The storm had not left the city. Outside, the streets glistened with rain, headlights sliding like ghosts along the wet pavement. Inside Il Sogno Nero, smoke curled through the air, soft and choking, wrapping itself around whispers and laughter.
Luca stood at the edge of the mezzanine, watching the floor below. Men crowded the gambling tables. Women glided like silk between them, perfume sharp against the musk of cigars. Deals were struck over champagne. Threats were murmured over whiskey. Every moment was theater, but the danger beneath it was real.
He felt Dante's presence before he saw him.
The head of the Moretti empire stepped into the room with that same command, his aura pulling every eye without a single word. He wore black tonight black shirt, black jacket, black tie and the silver glint of a watch that could have bought a politician's loyalty. Dante did not hurry. He never hurried. Time bent around him instead.
When his gaze found Luca, it lingered. The corner of his mouth curved, sharp as the flick of a blade.
"Stray," Dante said when he reached him. The nickname slid between them like a secret. "Watching from the shadows again?"
Luca's lips curved. "You see everything, don't you?"
Dante leaned closer, his voice low enough for only Luca. "Everything worth seeing."
For a moment, the air thickened. Their eyes held, neither looking away. Then Dante's hand rested at the small of Luca's back, subtle but firm, guiding him away from the railing and into a quieter corridor. The music and smoke dimmed as the noise of the club faded behind them.
The room Dante led him into was dim, walls lined with heavy curtains, a low fire crackling in the corner. A table sat in the center with a decanter of whiskey and two glasses. Smoke hung heavier here, perfumed and sweet, not the acrid bite of cigars but something richer.
"Sit," Dante ordered softly, pouring the whiskey before Luca could move.
Luca sat. His body was steady, but his pulse betrayed him, thundering in his chest. Dante took the chair opposite, lounging like a predator at rest. He pushed one glass across the table, his fingers brushing Luca's as he did.
"To lies," Dante said, raising his glass.
Luca lifted his own. "To truth that wears prettier masks."
They drank.
The silence that followed was not empty. It pressed against Luca's skin, heavy with everything unsaid. Dante leaned back, watching him with those dark eyes that never wavered.
"You've been in my house for three nights now," Dante said at last. "Three nights, and I still don't know if you're here to serve me or betray me."
Luca held his gaze. "What if I told you it could be both?"
The smile that curved Dante's lips was dangerous. He stood, slow and deliberate, circling the table like a lion circling prey. He stopped behind Luca's chair, his hand resting lightly on Luca's shoulder.
"Betrayal can be useful," Dante murmured. His thumb dragged across the line of Luca's collarbone, the touch deceptively soft. "So long as I am the one who controls when it happens."
Luca tilted his head slightly, letting the touch linger though it set fire to his chest. "And if you can't control me?"
Dante's hand tightened. His breath was at Luca's ear now, warm, dangerous. "Then I destroy you."
The words should have chilled him. Instead, they burned. Luca closed his eyes for a moment, fighting the pull, fighting the way his body betrayed him. He turned slightly, catching Dante's gaze over his shoulder.
"You don't want to destroy me," he whispered.
Dante studied him, silent, unreadable. Then, with slow precision, he moved. His hand slid from Luca's shoulder to his throat, fingers wrapping loosely, a mockery of a choke. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to command.
"You're too certain of what I want," Dante said. His thumb pressed lightly at the hollow of Luca's throat. "That's dangerous."
Luca's lips parted. He didn't move away. "So make me uncertain."
For the first time, Dante laughed. Not loud, but low, rough, as though dragged from somewhere deep. He leaned down, close enough that Luca could feel the heat of him, smell the faint smoke clinging to his clothes.
Then Dante kissed him.
It was not gentle. It was not slow. It was a claim, fierce and deliberate, teeth grazing lips, tongue pressing demand. Luca gasped against him, the shock burning through him like fire and ice. His hands gripped the edge of the chair to anchor himself, but Dante's hand at his throat held him steady, commanding, unyielding.
When Dante pulled back, his smile was sharp. "There. Uncertain enough?"
Luca's chest heaved, but his voice held steady. "No. Now I'm certain of something else."
Dante arched a brow. "And what is that?"
"That I'll let you ruin me," Luca whispered. "If it means I can ruin you too."
For a heartbeat, silence. Then Dante's laugh again, darker, hungrier. His hand slid down Luca's chest, pressing against the cut from two nights ago, fingers pausing there.
"You bleed for me once already," Dante murmured. "Perhaps I should see how much more I can take."
The fire crackled. The smoke swirled. And Luca realized the line between survival and surrender had thinned to nothing at all.
The rest of the night blurred. The whiskey burned. The smoke thickened. Words dissolved into touches, into tension pulled taut like a wire.
By dawn, when Luca staggered back to his borrowed room, his lips swollen, his throat marked faintly by Dante's grip, he knew there was no turning back.
He had crossed another boundary.
Not with a lie this time. But with a kiss that tasted like blood and smoke.