The villa breathed differently that night. The waves outside were louder, the air heavier, and Ishani felt it—like the walls themselves whispered that something was about to change.
Dinner had been silent. Dante hadn't tested her this time, hadn't forced games or choices. He simply watched, every glance across the table heavy, unreadable. Ishani hated that silence more than his taunts. At least when he spoke, she could fight back. This quietness felt like a storm building.
Later, as she stepped out onto the balcony of her suite, the sea wind tangled in her hair, she let herself breathe. Just for a moment. Away from his eyes. Away from his voice.
Or so she thought.
The sound of the door opening behind her froze her blood. She turned slowly, and there he was—Dante Moretti, leaning against the doorframe, his suit jacket discarded, his shirt sleeves rolled up, the top buttons undone. For once, he didn't look like a mafia king. He looked dangerously human.
"You shouldn't leave your balcony doors open," he murmured, stepping inside, his Italian accent dripping with lazy menace. "What if someone slipped in?"
Her chin lifted. "Someone already did."
He smirked faintly, closing the distance between them. She backed up until the stone railing pressed against her spine, her dupatta fluttering in the wind. He didn't touch her—not yet. But his presence caged her in more than any locked door could.
"Why do you keep fighting me?" he asked softly, his eyes burning with something far more dangerous than anger. "Do you really think hate will keep me away?"
Her pulse thundered, but she forced steel into her voice. "Because hating you is easier than—" She stopped, biting back the rest.
His gaze sharpened, catching the slip. He stepped closer, so close that the heat of his body wrapped around her, his cologne sinking into her skin. His hand rose—not rough this time, but slow, deliberate—as he brushed a stray strand of hair from her cheek.
The touch was featherlight, but it set every nerve in her body on fire.
"You burn when you fight me," he murmured, his thumb lingering against her jaw. "I feel it. You feel it. And yet you lie to yourself."
Ishani's breath hitched, her hands clenching the railing behind her. "This is obsession. Not love. Not respect. Just control."
"Obsession," he echoed, his lips curving dangerously close to hers. "Yes. And obsession, bella, lasts longer than love."
For one dizzying moment, she forgot to breathe. His face hovered inches from hers, his breath warm, his gaze unrelenting. She expected him to kiss her, to claim what he believed already belonged to him.
But Dante didn't.
Instead, he stepped back suddenly, leaving the air cold and her body trembling with a need she refused to name. His smile was sharp, knowing.
"Not yet," he said, his voice low. "When I touch you, truly touch you, you won't fight me. You'll beg for it."
And with that, he turned and left, the door closing softly behind him.
Ishani gripped the railing, her chest heaving, fury and shame warring inside her. She hated him. She hated how he made her feel.
But the worst part—the part that terrified her—was the tiny, treacherous whisper in her blood that wanted him to come back.