Morning in the Moretti house was never soft. Doors slammed, phones rang, orders were barked. Even in the supposed calm of daylight, the air buzzed with tension.
Dante was already in the kitchen when Ava came down with Mia. He leaned against the counter, mug of coffee in hand, eyes tracking Ava as she entered. She carried herself differently—shoulders back, gaze steady—but he caught the flicker of hesitation when the boys glanced her way.
"Sleep well, princess?" Dante asked, his tone sharp enough to cut.
Ava paused, then lifted her chin. "Better than you, from the looks of it."
The boys at the table chuckled, but Dante didn't. His smirk was thin, his eyes unreadable. He set the mug down and moved closer, stopping just a step into her space.
"Careful," he murmured. "Sharp words in this house have consequences."
Mia tensed beside Ava, ready to intervene, but Ava didn't flinch. She met his gaze directly. "Or maybe you're not used to people talking back. That's your problem, not mine."
For a moment, silence pressed in like a storm. Then Dante laughed—not loud, not warm, but a quiet, dangerous laugh that made the others shift in their seats.
"You've got fire," he said. "I'll give you that." He leaned closer, voice low enough for only her and Mia to hear. "But fire's easy to snuff out."
He pulled back, grabbing his jacket from the chair. "Mia, you're late. Don't keep your brother waiting." He brushed past them both, leaving the kitchen heavy with unspoken warning.
Ava exhaled slowly once he was gone, her pulse racing. She had stood her ground, but she knew one thing for certain—Dante wasn't finished. He had only begun circling.
And upstairs, Ethan had heard every word.