The air in the private cigar lounge of the Moretti estate was blue with the haze of expensive tobacco and the scent of a storm. Dante sat in a leather wingback chair, his fingers tracing the rim of a crystal glass. He had given Elena her space—he had played the part of the "reasonable host"—but the silence of the house was gnawing at him.
"She's here, Dante." Marco's voice cut through the quiet.
Dante didn't look up. "Show her in."
The double doors swung open, and the click of stilettos against the hardwood sounded like a countdown. Bianca Valli didn't walk into a room; she colonized it. The daughter of the East Coast Syndicate, Bianca was a woman whose beauty was as legendary as her body count. Dressed in a dress of crimson silk that left nothing to the imagination, she was the personification of the world Dante had tried to keep Elena away from.
"Dante," Bianca purred, her voice like velvet dragged over gravel. She didn't wait for an invitation. She crossed the room and sank onto the arm of his chair, her hand trailing along the line of his shoulder. "You've been making quite a stir. The word on the street is you've brought a little bird into your nest."
Dante didn't flinch. He didn't even move his gaze from the fireplace. "You're far from home, Bianca. My father had a treaty with yours. That treaty didn't include you showing up unannounced in my lounge."
Bianca leaned in, the scent of her jasmine perfume thick and cloying. She tilted her head, her dark eyes flashing with a predatory gleam. "I'm here because my father is worried. He hears you're getting... soft. He hears there's a baker's girl in the high-security wing who has the Ghost of Chicago playing house."
She reached out, her long, manicured nails grazing the pulse point at Dante's neck. "You need a queen, Dante. Not a liability. You need someone who knows how to handle a blade as well as a champagne flute. Someone who can give you an heir that doesn't have 'civilian' blood in its veins."
She leaned closer, her lips inches from his. It was a calculated move—a test of his resolve. "Why settle for bread when you can have the whole empire?"
Dante finally turned his head. His eyes were cold, devoid of the heat Bianca was trying to stoke. "You think you're an empire, Bianca? You're a distraction. And right now, you're in my way."
He stood up abruptly, causing Bianca to stumble back. But before he could call Marco to escort her out, he saw a movement at the far end of the lounge.
Elena stood in the shadows of the arched doorway.
She had been restless. She had ignored his warning to stay in her wing, driven by a need to see the man who claimed to be her protector. She was dressed in one of the silk robes he had provided, her hair messy, her face still pale from the concussion.
She looked at Bianca—beautiful, dangerous, and draped over the man who had claimed Elena's body only weeks ago.
The hatred Elena felt wasn't just for Dante anymore. It was for the world he lived in. A world where women were either prizes or predators.
"I see the 'guest' policy is quite liberal," Elena said, her voice trembling but clear.
Bianca's eyes narrowed as she sized Elena up. A slow, cruel smile spread across her red lips. "So, this is the little mouse. She's... quaint, Dante. I see the appeal. There's something so satisfying about breaking something that looks like it's never been touched."
Dante's expression shifted. The "reasonable host" mask shattered, replaced by a dark, protective fury. He stepped between Bianca and Elena, his back to the seductress.
"Go back to your room, Elena," he said, his voice a low warning.
"No," Elena countered, taking a step into the light. "If you're going to keep me here, I want to see exactly what kind of monster you are when the masks are off."
Dante turned back to Bianca, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper. "Get out. Now. If you ever mention her name again—if you even think about her—I will personally ensure the Valli name is erased from the coast."
Bianca's smile faltered. She saw the look in Dante's eyes—the slow burn of an obsession that went far beyond politics. She realized then that Elena wasn't a liability. She was his gravity.
"This won't end well for you, Dante," Bianca hissed, grabbing her clutch. "A man with a heart is just a man with a target on his back."
As Bianca swept out of the room, the silence that remained was electric. Elena turned to leave, but Dante's hand caught her wrist.
"It's not what you think," he growled.
"I don't care what it is," Elena whispered, wrenching her arm away. "Just stay away from me. Both of you"