Page 23 of Dante
A pause as he listens.
"She's here by choice. I gave her the option to leave." His eyes flick to me, lingering. "Ask yourself why she chose to stay."
Another pause, longer this time. His jaw tightens, the muscle there flexing beneath stubble that's beginning to shadow his cheeks.
"That's your prerogative. But understand this… If you move against me, you're moving against yourself." His voice dropseven lower, becoming something dangerous. "We both know you can't afford that right now."
Whatever Marco says next causes Dante's mouth to curve into a cold smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
"Tomorrow, then. Noon at the Riverside Club. Bring whoever you need to feel secure." He ends the call without waiting for a response, turning back to me.
"Your brother has agreed to meet tomorrow," he informs me, sliding the phone into his pocket. "He's withdrawing his men, for now."
He turns to Franco, who's been a silent presence by the security panel. "Go outside. Confirm Rossi's men are leaving the premises. Stay there for an hour to ensure they don't return."
Franco's eyebrow arches slightly, his eyes moving between Dante and me. "An hour, boss? Isn’t that too long?"
"Just do it," Dante says, his tone leaving no room for argument despite the ambiguity in Franco's question.
Franco nods once, his expression neutral as he moves toward the elevator. "One hour." The doors close behind him, leaving Dante and me alone in the vast penthouse.
My stomach tightens with sudden awareness. Privacy. He's arranged for us to be completely alone. But why? Surely a man like Dante Veneziano has supermodels and socialites throwing themselves at him nightly. The kind of women who don't come with the complication of being a rival family's sister. The kind who don't have paint perpetually embedded under their fingernails and who know how to navigate his world.
Why would he want privacy with me unless it's to extract information about Marco? That has to be it. This isn't about attraction; it's strategy.
And yet... the way he's looking at me now, settling into the leather chair across from me, arms crossed over his chest in a way that makes the expensive fabric of his shirt pull tight across his shoulders... it doesn't feel strategic. It feels like something else entirely.
"You're quite fierce when provoked," he observes, that hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "You'd make an incredible family head in another life."
I can't help but laugh at the absurdity of his statement. "Me? Running a criminal empire? I think not."
"Why not?" He seems genuinely curious. "You have the spine for it. The intelligence. The ability to command respect."
"I had to grow a spine," I tell him, running a hand through my tangled hair. "In my family, in this city, you either develop one or get stepped on. Just because I don't like this life doesn't mean I'll let people dictate my choices."
For the first time, Dante laughs—a rich, velvety sound that vibrates through the room and settles somewhere low in my abdomen.
"We should have met months ago," he says, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "Perhaps if you'd known what your brother was doing before it reached this tipping point, you could have intervened."
"Maybe," I concede, though I doubt it. "But I don't think Marco would have listened. He's determined to forge his own path, even if it leads straight off a cliff."
I hesitate, then make an impulsive decision. "Help him, Dante. Help my brother. I'll do anything you ask."
His expression changes, something dark and concerned replacing the amusement. "You shouldn't make offers like that in this world, Elena. 'Anything' could get you killed or worse."
"I know what I'm offering," I insist, leaning forward to match his posture. "Marco is a dumbass sometimes, but he's still my brother. My father made me promise to look after him, to keep him from losing his way." I dig my nails into my palms, frustration welling up. "I've failed at that, obviously."
Dante reaches out, his hand covering mine, gently uncurling my fingers from their tight fist. The touch is unexpected, electric.
"You're not responsible for your brother's choices," he says, his voice softer than I've heard it. "Marco is a grown man making his own decisions. Bad ones, currently, but his nonetheless."
"Then why do I feel like I could have prevented this?" I ask, not pulling my hand away.
"Because you care," he says simply. "It's your greatest strength and your most dangerous vulnerability."
His thumb traces small circles on my wrist, just above my pulse point. The gesture feels oddly intimate, more so than if he'd kissed me.
"There might be a way you can help," he says after a moment, withdrawing his hand. I immediately miss the warmth of his touch.
