The car was too quiet. The low hum of the engine and the occasional click of the turn signal only seemed to amplify the memory of his hands on me, his mouth, the weight of him pressing me into the mattress.
I sat stiff in the passenger seat, staring out the tinted window like the grey skyline might swallow me whole if I looked hard enough. My dress felt tighter than before — not because it had shrunk, but because I couldn't stop feeling the ghost of his fingers tracing my skin beneath it.
Dante drove like he owned the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on his thigh. Calm. Controlled. The exact opposite of what he'd been last night.
"You're quiet," he said finally, not looking at me.
"I have nothing to say." My tone was flat, though my pulse had been pounding since I stepped into the car.
A small, humorless chuckle escaped him. "That's a first."
My nails dug into my palm. "You think this is funny? That you can just—" I stopped myself before the words "touch me" left my mouth. Giving voice to it would make it too real.
"I don't think it's funny," he said, his voice low now, almost… serious. "But I do think you're lying."
I turned to glare at him, ready to argue, but his grey eyes flicked to me briefly, the corner of his mouth curling in that infuriating way — like he knew something I didn't. The worst part is he probably did.
I wanted to hate him. I needed to hate him. But my mind kept replaying the moment he'd leaned over me, the sound of his voice against my ear, the way my body had answered him without hesitation.
"Where are we going?" I asked, forcing my voice to be cold.
His fingers tapped the steering wheel once. "Somewhere I can't afford distractions."
The implication hit me like a punch. I wasn't sure if he meant me — or what he planned to do next. The car slowed, pulling off the main road into a narrow, gated drive. Tall brick walls blocked the view from both sides, and the iron gate swung open as if it knew him.
I sat back, fighting the urge to ask questions. Whatever this was, it wasn't a place you stumbled into by accident. We rolled to a stop in front of an old warehouse that looked abandoned, save for the two men in black leaning against the doorframe. They both straightened the moment they saw Dante, their eyes flicking briefly to me before looking away.
He got out first, walking around to my side. He opened the door like a gentleman but stood close enough that I could smell his cologne — dark, smoky, and entirely him.
"Stay close to me," he said, low enough that only I could hear.
"I'm not your pet," I muttered.
His hand came to my lower back, firm, guiding me forward. "You're mine when I say you are."
The words sent a shiver through me — and I hated that I didn't immediately recoil.
Inside, the air was cool and smelled faintly of oil and dust. A single table sat in the middle of the wide space, lit from above by a single hanging bulb. Around it stood three men I didn't know, their expressions sharp, sizing Dante up — then me.
Dante didn't slow. He walked right up to them, taking the chair at the head of the table. He didn't ask me to sit — but when his hand slid over the back of my thigh, pulling me slightly forward so I stood between him and the table, the message was clear.
A show of possession.
One of the men, older with a deep scar running down his jaw, smirked. "Didn't know you brought… company to business meetings, Cavallo."
"She's not company," Dante said, his voice like steel. "She's mine."
My chest tightened. The urge to turn and spit in his face battled with the thrill curling low in my stomach. The scarred man's smirk faltered under Dante's stare, and for a moment, the entire warehouse went silent. Then Dante leaned back in his chair, resting one arm lazily over the backrest, the other still gripping my hip like I was an anchor he had no intention of letting go.
"You took what was mine," Dante said, his tone quiet but deadly. "And you thought you could run."
The man across from us—broad-shouldered, nervous hands clasped together—shifted in his seat. "It was a mistake—"
Dante's hand slid lower on my hip, almost possessively. "Mistakes have prices."
The way he said it sent a chill down my spine. His fingers squeezed, grounding me even as I felt like I should pull away.
"I'll pay it back," the man rushed, "double—triple—"
"You'll pay exactly what I say you will." Dante leaned forward, his voice sharp now. "And you'll remember this moment every time you think about crossing me again."
The older man gave a reluctant nod, muttering something I couldn't hear. Dante's eyes flicked to one of his men, who stepped forward without a word, grabbing the offender by the collar and hauling him away.
My heart pounded, adrenaline mixing with something darker. Dante rose, towering over me. His hand slid from my hip to my lower back again, steering me toward the door. "Come on, angel."
I jerked my arm free on instinct, glaring at him. "Don't call me that."
The corner of his mouth lifted—half amusement, half challenge. "Then stop looking at me like you want me to ruin you."
My breath caught, and for one dangerous second, I didn't deny it. We stepped out into the night air, the gate closing behind us.
The drive back was quiet, but it wasn't the kind of quiet that meant peace. It was loaded. Heavy.
Every turn of the tires seemed to echo with the memory of what he'd said to me outside that warehouse—stop looking at me like you want me to ruin you.
I stared out the tinted window, watching the blurred glow of streetlamps pass, my reflection faint in the glass. My lips were pressed together, but my mind… my mind wouldn't stop replaying the way he'd stood there, calm but terrifying, dangerous and—God help me—magnetic. When the car finally rolled into the long driveway of his estate, my pulse quickened. It wasn't from fear, not entirely.
Dante stepped out first, coming around to my side. His hand brushed the small of my back again—casual, like earlier, but this time, the heat from his palm seeped through my clothes and straight into my skin.
Inside, the house was dim, the hallways quiet except for our footsteps. He didn't speak. He just walked, leading me toward the wing where my room was. We stopped at my door. I turned to face him, ready to mutter something cutting just to put space between us, but he was already too close.
"You've been glaring at me all night, cara mia," he murmured, his voice low, like velvet wrapped around a blade. "But your eyes tell a different story."
"I hate you," I whispered, but my voice lacked the weight it should have.
His lips curved. "Then hate me closer."
And before I could protest, his mouth was on mine—hot, deep, claiming. My breath hitched as his hand slid into my hair, angling my head so I had no choice but to let him in. The push and pull warred inside me. My fists clenched, wanting to shove him away… but instead, they gripped his shirt.
His kiss tore the air from my lungs, my back pressing into the cool wall beside my bedroom door. His hand gripped my jaw, tilting it so he could devour my mouth deeper, his tongue sliding against mine in a way that made my knees weaken instantly.
Before I could catch my breath, his other hand fisted in the hem of my dress, shoving it up roughly around my hips. My gasp caught in my throat as cool air hit my thighs, and then his fingers hooked into the thin lace of my panties, dragging them aside without hesitation.
"Dante—"
"Shut up." The order was sharp, low, and final.
The next second, his body pressed me harder into the wall, his hips snapping forward—burying himself inside me in one deep, brutal thrust that made my head slam lightly back. A shocked cry tore from my throat, loud in the empty hallway.
"God—"
"Louder," he growled against my ear, his voice all gravel and heat.
His hands locked on my hips, pulling me back into him with every savage drive forward. The slap of skin echoed off the walls, mingling with the obscene sound of my moans that I couldn't bite back even if I tried.
I gripped at the wall for balance, nails scraping the paint, my legs trembling as he pounded into me from behind—no rhythm meant to seduce, only pure, relentless possession.
Every thrust knocked the air from my lungs, my cheek pressed to the cold wall while heat burned up my spine. My voice pitched higher, the sound shameless, bouncing down the hallway.
"Dante, someone—ah—will hear—"
"They should hear," he rasped, tightening his grip until it almost hurt. "So they know you're mine."
His pace was brutal, unrelenting—each thrust slamming me into the wall so hard my palms ached from bracing. My body trembled, that unbearable knot of heat tightening lower and lower until it felt like I might shatter.
I whimpered his name, but he didn't slow.
"Don't you dare cum before me," Dante growled against my ear, his voice thick with control. His grip on my hips turned bruising, holding me exactly where he wanted, forcing me to take every inch of him without escape.
My breath hitched, panic and pleasure twisting together. "Dante—please—I can't—"
"You can," he cut me off, punctuating each word with another merciless thrust. "You'll wait… until I say."
The tension inside me was unbearable. My toes curled in my heels, my stomach tightening, my voice breaking into shameless, needy sounds I couldn't control.
"Please," I gasped, "please let me—"
"Not yet." His voice was a rasp, the sound of a man on the edge.
And then—he changed. His thrusts came faster, harder, deeper, each one hitting a spot that made my vision blur. My cries turned ragged, desperate.
"Now," he ordered, his voice low and rough. "Come for me. Now."
The permission broke me. I shattered around him, my scream muffled against the wall as his own groan tore through the hallway. He held me flush against him, his hips grinding deep as his release pulsed inside me, the sound of his moan meeting mine in the same breath.
"You like that?" he murmured, breathless, his lips grazing my ear.
"…Yes," I whispered before I could stop myself.
The word felt like a betrayal the second it left me. Shame flooded in hot and heavy, chasing the last waves of pleasure. He stepped back, tucking himself away while my dress fell back into place, my legs barely holding me up.
I didn't look at him when I slipped into my room, heart pounding. I hated him. I hated me more—for loving it. I shut the door before he could follow, leaning my back against it, my knees threatening to give out. My breath was still erratic, my skin damp and flushed, the echo of his voice still inside my head.
You like that?
My answer—my betrayal—burned in my ears.
I stumbled to the sink, turning on the tap just to drown out my thoughts. But the water didn't wash away the feeling of his hands on me, the weight of his body pressing me into the wall, the way my body had obeyed him without question.
My reflection stared back at me in the mirror—hair tangled, lipstick smeared, pupils still blown wide. I didn't look like me. I looked like a woman who belonged to him and I hated it.
I sank onto the edge of the bed, dragging my knees to my chest, pressing my face against them as if curling into myself would undo what happened. But my body betrayed me again—the dull throb between my thighs a reminder I didn't want.
I told myself it was weakness. A lapse. A mistake I'd never repeat. But deep down, I knew the truth. I wanted him again. And that was dangerous.
Outside my door, I heard his footsteps retreat. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just slow, steady, like a man completely in control. I curled tighter, my heartbeat refusing to slow, my mind already warring between what I felt and what I knew.
He killed my father. And I was falling for him anyway.