Chapter 13
SCARLETT
It’s been two weeks at Dante’s estate, and I still feel like I’m living in someone else’s life.
Every morning I wake up in a bedroom bigger than my entire apartment in Portland, with sheets as soft as a sheep’s wool and a comforter thick enough to keep me warm through the oncoming winter.
Every morning I hear Luca’s laughter echoing through the hallways as he runs around this massive house like he belongs in it.
And every morning I remember that we’re prisoners here, no matter how nice the cage feels.
Well, not exactly prisoners. Dante would probably say we’re “under protection.” But when you can’t leave without armed guards following you, when every decision about your child has to be approved by someone else, when your entire life is controlled by a man who looks at you like he can’t decide whether to strangle you or fuck you, that’s not protection.
That’s captivity wrapped in expensive furniture and false concern. The worst part? Luca is adjusting.
I watch him now from the chilled library window as he plays in the backyard with Rosa supervising him. He’s wearing a new coat as he builds something with blocks, concentrating hard with his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth. The same expression Dante makes when he’s working.
God, they look so much alike it physically hurts sometimes. I feel cheated, knowing I carried him for nine whole months.
“Mama! Mama, look!” Luca waves at me through the window, holding up whatever he’s built. I can’t tell what it is from here, but I wave back and give him a thumbs up. He giggles and goes back to playing.
Two weeks ago he was terrified of Dante. Crying and clinging to me, begging to go home.
Now? Now he asks where Dante is if he doesn’t see him at breakfast. Now he wants Dante to read him bedtime stories about knights and dragons. Sometimes he sits in Dante’s office watching him work with wide, fascinated eyes.
It should make me happy. A boy should know his father and have a relationship with him. But watching them bond feels like I’m losing out.
“You’re thinking too loud again.”
I turn to find Dante standing in the doorway. He’s wearing black pants and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing forearms that are way too distracting. His hair is slightly messy like he’s just gotten out of bed.
“I wasn’t aware thinking had a volume,” I say.
“With you it does. Your face shows everything you’re feeling.”
“Then you should know I’m feeling trapped.”
He walks into the room and closes the door behind him. “You’re safe. There’s a difference.”
“Is there? Because from everything, safe and trapped look remarkably similar.”
“You’re alive. Luca’s alive. That’s what matters.”
“What matters is that I can’t make decisions about my own life. About my own son.”
His jaw tightens. “Our son.”
“Our son who I raised alone for five years while you were busy building your empire.”
“Our son who I would have raised with you if you’d bothered to tell me he existed.”
And here we go again. The same argument we’ve had a dozen times in two weeks. The same circular logic that goes nowhere and solves nothing.
“I’m not doing this again,” I say, turning back to the window. “I’m tired of fighting with you.”
“Then stop fighting.”
“Stop trying to control every aspect of my life and I will.”
“I’m keeping you safe.”
“You’re suffocating me.”
Silence settles over us and I let it reign. It’s better that way.
Then I hear him move closer and feel the heat of his body behind me even though he’s not touching me.
“Luca asked me something this morning.”
My chest constricts and I turn slightly but don’t face him fully. “What did he ask?”
“He wanted to know why I wasn’t around. Why his mama’s friend wasn’t there when he was born.”
I go cold immediately, like a bucket of ice was emptied on me. I finally spin around to face him, panic crawling up my throat.
“What did you tell him?” The words come out sharp. Desperate. “Dante, what did you say?”
He’s standing closer than I thought. “I told him I lived far away. That I didn’t know his mama very well back then, but now I’m here to keep you both safe.”
My chest loosens and I stare at him, trying to process what he just said. “You…you lied to him?”
“Yes.”
“But you don’t lie. You’re ruthless and brutal and honest to a fault. You don’t—”
“I lied to my son,” he says quietly, and there’s something raw in his voice. “Because he’s five years old and he doesn’t need to know the truth yet. Because that’s a conversation we need to have together when he’s ready. Not because he asked an innocent question over breakfast.”
I’m stunned into silence. This man who demands absolute honesty from everyone, who tortures people for information, who runs his empire on fear and brutal truth—had lied to protect Luca from a painful reality?
I’ve watched them bond over breakfast and books and bedtime routines where Dante tucks Luca in, and my heart cracks seeing the ruthless killer transform into a surprisingly tender father. But this? This, I didn’t see coming.
Although he’s a completely different man with me: demanding, controlling, and ruthless in his expectations. I still can’t believe this.
“I don’t understand you,” I whisper.
“What’s there to understand?”
“You could have told him the truth. Could have used it as ammunition against me. Could have turned him against me for keeping you away.”
“He’s five, Scarlett. Not a weapon in whatever war you think we’re fighting.”
“I just…I didn’t expect that.”
His jaw tightens. “Expected me to be cruel? To hurt him just to hurt you?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. You’re ruthless with everyone else.”
“Everyone else isn’t my son.” He takes a step closer and I’m suddenly very aware of how small the space between us has become. “I’m a lot of things. A killer. A monster. Everything you’ve accused me of being. But I won’t use that boy to settle scores with you. He deserves better than that.”
The raw honesty in his words catches me completely off guard. This is the man I’ve been running from for six years. The man I’ve been terrified would corrupt my son with his darkness. And he just proved he has more integrity than I gave him credit for.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “For not telling him.”
“Don’t thank me. I want him to know the truth. But when he’s ready. When we can explain it together in a way that won’t destroy him. And for the record, this doesn’t change anything.”
Here we go again, back to square one.
“Yeah, right,” I snap.
“And you should know that that son of mine has more conscience than his mother,” he continues, clearly trying to trigger me further.
“He said it wasn’t fair that I missed everything.” Dante’s grey eyes bore into mine. “He’s right, and I’m wondering if he knows his mother is the culprit.”
“Don’t you dare!” I snarl.
“Or what? Because every time we talk about it, you defend your choice. You act like keeping my son from me was justified.”
“It was justified. You’re a killer, Dante. You torture people. You execute them in cold blood. What part of that screams ‘good father material’?”
“The part where I would die for him.” His voice drops lower. “The part where I would burn this entire city to the ground if it meant keeping him safe. The part where I’m trying every day to be better than what I am because he’s watching.”
The raw honesty in his voice catches me off guard again.
“I need space,” I say, trying to step around him.
His hand moves fast and catches my wrist. Not painful, but firm enough to stop me.
“You don’t get to walk away every time this conversation gets uncomfortable.”
“Watch me.”
I try to pull free, but his grip tightens and suddenly I’m being spun around and pressed back against the bookshelf. His body cages me in, one hand still holding my wrist, the other placed against the shelf beside my head.
We’re inches apart. So close I can stare deep into his eyes.
“You don’t walk away from me,” he says, and his voice has gone rough and dangerous.
“Let go.”
“No.”
“Dante—”
“Every time we argue, you run. You walk away before we can actually resolve anything. I’m done with that.”
“And I’m done being treated like property you can command whenever you feel like it.”
“Is that what you think this is? Me treating you like property?”
“What else would you call it? You control where I go, who I talk to, what I do with my son. You make every decision and expect me to just obey.”
“I’m keeping you alive.”
“You’re suffocating me!”
The words come out louder than I intended and for a second we just stare at each other, both breathing hard and harsh.
Then his gaze drops to my mouth and everything shifts. The anger is still there, but underneath it is something else. Something that’s been building between us since I arrived.
“Let go of me,” I say again, but my voice has lost its power.
“Make me.”
It’s a dare. And we both know I’m not going to take it.
Because as much as I want to deny it, as much as I hate myself for it, part of me doesn’t want him to let go. Part of me wants to see what happens if this tension finally snaps. But I’m not giving him that satisfaction.
I meet his eyes and hold his stare. “You’re going to let me go. And you’re going to walk away first. Because if you don’t, I’m going to knee you so hard you’ll be hurting for a week.”
His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “You could try.”
“I’m not kidding, Dante.”
“Neither am I.”
For another long moment we just stand there, locked in this silent battle of wills. Then finally, he releases my wrist and steps back. But not before I see the hunger in his eyes. The same hunger I’m trying desperately to ignore myself.
He walks away without another word, leaving me pressed against the bookshelf with my heart racing and my hands shaking.
God, I hate him.
I hate how he makes me feel. How even when I’m furious with him, part of me is drawn to that darkness in him.
I stay there for a few minutes trying to get myself under control before heading downstairs.