Page 22 of Dante
I consider our options. A direct confrontation would escalate the situation beyond repair, possibly triggering the very war I'm trying to avoid. But allowing Marco's men to attempt a breach of my security would be perceived as weakness.
"No," I decide. "I'll call him directly. Show him we have nothing to hide."
I take out my phone, scrolling to Marco Rossi's private number—a line few people possess. He answers on the second ring.
"Where the fuck is my sister?" he demands without greeting, voice tight with barely controlled rage.
"She's safe," I reply calmly. "Which is more than I can say for your men currently preparing to assault my building."
A brief silence. "You took her."
"I protected her," I correct him. "After your business associates decided to send you a message by attacking her outside her home."
"What are you talking about?" The genuine confusion in his voice is interesting. Either he's an excellent actor, or he truly doesn't know about Moretti's move.
"Your new Russian friends," I elaborate. "Four of them tried to grab Elena tonight. They mentioned sending you a message about stepping on toes."
"Moretti," Marco mutters, comprehension dawning. "Those fucking—" He cuts himself off. "Put my sister on the phone. Now."
"Of course." I return to the living room, where Elena sits exactly as I left her, though her posture is more tense. "Your brother," I say, offering her the phone. "He has men outside the building. It would be helpful if you could assure him you're here voluntarily."
She takes the phone.
"Marco? Yes, I'm fine. No, he didn't… Marco, listen to me." Her voice sharpens with authority I haven't heard from her before. "Four men attacked us outside my apartment. They said they were sending you a message. Dante protected me."
She listens for a moment, clenching her left fist. "I don't care what you think is best. I'm staying here tonight where it's safe." Another pause. "Because I choose to, that's why. For once in your life, respect that I can make my own decisions."
Chapter 8 - Elena
"I don't care what you think is best. I'm staying here tonight where it's safe," I tell Marco, my patience wearing thin. His voice rises on the other end, demanding, controlling. The same tone he's used my entire life.
"Because I choose to, that's why," I snap back. "For once in your life, respect that I can make my own decisions."
There's a heavy silence, then Marco's voice comes through, quieter but tense.
"Fine. Stay there tonight if that's what you want. But be careful, Elena. Veneziano isn't what he seems. He's a double-faced bastard who'll use anyone to get what he wants, even you."
"I'm not naive, Marco," I respond, meeting Dante's watchful eyes across the room. "I know exactly who he is and what he does. The same could be said about you."
Marco sighs, the sound crackling through the phone. "Just... be careful, please. I respect your decision, but this isn't a game. These men—"
"I know what these men are capable of," I interrupt. "I witnessed it firsthand tonight, remember? When your business associates tried to attack me?"
"They weren't—" He cuts himself off. "We'll talk about this tomorrow. In person."
"Fine," I agree, suddenly exhausted. "Goodnight, Marco."
"Let me speak to Veneziano again," he demands before I can hang up.
I hand the phone back to Dante, who takes it with those long, elegant fingers that hours ago had incapacitated armed menwithout hesitation. He moves toward the windows as he speaks, his silhouette sharp against the city lights behind him.
I can't help but stare. In the soft amber lighting of his penthouse, Dante Veneziano looks like something carved from marble by a master's hand. The bloodied sleeve of his shirt is rolled up to reveal a forearm corded with lean muscle and wrapped in the bandage I applied. His dark hair, slightly disheveled from the earlier fight, falls across his forehead in a way that softens his otherwise severe features.
He's not classically handsome. His nose has been broken at least once, and there's a small scar at the corner of his right eyebrow that interrupts its perfect arch. But these imperfections only enhance the overall effect, like deliberate flaws in an otherwise perfect diamond. His mouth moves as he speaks to my brother, the lower lip fuller than the upper, creating a permanent hint of a pout that contrasts with the hardness in his eyes.
Those eyes—deep-set beneath strong brows, they catch the light as he turns, revealing hints of amber within the brown. They're watchful, assessing, missing nothing. I've never felt so thoroughly seen by someone's gaze.
"Your men need to stand down, Rossi," he's saying, voice low. "This doesn't need to escalate further tonight."
