CHAPTER SIX #2
Rather than being offended by the sheer disrespect shown to her son, Concetta found herself fascinated.
For eight long, agonizing years, Dante had been a wall of ice.
Women threw themselves at his feet, men trembled in his wake, and he felt nothing for any of them.
The entire world catered to his darkness.
And yet, this mysterious, -tongued doctor had treated him like a nuisance, and it had brought a real smile back to his face.
"A woman who does not fear him," Concetta murmured softly, her dark eyes shining with sudden, dangerous calculation. "Fascinating. fascinating."
That weekend, the Fazzari family hosted their annual autumn gala.
It was an event dripping in opulence, held in the grand ballroom of a historic palazzo in the heart of Rome.
Towering crystal chandeliers cast a warm, golden rain of light over hundreds of guests.
The air was an intoxicating blend of expensive French perfumes, the dry pop of vintage champagne corks, and the soaring melodies of a live string quartet playing in the corner.
It was the pinnacle of high society, the kind of extravagant, meticulously curated affair the Fazzaris were known for.
And as usual, Dante Fazzari was mind-numbingly bored.
He stood near one of the massive stone pillars wrapped in white silk, a crystal flute of champagne balanced loosely in his long fingers.
He wore a bespoke black tuxedo that fit his lean, muscular frame with devastating perfection.
His dark hair was pushed back, his jaw covered in that deliberate, faint shadow of stubble.
He looked like royalty, dangerous and untouchable, and the women in the room gravitated toward him like moths to an open flame.
"Dante, darling," cooed Valentina, the daughter of a prominent shipping magnate, as she sidled up next to him.
She was wearing a stunning, backless gown of emerald silk, her lips painted a flawless crimson.
She offered him a brilliant, heavily rehearsed smile, batting her dark eyelashes as she leaned in close enough for him to smell her jasmine perfume.
"You’ve been hiding in this corner all evening. Aren't you going to ask me to dance?"
Dante looked down at her. He saw the ambition in her eyes, the desperate, hollow hunger to be seen on the arm of the most powerful man in the room. She was beautiful, yes, but it was a fragile, empty kind of beauty. There was no substance beneath the silk.
"My apologies, Valentina," Dante murmured smoothly, his voice a perfectly polite sheet of ice. "My injury is still bothering me. I am not fit to dance tonight."
Valentina pouted perfectly resting a manicured hand lightly on his forearm. "Oh, you poor thing. If you need someone to take care of you..."
"I have a doctor for that," Dante cut her off smoothly, pulling his arm away with an elegant pivot. "Excuse me. Enjoy the champagne."
He walked away, leaving her standing bewildered by the pillar, and moved toward the tall glass doors that opened onto the palazzo’s expansive balcony.
Stepping out into the cool, crisp night air, Dante let out a long breath, finally escaping the suffocating perfume and the endless, meaningless chatter. He walked over to the stone balustrade, resting his hands on the cold marble, and looked out over the glittering lights of Rome.
For the last eight years, whenever Dante found himself in moments like this, his mind had instinctively drifted to Flora. He would see her warm brown eyes, hear her humming that old Sicilian folk tune, and feel the phantom weight of her blood on his hands.
But tonight, looking out over the city, Flora was not there.
Instead, his mind conjured the image of a tall woman in dark grey scrubs, her auburn hair pulled into a severe braid, her pale blue eyes glaring at him with unapologetic disdain.
The doctor.
Dante took a slow sip of his champagne. He was well aware that finding out who she was would be a laughably simple task.
Central Hospital was only a few blocks from where he had been ambushed.
She was clearly a highly skilled trauma surgeon.
And practically speaking, he doubted there was another woman in all of Europe with that specific, striking combination of dark red hair and icy blue eyes.
It would take Zoran one phone call to the hospital's administration to have her full name, her schedule, and her entire life history sitting in a dossier on his desk by morning.
And yet, he hadn't made the call.
For a man who took whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it, Dante found himself strangely, reluctant to violate her privacy in that way. She hadn't wanted him to know who she was. She had refused her name when asked directly. She had looked at his world and shut her wooden door in its face.
For now, he found himself willing to respect that boundary. It would have cost him nothing to ignore it, to exert his power, but doing so would have ruined the very thing that fascinated him about her.
He stared down at the amber liquid in his glass.
For a fleeting, reckless moment, Dante allowed himself to wonder what it would be like to make her a part of his life.
What would it feel like to have a woman of actual substance standing beside him?
A woman who didn't flinch at the sight of blood, a woman who couldn't be bought, couldn't be intimidated, and couldn't be controlled?
But almost as quickly as the thought bloomed in his mind, the cold, brutal reality of his existence crushed it.
If he pulled her into his world, he would be pulling her into the crosshairs.
He would be painting a massive, neon target on the back of a woman who spent her life saving people.
She would become leverage. She would become a weakness.
He would be exposing her to the exact kind of violence she had no part in, the violence that had killed the only other woman he had ever loved.
Dante tightened his grip on the crystal flute.
The thought of anything happening to that prickly, infuriating, unforgettable doctor did not sit well with him at all. It caused a sudden ache in his chest that had nothing to do with the bullet wound.
He stood perfectly still on the balcony, listening to the faint music drifting out from the gala, and frowned into the darkness. Why did the thought of her getting hurt bother him so deeply? She was a stranger. She was rude. She owed him nothing, and he owed her nothing but a debt for his life.
And yet, as the king of Rome stood alone in the dark, he realized that for the first time in nearly a decade, he actually cared if someone besides his own blood lived or died.