Aria woke to the faint hum of the espresso machine and the smell of coffee, bitter, rich, grounding. For a moment, she thought she was back home, that the last twenty-four hours had been some surreal dream. But then she turned, and saw him.
Dante stood by the window, still in his blue suit from the night before, tie loosened, shirt splattered faintly with dried blood.
The world outside burned gold against glass, but he didn't move. He just stared, not at the sunrise, but at his reflection in it.
"Couldn't sleep?" she asked softly.
He didn't look at her. "There's a difference between sleep and silence. I only get one."
Aria pushed herself up, the silk sheets whispering against her skin. "You should shower. You're still bleeding."
He turned then, silver eyes glinting in the half-light. "It's not mine."
She hesitated. "Whose, then?"
He didn't answer.
A beat of silence stretched between them, heavy with everything unsaid.
Finally, he said, "Marco won't dare touch us again. Not yet."
"That's not what I asked."
Dante exhaled, long and low. "You don't want to know."
"You think I can't handle the truth?"
"I think you already know what it costs to ask."
She rose, crossing the room until she stood before him. "If I'm to be in this world, your world, I need more than silence and half-truths."
He studied her, his gaze sharp but unreadable. "And what do you think my world is, Aria?"
She met his eyes, unflinching. "Built on control. Kept alive by secrets. And ruled by fear."
For the first time, something flickered in his expression, amusement, maybe admiration.
"Not fear," he said quietly. "Discipline."
"Discipline doesn't leave bodies on ballroom floors."
He stepped closer, so close she could feel his breath against her skin. "And innocence doesn't survive long enough to lecture me about morality."
Her pulse jumped, but she held her ground. "Maybe I'm not innocent anymore."
He smiled faintly. "No. You're not."
Their eyes locked, a war of heat and defiance. Then, without warning, he reached up and brushed a streak of marble dust from her cheek soft, almost tender.
"Go shower," he murmured. "You still smell like smoke."
The steam curled around her like mist, washing away the night but not the memory.
Gunfire. Screams. Dante's arm around her waist.
The way he had moved deadly, effortless, like violence was second nature.
She pressed her forehead against the tile, trying to slow her thoughts. But every image of him, his bloodstained collar, his voice like thunder through chaos, only pulled her deeper into a place she wasn't sure she wanted to leave.
When she emerged, Dante was gone.
Only a note sat on the nightstand, scrawled in his sharp handwriting:
> Don't leave the penthouse. Not until I say so.
Underneath, a second line, smaller, softer:
> There's breakfast in the kitchen. And answers, when I return.
Dante didn't return until hours later.
When he did, the silence broke with the sound of the elevator and the smell of rain-soaked air. He carried the storm in with him, coat damp, jaw tight, eyes hard.
Matteo followed, bruised and grim.
"Three dead," Matteo said. "Two of ours, one of theirs. But there's something else."
Dante glanced at Aria, then back to Matteo. "Say it."
Matteo hesitated. "The ambush wasn't from Marco. It was from inside."
Dante's expression didn't change. "Name."
"We traced the comm signal to one of your own, Enzo Valeri. He sold the time and entry routes for cash."
Dante's fingers flexed, slow and deliberate. "Where is he now?"
"In the garage. Alive. Barely."
Aria felt her stomach twist.
Matteo left without another word. The elevator doors closed behind him, and silence fell again.
Dante walked to the bar, poured whiskey, and stared into the glass as if searching for restraint.
"Are you going to kill him?" Aria asked quietly.
"Yes."
The word was a blade, cold, unhesitant.
"Just like that?"
"Just like that."
"What if he had a reason? A family?"
"Then I'll make sure they never starve," Dante said evenly. "After I bury him."
She flinched. "You sound like that's mercy."
"In my world, it is."
He downed the drink in one swallow, then turned to her. "You shouldn't be here for this."
"Then why did you bring me?"
He studied her for a long moment. "Because you need to understand what loyalty costs."
"Loyalty or fear?"
"Both," he said, and walked away.
The garage was dim, lit by a single hanging bulb. The smell of oil and metal clung to the air.
Enzo was tied to a chair, blood streaking his temple, breath ragged. When Dante approached, the man tried to speak, but the sound came out broken.
"Boss, please..."
Dante crouched in front of him, his expression unreadable. "You had one job, Enzo. One rule. Don't sell family."
Enzo coughed, spitting blood. "They threatened my daughter. I didn't have a choice."
Dante's jaw tightened.
"Everyone has a choice," he said softly.
"I tried to warn you! I sent Matteo a message..."
Dante stood slowly, his hand brushing over the gun at his belt. "If you wanted mercy, you should've prayed to a god that listens."
"Please..."
The gunshot echoed through the garage like thunder.
Aria flinched, her heart racing. She hadn't realized she'd stepped closer until Dante turned, eyes finding hers through the smoke.
He said nothing, just walked past her, gun still warm in his hand.
When he reached her, she whispered, "Did you have to?"
"Yes."
"He was protecting his daughter...."
"And I'm protecting an empire."
Her breath hitched. "You sound proud."
He stopped, looking at her with something that wasn't quite anger, wasn't quite pain. "You think I wanted this life?"
"You live it like you did."
He closed the distance between them in two steps, his voice a low growl. "Don't mistake survival for pride."
"Then what is it?" she demanded.
He looked at her, and for the first time, something raw surfaced behind his mask. "Debt," he said. "The kind you don't pay with money."
She wanted to ask what that meant, but his phone rang, sharp and sudden.
He answered.
"Talk." A pause. His eyes darkened. "Who?"
Silence. Then: "Handle it."
He hung up, exhaling slowly. "Marco's making his next move."
"After last night?"
"He's not finished. He never is."
"What does he want?"
He met her gaze. "You."
That night, Aria sat alone in the penthouse living room, wrapped in a blanket that did little to stop the chill.
She watched the city lights, wondering how something so beautiful could hide so much darkness.
Dante had gone silent again pacing, plotting, calling contacts she didn't recognize.
When he finally spoke, it was quiet. "Marco thinks you're leverage."
"And are you?" she asked.
He looked at her, really looked. "You were supposed to be."
"Supposed to be?"
He walked to the window, his reflection fractured by glass and rain. "The contract, the engagement, it started as protection. A way to bind you to me so my enemies couldn't touch you without crossing a line."
"And now?"
"Now," he said softly, "it's a liability I can't afford to lose."
Aria stood, crossing the room until she stood beside him. "You make it sound like I'm a burden."
His voice dropped. "No. You're a risk I keep choosing."
Her heart pounded. "Then why keep me here?"
"Because the moment you leave," he said, "you'll be hunted, by everyone who wants to see me bleed."
She stared at him, anger and confusion twisting inside her. "You think locking me away makes me safe?"
He turned toward her, his eyes like molten silver. "No. But it keeps me sane."
Silence fell.
Then, slowly, he reached out, fingers brushing a strand of auburn hair from her face. His touch lingered, uncertain, almost reverent.
"I don't know what this is," he said quietly. "But it's the first thing I can't control."
Her breath caught. "Maybe that's the point."
For a heartbeat, the distance between them vanished, until the phone rang again, sharp, demanding.
He stepped back. The spell broke.
"Stay here," he said, already reaching for his coat.
"Dante..."
"Please, Aria."
And then he was gone.
The penthouse door clicked shut.
Aria stood in the empty room, pulse still racing, heart still tangled in questions she didn't dare answer.
Outside, the city roared, beautiful, merciless, alive.
She pressed her hand against the cold glass and whispered to the night:
"Who are you, Dante Moretti?"
Hours later, a black car slid to a stop outside Marco's villa.
Dante stepped out, mask of civility gone, the storm finally breaking loose behind his eyes.
Matteo was waiting. "You're going in alone?"
"Yes."
"Boss, that's suicide."
Dante smiled faintly. "Then tonight's as good a night as any to die."
He adjusted his cuffs, straightened his suit, and walked toward the lion's den, every step echoing like a heartbeat counting down to war.