business. A wife is a liability, I won’t entertain. She’s also ten years younger than me. A problem wrapped in temptation.
I don’t have weaknesses.
Just one.
My jaw locks at the thought. I push it aside.
It doesn’t take long before I spot her through the tinted glass. She steps out of her apartment, a bag in hand, shoulders tense. Piero moves in to take it from her, but she doesn’t make it easy. Annoyance burns in her magnificent eyes. The moment she sees my car, she hesitates, just for a fraction of a second.
Then, she marches forward.
I step out, nodding toward the back of the car. Piero moves to load her bag, but before he can, she closes the distance, coming toe-to-toe with me.
“Don’t think for a moment that I’m naive.”
Her voice is low, tinged with bite.
“I know exactly what just transpired here.”
I remain silent.
Her glare sharpens, but I don’t give her the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, I glance at Piero.
“Pack up everything she owns and bring it home.”
Her expression twists with something before she exhales frustrated and steps around me, sliding into the car without another word. Her vanilla scent wrapping around me.
Fucking hell.
I close the door behind her, pausing for a second before moving to the other side.
Sliding into the back seat beside Harlow, I settle in as the engine purrs to life, the car pulling smoothly away from the curb.
Silence settles between us.
She stares out the window, her posture rigid, her arms crossed. I steal a glance at her, and my jaw clenches.
I shouldn’t care.
I fucking don’t.
She’s a liability.
A distraction.
And I don’t have time for this.
The drive to the airport is silent, tension thick between us. She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak.
And I don’t break first.
When we arrive, the private runway is already prepped. My plane waits, sleek and dark under the glow of the tarmac lights. We’re escorted through the private terminal, bypassing security, straight into the business lounge.
Still, not a word.
Not until we board.
As the engines hum to life and the jet lifts off, I steal another glance at the woman sitting across from me.
She’s staring out the window.
And for some goddamn reason, I can’t look away.
I don’t fucking like it.
The moment the seatbelt sign clicks off, I lean back in my seat, rolling my shoulders. The jet hums beneath us, smooth and steady as we leave Palermo behind.
Not long after, the stewardess appears.
She’s wearing a uniform that barely qualifies as one, blouse unbuttoned just enough to ensure I notice, skirt tight enough to leave little to the imagination. She doesn’t even glance at Harlow, as if the woman sitting next to me doesn’t fucking exist.
Her attention is all on me, her voice dripping with suggestion.
“Sir, is there anything I can get you?”
She tilts her head, a slow smile curving her lips.
“Anything at all?”
Harlow doesn’t react, outwardly. But I can feel the shift in her energy, the slow burn of irritation.
I don’t let the stewardess breathe another word. My voice is cold, sharp enough to slice.
“You can start by acknowledging my fucking fiancée.”
I say, my tone low and dangerous.
“Unless, of course, you'd prefer to discover just how far from the ground we truly are.”
Her eyes widen, and for a second, I see the exact moment she realizes her mistake. Fear crawls up her spine. She stiffens and nods quickly.
“Of course, sir.”
She mumbles, finally meeting Harlow’s gaze.
Never one to let an opportunity pass, my fiancée tilts her chin up, a smirk playing at her lips as she delivers her order.
“An espresso martini.”
She says smoothly, not even sparing the woman a glance. Then she pauses.
“And do try to make it strong. I have a habit of losing my patience with weak things.”
The stewardess flushes, nodding before turning to me, clearly hesitant.
“I’ll have a coffee,”
I say.
“And an assortment of pastries.”
I leave the specifics to her, she’ll know what to bring. My priority is making sure Harlow eats something.
The stewardess hurries off, her heels clicking against the floor. The moment she’s out of earshot, I turn my attention to the woman who constantly disrupts my thoughts, my gaze fixed on her as she observes the cabin with a casual air, though it’s clear to me, nothing escapes her notice.
“Your jealousy is showing, cara mia.”
I murmur, smirking.
She exhales a soft, amused laugh, tilting her head toward me.
“Please. If I were jealous, you’d be well aware.”
“Oh?”
I draw closer, my voice lowering to a dangerous whisper.
“And how, precisely, would you make that apparent?”
She leans in just as much, her scent invading my space, smug amusement flickering in her eyes.
“Because there wouldn’t be a body left to serve our drinks.”
A slow, dark chuckle rumbles in my chest. Mia leonessa.
Fucking perfect.
My fists clench as I take her in, she’s still wearing the dress from the party, but instead of heels, she’s in trainers. A contradiction, yet somehow still stunning. Practical, yet entirely effortless in a way only she can be.
I tilt my head slightly.
“Until our drinks are prepared, feel free to change. The closet holds everything you'll require.”
Her brows lift in surprise, but she doesn’t dare question me. She shouldn’t. I had my men ensure the wardrobe and bathroom were stocked with everything she might need, every detail meticulously arranged.
She rises, and I follow suit, trailing behind her into the bedroom. Once inside, I make my way to the en-suite, shrugging off my shirt as I go. The shower is brief, the cold water a relief, it’s already sweltering for May. As I return to the bedroom, a towel draped low around my waist, I take in the surroundings.
Harlow isn’t in sight. My frown deepens as I move toward the closet. I push the door open, and immediately freeze.
My mouth parts, my cock stirring with an immediate reaction.
There, standing before the full-length mirror, is my fiancée. She’s wearing nothing but a scarlet lace bra and the most obscene, barely-there thong I’ve ever seen. I swallow hard, dragging my gaze over every inch of her exposed skin. She turns at the sound, eyes widening.
“Fucking hell, Dante, can’t you knock?”
She scrambles to grab something, anything, to cover herself, but I don’t move, don’t react. I force myself to appear unaffected. I catch the way her gaze flickers down. The moment she sees the obvious evidence of what she’s doing to me, her throat bobs with a swallowed breath.
I watch as a blush slowly spreads across her cheeks, soft and pink, unmistakable in its intensity. A smirk tugs at my lips.
“You’re drooling.”
Her hands clench at her sides before she shoves past me, her shoulder knocking into mine. I chuckle as I hear the bathroom door click shut behind her.
Shaking my head, I get dressed, dark slacks, an open-collar shirt. By the time I return to my seat, our drinks are already on the table. I take my phone out, scanning through emails and messages from Mario, catching up on business.
Soon, Harlow steps out of the bedroom. She’s freshly showered, her face free of makeup, or maybe just the barest hint of it. She’s dressed in casual lounge clothes, something soft and fitted, and yet she still manages to look fucking incredible. Her hair is up in a bun, and for a moment, something in my chest tightens.
She looks younger like this. It’s a shift, different. Not in a dress, not in heels, not wielding sharp words or that rebellious edge. Just... effortlessly at ease. Comfortable. As though she belongs here, in this space.
My space.
I clench my jaw. No fucking feelings.
She lowers herself into the seat across from me, her gaze drifting over what’s before her. I gesture toward it.
“See to it that you eat something with your drink.”
She smirks.
“What, scared I’ll get drunk?”
I meet her gaze with a look that speaks volumes.
“Eat. Now.”
That smile she’s throwing my way, I don’t fucking like it. It’s not real. She’s still fucking angry at me for forcing her to Naples tonight, and I’d rather face her rage than these fake, hollow smiles.
The flight is only an hour.
Before long, the pilot’s voice crackles over the intercom, announcing our descent into Naples.
My city.
My empire.
As we touch down, the reality settles in.
Harlow is officially on my land now.
And she has no idea what that truly means.