The morning after the almost-kiss was a study in awkward avoidance. I stayed in my room until I was sure Dante would be gone, the memory of his lips hovering inches from mine, the raw emotion in his eyes, all too vivid. The thought of facing him over a breakfast tray was unbearable. When I finally ventured out around noon, the house was quiet. A maid informed me that Mr. Russo had left early and would not be back until the evening. The news brought a confusing mixture of relief and disappointment.
Restless and bored, I wandered the silent, opulent halls of the mansion. My feet, seeming to have a will of their own, led me toward the west wing, toward Dante's office. As I approached, I saw that the heavy ebony door was slightly ajar. It was unusual; he was meticulous about his privacy. I knew I should turn around. Rule number four was explicit: *Do not enter my office without an invitation.* But the pull of curiosity, the burning need to understand the man who was consuming my every thought, was too strong. I pushed the door open and slipped inside.
The room smelled like him—a faint, clean scent of expensive cologne, leather, and old paper. His desk was perfectly organized, papers stacked in neat, labeled folders. I didn't dare touch anything, feeling like an intruder in a sacred space. My eyes scanned the shelves, and I saw it: a single silver picture frame, lying face-down. My hand trembled as I reached for it. I turned it over.
It was a photo of a young boy, maybe ten years old, with a bright, genuine, gap-toothed smile. He had his arm around a beautiful woman with kind eyes and the same dark hair as his. His mother. Seeing the innocent, happy child he once was, before the world had hardened him into the man he was today, made my heart ache. This was the boy who had existed before the monster. Just as I was about to place it back, I heard footsteps in the hallway. Panic seized me. I fumbled with the frame, setting it back down just as the door opened wider.
"Mrs. Russo?" Marco stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable but his eyes sharp.
I jumped, my heart leaping into my throat. "Marco! I was just… looking for a book to read." The lie was flimsy and pathetic.
He didn't call me on it, but he didn't have to. "Mr. Russo's personal collection is here," he said politely. "The main library is in the east wing." He gestured for me to leave. Humiliated, I scurried out of the office, knowing with absolute certainty that Marco would report my transgression to Dante.
Later that afternoon, I was in the gym, working out my frustration on the heavy bag. I was so lost in the rhythmic thud of my fists against the leather that I didn't hear him enter.
"Your form is all wrong. You're going to break your thumb."
I spun around, breathless, my heart hammering for a different reason now. Dante stood there, dressed in a simple grey t-shirt and black sweatpants. It was the first time I'd seen him in anything other than a suit or a tuxedo. The casual clothes did nothing to soften him; they only served to emphasize the raw power in his physique, the corded muscles of his arms and the breadth of his shoulders. He was impossibly, devastatingly attractive.
"I didn't hear you come in," I stammered.
"Clearly," he said, a hint of amusement in his voice as he approached. "You were too focused on destroying my equipment." He stopped in front of me. "Let me show you."
Before I could protest, he moved behind me, his presence a wall of solid heat at my back. His hands settled on my hips, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through me as he adjusted my stance. "Feet wider apart. Bend your knees." His voice was a low murmur in my ear. My breath hitched. He guided my fist, wrapping his larger hand over mine. "Keep your wrist straight. Like this." He guided my arm through the motion. "Now, hit."
I did, and the impact was solid, powerful.
"Again," he commanded. We fell into a rhythm, his body a warm, guiding presence behind mine, his voice a low coach in my ear. The air was thick with an intimacy that had nothing to do with boxing and everything to do with the man holding me. We were both breathing heavily when he finally stepped back.
"Marco told me you were in my office," he said, his voice losing its warmth.
I turned to face him, my own defensiveness rising. "The door was open."
"That doesn't make it an invitation."
"I know," I said, looking down. "I'm sorry." I took a breath. "I saw the picture of your mother."
His expression shuttered immediately. "Don't."
"She was beautiful," I pressed on gently. "You looked so happy."
He turned away from me, his broad back tense. "That was a long time ago."
"What happened to her, Dante?"
His shoulders stiffened. For a long moment, I thought he wouldn't answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was flat, devoid of all emotion, but the pain beneath it was a tangible thing. "She was killed. A rival of my father's. It was a message." He paused. "I was there. I was ten years old. I couldn't do anything to protect her. I just… watched."
My heart broke for the little boy who had witnessed such a horror. I slowly approached him and placed a hand on his shoulder. He flinched at my touch but didn't pull away.
"That's why," I whispered, understanding dawning. "That's why you need so much control. Why you're so obsessed with protecting people."
He turned to look at me, surprise in his eyes that I had pieced it together. "I will never be that helpless boy again," he vowed, his voice raw.
"You're not," I said softly. "You're the strongest person I've ever met."
"Strength isn't always enough," he said, his gaze intense and meaningful. "Yesterday, when I got the call about Victor's man… when I thought he might have hurt you…" He didn't finish the sentence, but he didn't have to. I understood. For a moment, he had felt like that helpless ten-year-old boy all over again. "I will not let anyone hurt you, Ella," he said, his voice a low, fierce promise. "Never."
The moment was shattered by the shrill ring of his phone. He glanced at the screen and swore under his breath in Italian. "I have to take this." He answered, his tone instantly becoming harsh and clipped. I watched as the man who had just shared his deepest wound transformed back into the ruthless businessman, the cold-hearted boss.
He hung up and turned to me, his face a grim mask. "I have a meeting tonight. Here."
"Okay…"
"I want you to stay in your wing after dinner," he commanded, the warning in his tone unmistakable. "Do not come out, no matter what you hear. Do you understand?"
"Why? What's happening?"
"It's business, Ella. That's all you need to know."
That evening, I did as I was told, retreating to my room after a silent, solitary dinner. Around eight o'clock, I heard the crunch of tires on the gravel driveway. Muffled male voices echoed up from the foyer. I knew I should stay put, read a book, watch a movie. But a burning curiosity, a need to understand the world he inhabited, gnawed at me.
My heart pounding, I cracked my door open and listened. The voices settled, seeming to come from the direction of his office. I slipped out of my room, my bare feet silent on the thick carpet. This was stupid. This was dangerous. But I couldn't stop myself.
I crept down the hallway until I was outside his office. The door was closed, but I could hear the low murmur of a tense discussion. I couldn't make out the words. I noticed a connecting door to an adjacent study. It was locked, but I pressed my ear against the cold, hard wood. The voices were clearer now.
"…the shipment was intercepted on the docks," an older voice was saying. "Someone talked."
Dante's voice, cold as ice, cut through the room. "Who?"
"We think it's Carmine," another man said. "He's been acting strange, spending money he doesn't have."
"Bring him to me," Dante ordered. "Tonight."
There was a heavy, loaded pause. Then the older voice asked, "And then?"
The silence stretched, thick with menace. When Dante finally spoke, his voice was devoid of any and all emotion. "Then we make an example of him."
My blood ran cold. My hand flew to my mouth to stifle a gasp. They were talking about killing someone. Calmly. Casually. Like they were discussing a quarterly report.
"Should we take him to the usual place?" someone asked.
"No," Dante's voice was chillingly final. "I'll handle this one personally. I want the others to watch. They need a reminder of what betrayal costs."
This was real. The man who had almost kissed me, who had shared his childhood trauma with me, was going to murder someone. Tonight.
A floorboard creaked under my foot. Inside the office, the voices stopped instantly. "What was that?" someone demanded.
Pure, undiluted panic flooded my veins. I turned and ran, as silently as I could, my heart hammering against my ribs. I didn't stop until I was back in my room with the door closed and locked behind me. I slid down to the floor, my body shaking uncontrollably. I couldn't breathe.
I knew he was a criminal. I knew he was dangerous. But there was a world of difference between knowing it abstractly and hearing him calmly order a man's death. The reality of it was a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs. The man who had shown me such unexpected tenderness was also a cold-blooded killer. What had I gotten myself into?
Hours later, around eleven, I heard the cars leaving. I wondered if they were on their way to kill Carmine now. The thought made me sick to my stomach. I crawled into bed, but sleep was impossible. Sometime after 2 AM, I heard footsteps in the hall. They stopped outside my door. I held my breath, my body rigid, pretending to be asleep. The doorknob turned, and the door opened a crack. I could feel his presence, feel him checking on me. After a long moment, the door clicked shut again. I finally released the breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
I stared up at the ceiling in the darkness, my mind at war with itself. I had just heard him order a man's execution. I should be terrified. I should be planning my escape. And yet, a shameful, treacherous part of me had been hoping he would come in. I had been wondering if those hands, the same hands that were capable of ending a life, would also be capable of holding me gently through the night. I was falling in love with a monster. And God help me, I wasn't sure I wanted to stop.