15. Dante
15
DANTE
E very day feels like torture.
I catch glimpses of Chiara across crowded rooms, at formal dinners, during endless planning sessions for a wedding that makes my stomach churn. But I can’t reach her. I can’t touch her. I can’t even speak to her.
My duties keep me busy, running errands for Don Marino, standing guard during meetings, always on the periphery. Close enough to see Chiara, but never enough to connect. It’s maddening.
I watch as she’s swept from one event to another, always surrounded by family members, wedding planners, or worst of all, Pyotr. That smug bastard seems to be everywhere, his hand on the small of Chiara’s back, leaning in to whisper in her ear. Every time I see it, I feel a surge of jealousy so strong it’s almost physical pain.
At night, when I should be sleeping, I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, my mind racing. I imagine all the things I want to say to Chiara if I could just get a moment alone with her. I rehearse speeches, plan grand gestures, anything to remind her of what we have together.
But the opportunities never come. She’s kept busy from dawn till well past dusk. When she’s not in meetings or at events, she’s surrounded by her sisters or her mother. There’s always someone there, always a goddamn buffer between us.
The frustration builds inside me day by day. I feel like I’m watching our love slip away, powerless to stop it. Every smile Chiara gives Pyotr feels like a knife in my gut. Every day that passes without my being able to speak to her feels like a victory for him.
I’ve tried everything I can think of. I’ve volunteered for extra shifts near the main house, hoping to catch her alone. I’ve lingered after meetings, praying for just a moment of her time. But it’s never enough. Never private enough. Never long enough.
The desperation is starting to eat away at me. I find myself considering increasingly risky moves. Maybe I could slip a note under her door? But what if someone else found it? Maybe I could create a distraction, draw her away from the others? But that could jeopardize my position in the family.
As another day ends without my getting anywhere near Chiara, I feel the anguish and frustration threatening to overwhelm me. I’m running out of time, out of options, and out of hope.
But I can’t give up. I won’t. Somehow, some way, I have to find a way to reach her. To remind her of our love. To fight for us.
Because the alternative—losing her forever—is simply unthinkable.
* * *
The Marino estate is alive with light and laughter, transformed into a glittering spectacle for Chiara and Pyotr’s engagement party. The grand ballroom is adorned with flowing silk draperies, crystal chandeliers casting a warm glow over the gathering. The air is thick with the scents of exotic flowers and the murmur of conversation.
I stand near the edge of the room, trying to blend in despite the fine suit that feels almost foreign on my body. It’s not often that I’m invited to events like this as a guest rather than security. My parents are nearby, my mother resplendent in a deep blue gown, my father cutting an imposing figure in his tailored tuxedo.
The room is filled with the elite of our world. Don Marino’s highest-ranking men and their families mingle, a sea of designer suits and glittering jewelry. I spot Sofia and Dominico, both looking impeccable as always. Even Bianca and Rork are here, Bianca’s usual rebellious style tamed into a sleek, form-fitting dress that still manages to look edgy.
But my eyes are drawn inexorably to Chiara. She’s a vision, ethereal and breathtaking in a gown of soft, shimmering gold. The dress hugs her curves before flowing out gracefully, making her look like some otherworldly goddess. Her dark hair is swept up elegantly, exposing the graceful curve of her neck. The sight of her makes my heart ache with longing.
She’s standing next to Pyotr, of course. He looks every inch the dashing fiancé in a perfectly tailored black suit. I watch as he leans in to whisper something in her ear, and she laughs, the sound carrying across the room to pierce my heart.
I clench my fist around my champagne flute, fighting the urge to march over there and pull her away from him. But I know I can’t. Not here, not now, with everyone watching.
As I stand there, feeling more alone in this crowded room than I ever have before, I silently plead for just one moment. One chance to speak to Chiara alone. To remind her of what we have, of what we could be.
The party swirls on around me, a glittering, laughing mockery of my pain.
As the evening wears on, I feel like I’m trapped in some exquisite form of torture. Every laugh, every toast, every congratulatory pat on Pyotr’s back is like a knife twisting in my gut. But what’s worse are the glances Chiara keeps throwing my way.
Her eyes find mine across the room, fleeting and furtive. There's something in her gaze—guilt? Apology? Longing? I can’t quite decipher it, and it’s driving me mad. Does she feel bad for not ending this charade of an engagement? Or is she apologizing for the near week of silence that's stretched between us since she asked for time?
I watch as Pyotr guides her around the room, his hand possessively at the small of her back. He’s the picture of a proud groom-to-be, beaming as he introduces Chiara to various guests. She smiles and nods, playing her part perfectly. But then her eyes flicker to me again, and I see a flash of… something. Regret? Uncertainty?
The not knowing is killing me. I want to scream, to charge across the room and demand answers. But I’m frozen in place, trapped by social conventions and the watchful eyes of the entire Marino organization.
Another glance from Chiara, this one lingering a beat longer than the others. I try to pour everything I’m feeling into my return gaze—my love, my frustration, my desperation. She quickly looks away, a faint blush coloring her cheeks.
I down my champagne in one gulp, needing something to dull the ache in my chest. This evening feels endless, a glittering parade of everything I stand to lose. And all the while, Chiara’s stolen glances continue, each one a mix of promise and torment.
I’ve never felt so close yet so far from her. The distance between us might as well be an ocean, filled with treacherous currents of family expectations and social hierarchies. But those glances… they’re like a lifeline, a tenuous thread of hope that I cling to with all my might.
I silently plead with her. End this, Chiara. Come to me. Choose us . But the words remain unspoken, trapped behind the facade of polite smiles and meaningless small talk.
Throughout the evening, I maintain a careful distance, always aware of Chiara’s location without making it obvious I’m following her. My patience is wearing thin, but I force myself to wait for the right moment.
Finally, I overhear Chiara’s soft voice addressing Pyotr. “Excuse me, I need to use the restroom.”
My heart races as I watch her slip away from the party. This is my chance. I count to thirty before casually making my way out of the ballroom, careful not to draw attention to myself.
In the hallway, I quickly locate a small linen closet near the restroom. I slip inside, leaving the door slightly ajar, my pulse pounding in my ears as I wait.
After what feels like an eternity, I hear the click of Chiara’s heels on the marble floor. As she passes the closet, I move swiftly. In one fluid motion, I reach out, grasping her arm and pulling her into the confined space with me. I close the door quickly, plunging us into darkness.
Chiara starts to scream, her body tense, but I gently cover her mouth with my hand.
“Shh, it’s me,” I whisper, my voice low and urgent. “I’m sorry, but I had to talk to you.”
I feel her body relax slightly as she recognizes my voice. Slowly, I remove my hand from her mouth, acutely aware of how close we are in this tiny space. The scent of her perfume envelops me, making my head spin.
“Dante,” she breathes, her voice a mix of surprise and something else I can’t quite identify. Is that annoyance? “What are you doing?”
In the darkness, I can barely make out the expression of her face, but I can feel the warmth of her body, hear the quickening of her breath.
But from the sliver of light coming from the door, I can see that she glances nervously toward the door, her body language tense.
“Someone might see us,” she whispers, fear evident in her voice.
Her words, her obvious anxiety about being caught, feel like a knife twisting in my gut. This isn’t how it used to be. Before, she would have melted into my arms, thrilled by the stolen moment. Chiara has always been a bit brazen. Now, she’s acting like being seen with me would be a disaster.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm the storm of emotions raging inside me. “Chiara, I’ve given you time, just like you asked. But you don’t seem to have any intention of breaking off this engagement. I’m done watching another man pretend you belong to him.”
My voice is low, intense, filled with a week’s worth of pent-up frustration and fear. “I’ve been going out of my mind, Chiara. Wondering if you’ve changed your mind, if you’ve decided that a life of luxury with Pyotr is worth more than what we have.”
I can hear her sharp intake of breath in the darkness. “Dante, it’s not that simple?—”
“Isn’t it?” I cut her off, unable to contain my anger any longer. “You said you loved me. You said you wanted to be with me. But here you are, playing the perfect fiancée to Pyotr. Do you have any idea what it's been like for me, watching him parade you around like you're his prize?”
My hands are shaking now, and I clench them into fists at my sides. “I thought we were in this together,” I continue, my voice cracking slightly. “But you haven’t done anything to try and call off the engagement. You’re just going along with it all, letting Pyotr claim you in front of everyone .”
I reach out in the darkness, finding her shoulders and gripping them gently but firmly. The fear that’s been gnawing at me all week finally bubbles to the surface, along with a fierce possessiveness that surprises even me.
“You belong to me, Chiara,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper but filled with intensity. “Or have you forgotten?”