Chapter 20
Harlow
I lock eyes with Dante, and for a fleeting moment, I forget how to breathe. He steps toward the table, the golden glow of the garden lights casts shifting shadows across his features, sharpening every angle, making him look almost unreal, too exquisite, too dangerous. I blink, forcing myself to break the moment’s hold. No. Absolutely not.
Dante pulls out the chair at the head of the table, settling in with quiet authority. The maids move swiftly, materializing as if from thin air, placing a steaming plate of freshly made agnolotti before him. The delicate, hand-folded pasta, stuffed with ricotta and black truffle, glistens under the garden lights, its aroma decadent and earthy. Another maid steps forward.
“What may I bring you to drink, Signora?”
She asks me.
“An espresso martini,”
I say smoothly.
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
Dante glances at me, then shifts his gaze to the maid.
“A glass of red.”
His voice is effortless, a command.
Across the table, Mattia pipes up.
“Succo. Per favore.”
The air between Dante and me is taut, stretched so thin it’s suffocating. The tension lingers, a silent battlefield neither of us acknowledges, but both of us feel. My husband shifts his attention to Mattia, the sharp lines of his face softening, just slightly.
“How was practice today? You didn’t get into another fight, I hope.”
Mattia shrugs. “No.”
He stabs at his dessert.
“It was okay.”
Dante’s gaze sharpens.
“That’s all you have to say?”
“Dunno,”
Mattia mumbles, still poking at his food.
“Finished all the drills, ran a bunch. Didn’t hit anyone. Coach said I played well.”
Dante’s silence is heavy. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t press further, but the distance between them feels like a living thing, a quiet strain they don’t know how to bridge. I watch them, my fingers tightening around my glass. What caused it? Was it only because of Mattia’s mother, or was it deeper than that? Was it Dante’s nature? The way power and violence were woven into his blood, shaping him into a man who could never be anything but ruthless? Was it this life, a life where being strong meant never showing weakness, even to your own son?
Mattia, unaware of the thoughts spiralling in my head, shrugs again. And almost offhandedly, he adds.
“Coach was talking to Harlow a lot. I think he likes her.”
Dante goes still.
Fucking hell.
His grip tightens around his fork, his entire frame coiling like a predator poised to strike. His jaw clenches, his throat works once. His eyes, dark, dangerous snap to mine.
“Is that so?”
His voice is quiet, dangerously smooth.
My stomach tightens. That voice? That’s the voice of a man who acts first and deals with the consequences later.
I roll my eyes, forcing a smirk.
“It wasn’t like that.”
Dante leans back, drumming his fingers against the stem of his glass. “No?”
His gaze is locked onto mine, assessing, calculating, burning.
“Then explain to me why my son thinks his coach has a fucking interest in you.”
I glare at him.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
His eyes gleam dangerously.
“Ridiculous? No. Cautious? Absolutely. I don’t like men looking at what belongs to me.”
My breath hitches before I can stop it, and his smirk deepens, like he hears the unspoken reaction. I force a scoff.
“Right. Because this is all real, isn’t it? Or did you forget? The ring, the title, it’s all for appearances.”
His smirk doesn’t fade.
“Of course it is. And if I have to put a bullet in a man to keep up appearances, so be it.”
I shake my head, exhaling sharply.
“You’d kill a man over a look, wouldn’t you?”
Dante tilts his glass slightly, swirling the wine. “Indeed.”
He takes a slow sip, and adds.
“A look. A word. A lingering glance in the wrong direction.”
His eyes flick to mine.
“Tell me, leonessa, would you prefer I deny it? Or shall I remind you precisely what kind of man you married?”
Mattia watches the exchange with mild interest, his gaze bouncing between us, as if trying to figure out if this is normal. Then, with all the casual ease of a child, he pushes his dessert plate away and stands.
“I’m gonna play a game before bed. My friend’s already waiting!”
He pushes back his chair, barely sparing us a glance. “Bye!”
Dante lifts his glass, watching him.
“Don’t stay up too late.”
His tone is laced with authority.
Mattia huffs. “I won’t!”
I shake my head, amused.
“Sleep well, picollino.”
To my surprise, he hesitates, just for a second, then steps closer, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek before darting off, as if worried I might acknowledge it.
I remain still, momentarily caught off guard. The faint warmth lingers, delicate, settling somewhere deep within me. Dante watches intently, his expression tight, but I don’t look in his direction. Because if I do, he’ll see the way my fingers tighten subtly around the stem of my glass, the way my pulse quickens against my will. I clear my throat, pushing back my chair.
“I should retire for the evening. Today has been…exhausting.”
Dante rises smoothly, adjusting his cuffs.
“I’ll accompany you.”
I pause, turning to him.
“Oh, so you’ve decided to grace me with your presence tonight?”
He arches a brow.
“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”
A smirk tugs at my lips.
“Ever since you had your mouth between my thighs, you've been keeping your distance. Tell me, Dante, did it unnerve you?”
His eyes darken, amusement flickering beneath the intensity of his gaze.
“I never run scared, leonessa. You should know that by now.”
I cross my arms, tilting my head ever so slightly.
“Could’ve fooled me.”
He steps closer, the space between us shrinking, His scent unmistakably him, wraps around me, suffocating and intoxicating all at once.
“I’ve had pressing matters to attend to,”
he murmurs, his voice dipping.
“But don’t tell me you longed for my absence.”
I scoff, tilting my chin up with feigned indifference.
“Please. Don’t flatter yourself. You merely made me come, hardly an extraordinary feat. Any man with a little skill can manage that.”
I let the words hang, savouring the way his jaw tightens, the flicker of something deadly sparking in his gaze. I should stop. I know it. But I don’t. I want to watch him unravel. With a slow, taunting smirk, I lean in just enough for my breath to graze his skin.
“Some even do it better.”
The shift is instantaneous. The air thickens, dark, suffocating, charged with something primal. The man before me is no longer merely irritated. He is deadly. In a flash, Dante grips the back of my head, his fingers tangling in my hair with bruising force. He yanks, twisting my head back, baring my throat to him as he towers over me. His voice is low, edged with pure, unfiltered rage.
“Say that again. I fucking dare you.”
I swallow, my pulse a frantic staccato beneath his touch.
“What’s wrong, Dante?”
I taunt, my voice quieter now, but no less defiant.
“Did I strike a nerve?”
His grip tightens, breath hot against my lips, his gaze unhinged.
“If you ever mention another man in my presence, leonessa,”
his voice drops, a dark edge slicing through every word.
“I will fucking ruin you. Do you understand?”
A shiver rakes down my spine. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let go.
“I’ll put you on your knees, tear that insolent little smirk off your face, and remind you exactly who you belong to.”
His thumb brushes over my bottom lip before gripping my jaw with bruising possession.
“And if you ever let another man touch you—”
his eyes flicker with something unholy, something deranged.
“I will fucking kill him. Slowly. Painfully. And I’ll make you watch.”
My breath falters, I should be afraid. Perhaps I am.
But God help me, my own body is a traitor.
My pulse spikes, heat pooling low in my belly, in response to the sheer dominance in his gaze.
I must be unhinged.
No sane person would react like this.
I'm breathless, my legs unsteady, the dampness between my thighs a humiliating betrayal.
Dante studies my face for a lingering moment before releasing me abruptly and stepping back.
I force myself to regain composure, turning sharply as I make my way toward the house.
Footsteps echo behind me, his presence a shadow that refuses to relent.
Damn him.
He wasn’t bluffing, he’s truly coming.
And now, I have to endure the torment of sharing a room with him.
The moment we step into the bedroom, he flicks on the light, casting a warm glow over the space.
I inhale sharply, pivoting toward the bathroom.
“I’ll be taking a shower." I don’t wait for a response.
I slip inside, shutting the door behind me and pressing my back against it.
My eyes squeeze shut as I draw in a shaky breath, willing myself to steady.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
The worst part?
I like the way he affects me.
The thought is unwelcome, intrusive, yet it lingers, sinking its claws into me.
I exhale sharply, peeling off my clothes with brisk, almost desperate movements before stepping under the spray.
Scalding water cascades over my skin, but it does little to chase away the heat still coiling deep in my stomach.
Once I’m finished, I towel off and slip into a robe, a long, blush silk piece that clings to my skin, its sleeves adorned with delicate feathers at the cuffs, whispering against my wrists as I move.
Stepping into the room, my gaze immediately lands on Dante.
He’s sprawled across the bed, wearing nothing but black boxer briefs that cling to him in a way that feels almost indecent.
His hands are folded behind his head, biceps flexed lazily, while the soft flicker of the television casts shifting shadows over the sharp ridges of his body.
An action movie plays in the background, but I barely register it.
My eyes trace the sculpted terrain of his torso, the chiselled abs, the broad chest, the sheer definition of muscle that makes it downright unjust for any man to look like that.
I tell myself not to linger, to move, to focus on anything else, but it’s futile.
My gaze dips lower, catching on the unmistakable outline beneath the thin fabric of his briefs.
Heat licks at my skin.
My pulse stutters.
I snap my head away, turning sharply toward the closet, but it’s too late.
Behind me, a low chuckle rumbles through the air, rich and taunting.
“Like what you see, cara mia?”
The nickname drips with amusement, edged with mockery.
I scowl, refusing to indulge him.
Stepping into the wardrobe, I shut the door behind me, creating a barrier between myself and the temptation lounging so arrogantly in that bed.
As I scan the shelves, my stomach sinks with an unfortunate realization, every single pyjama set I own is hopelessly indecent.
Lace.
Silk.
Short.
Barely leaving anything to the imagination.
With a sigh, I reach for the least provocative option, a satin slip that barely skims the tops of my thighs and does absolutely nothing to conceal my nipples.
Far from ideal, yet the most modest choice I have.
I slip it on and step out.
The sound of running water fills the room.
Dante is in the shower now.
I settle in front of the vanity, my fingers weaving through my damp hair as I study my reflection.
I try to focus on unwinding, on the rhythmic motion of combing out the tangles, but my body is still too aware of his presence just beyond that door.
The water shuts off.
I keep my hands busy, smoothing moisturizer over my arms, rubbing lotion into my legs, as if tending to my skin will distract me from the tension clawing at my nerves.
A few moments later, Dante emerges.
A towel hangs low on his hips, clinging to him in a way that makes it impossible to ignore just how devastatingly built he is.
Droplets of water trail down his torso, catching in the grooves of muscle.
His gaze locks onto mine for a fleeting second before trailing lower, down my body, to my legs, to the slow, languid way my hands glide over my thighs.
Fingers twitch at his sides, jaw locking as tension coils through him, barely restrained.
Something passes over his expression, but it’s fleeting.
He exhales sharply, then turns toward the closet without a word.
I don’t look up when I hear the door shut behind him.
Instead, I climb into bed, yanking the covers over me like they might serve as some kind of barrier.
A futile attempt at self-preservation.
This tension is suffocating.
Why he insists on sharing a bedroom is beyond me.
The air between us is too charged, too volatile.
And I’m not afraid to admit it, the chemistry between us is incendiary.
If I let myself, I’d already be underneath him, legs spread, nails raking down his back as he fucks me into this mattress, hard enough to make me forget why I ever tried to resist him in the first place.
I stop the thought before it fully forms.
I don’t do attachments.
I cannot afford to.
Sleeping with him would be a mistake. A line that, once crossed, would blur everything. This is business. It should stay that. Minutes later, Dante slides in beside me. The bed dips under his weight.
“Good night.”
I murmur, my voice softer than I’d like.
He reaches over and switches off the light.
“Good night, leonessa.”
Darkness envelops the room. I inhale slowly, his scent, a heady mix of cologne and soap invading my senses. I stay still, forcing my breathing to remain even.
And despite the tension still thrumming between us, sleep finds me quickly.