The silence between them lingered like smoke after a fire. Elena refused to let him see how shaken she was, though her pulse still rattled beneath her skin. She forced her voice steady.
"You speak in riddles, Dante. Wolves and blood, debts and oaths. If you want something, say it."
His eyes glinted with approval, though his smile was thin. "Very well. Directness suits you."
He returned to his chair with unhurried grace, folding himself into it as though reclaiming a throne. He steepled his fingers, studying her with the calm of a man who already knew the outcome of the game.
"Here is the truth: your father's estate is crumbling. The house, the accounts, the very roof above your head—all of it soaked in debt, most of it owed to us. Left unchecked, the creditors will tear it apart, and the D'Angelos will not raise a finger to stop them. Unless…"
He let the word breathe, savoring the weight of it.
"Unless you cooperate. Align yourself with us. With me."
Elena's spine stiffened. "Cooperate? You mean surrender."
"No." His voice was smooth, absolute. "I mean survive. I am offering you protection, Elena. You keep the estate. You retain control of what little fortune remains. In exchange, you open your doors to us. You honor your father's obligations—and in return, you are under our shield."
Her laugh was sharp, bitter. "A shield made of knives. That's what you call protection?"
Dante tilted his head, amusement flickering in his gaze. "Knives cut both ways. In the right hands, they defend as well as wound."
She leaned forward, fists clenched on the polished table. "And if I say no? If I refuse to play the D'Angelo puppet?"
His pause was deliberate, heavy with implication. Then he shrugged lightly, as though the answer were obvious.
"Then Verona will claim you. Piece by piece. Every other family your father owed will descend on what remains of Massimo's name. Some will want money, others blood. Without us, you won't last the month."
Her chest tightened, fury and fear warring in equal measure. She could almost hear her father's voice warning her of men like Dante—silk words masking steel chains. And yet the chains gleamed, tempting in their certainty.
"Your terms," she said coldly, "are nothing but a death sentence drawn out. You want control. That's what this is really about."
Dante's smile sharpened, predatory but admiring.
"Control is survival. Refuse me if you wish, but understand: every man who watches you now, every set of eyes that follows you in the street—they wait for weakness. Align with me, and their teeth will never reach you. Refuse, and…"
He leaned back, spreading his hands, the gesture as casual as it was damning.
"…they will feast."
Elena's nails dug crescents into her palms. "You expect me to bow, just like that? To hand over my father's legacy, my life, because you dangle threats like chains?"
"No." He lowered his voice, and for the first time, it softened—though the steel never left it. "I expect you to choose. Submission or defiance. Chains or knives. Either way, Elena, there is no walking away untouched."
She hated the way her breath caught, the way part of her recognized the truth in his words. The city was circling her like vultures, and Dante was the only one bold enough to say it aloud. But that didn't mean she'd let him win so easily.
"You mistake me," she said finally, lifting her chin. "I am not my father. I will not be bought, and I will not be broken. If I deal with you, it will be on my terms, not yours."
For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Then Dante laughed softly, the sound dark and genuine.
"There it is. Fire."
He rose again, coming to stand before her. His presence was a storm, oppressive yet magnetic, drawing her in even as she fought to recoil. He placed one hand on the back of her chair, leaning just close enough that she caught the faint scent of tobacco and leather clinging to him.
"I'll give you time," he murmured. "Think carefully, Elena. Consider what happens to flames when they burn too brightly. They consume themselves."
Her eyes narrowed, her voice trembling with defiance. "Better to burn than to rot in chains."
The corner of his mouth lifted, approval flickering through the danger in his gaze.
"Then perhaps you were meant for fire after all."
He straightened, stepping away, but the tension he left in his wake clung to her like smoke.
"Until our next meeting," Dante said, his tone final, a command disguised as parting. "Decide which path you will walk. And remember, Verona has no mercy for the unclaimed."
____________________________________
Elena pushed back her chair and rose, meaning to leave. She needed air—distance—from the suffocating weight of the room and from him. But Dante moved quicker than she expected, cutting across her path with unhurried grace, as if he had known exactly when she'd try.
She froze. He was close now—too close. The golden glow of the chandeliers caught the hard lines of his face, the subtle shadow of stubble along his jaw. His height forced her to tilt her chin up, though she refused to step back.
"You think walking away means freedom?" His voice was quiet, a velvet snare. "In this city, freedom is an illusion."
Elena's throat tightened, but she steadied herself. "And yet here you stand, playing king of illusions."
The faintest spark of amusement lit his eyes. "Bold. But you misunderstand." He leaned in slightly, his breath brushing her cheek. "I don't play king. I play predator."
Her pulse hammered. She wanted to laugh in his face, to spit out some sharp retort—but her body betrayed her. Every nerve screamed danger, yet beneath it, treacherously, was a pull. A heat she despised.
She stepped sideways, forcing space between them. "Predators eventually starve when prey stops running."
Dante followed with a single, measured step, reducing the gap again. "Ah, but you're not running, are you? You're standing. You're challenging. And that…" His eyes darkened, lingering on her face as though studying each flicker of resistance. "…that is what makes you dangerous. That is what makes you tempting."
Her breath caught, sharp and involuntary. The word tempting slid between them like a blade wrapped in silk. She hated how her heart reacted—how her skin seemed aware of the space between them, of the possibility of what he might do if he closed it entirely.
She forced herself to hold his gaze. "Don't mistake fascination for victory. You won't win me with intimidation—or anything else."
"Win you?" His smile curved, wolfish. "Elena, this isn't a game of hearts. This is survival. But…" He leaned in again, so near she felt the brush of his sleeve against her arm. "…sometimes, survival and desire blur. The question is whether you know when to draw the line."
She swallowed hard, furious at the way his nearness unraveled her composure. "And what about you? Do you know the line?"
For a moment, silence. Then he gave the faintest shrug, his gaze never breaking hers. "I redraw it whenever I wish."
The arrogance in the statement should have infuriated her—and it did. But beneath the fury was something else: the undeniable truth that she was entangled already. The ledger hidden in her room, the debts pressing in, the black car shadowing her steps. And now him. Always him.
He reached out suddenly—not touching her, but close enough that the air between them sparked with tension. His fingers hovered just past her wrist, as if testing how far he could push before she flinched.
Elena's instinct screamed at her to recoil. Instead, she lifted her chin higher. "You don't scare me."
The corner of his mouth lifted, though his eyes stayed deadly serious. "You should be terrified."
Then, just as quickly, he withdrew, the spell snapping like a cord cut too soon.
Dante straightened, restoring the careful distance, though the heat of that moment lingered like a phantom touch.
"Go," he said softly, the single word more command than permission. "But carry this with you, Elena: this city will devour you. Unless…" His eyes locked on hers, sharp as a blade. "…you learn to let the wolves bite—and bleed with them."
The words sank into her bones, heavy, chilling. She turned sharply and strode toward the door, refusing to let him see her falter. But every step felt heavier than the last, as if his gaze followed her, tethering her still.
____________________________________
The heavy doors of the Palazzo swung open as though guided by unseen hands. Two guards stood at either side, silent as statues, their eyes following her every move. Elena walked through them with her chin lifted, her pulse still frantic from the encounter inside. She could feel the weight of Dante's presence lingering behind her like a shadow even though she no longer saw him.
The night air hit her like a slap—cool, sharp, tasting faintly of rain. She drew it into her lungs as though she'd been drowning inside. But relief didn't come. The Palazzo loomed behind her, its grand façade glowing under golden light, elegant and menacing all at once.
She had survived her first meeting with Dante D'Angelo. Barely.
Her heels clicked against the marble steps as she descended, every sound echoing far too loudly in the stillness. She forced herself to keep steady, to walk with the same calm dignity she had shown inside. The last thing she would allow was for the D'Angelo guards to see her rush away like frightened prey.
Still, her hands wouldn't stop trembling.
Halfway down, she heard it—a voice, soft and low, drifting out from the shadows above the entrance.
"Elena."
She froze. Slowly, against her better judgment, she turned back.
Dante stood framed in the Palazzo doorway, no longer masked by the calculated composure he had shown inside. His expression was unreadable in the dim light, but his eyes burned, catching the faint glimmer of the lamps.
"You think fire will protect you." His voice carried, smooth yet cutting, every syllable deliberate. "But fire consumes, Elena. It eats until nothing is left."
The chill in her bones deepened. She forced herself to answer, even though her throat was tight. "Better to burn on my own terms than to live under your leash."
His mouth curved, not quite a smile, not quite a threat. "This city will devour you. Unless…" He stepped forward, just enough to let the words land with the weight of inevitability. "…you learn to let the wolves bite—and bleed with them."
Her stomach knotted. The phrase—wolves, blood—echoed in her father's words, in the ledgers, in the warnings scrawled in Massimo's frantic hand. She clenched her fists, unwilling to give Dante the satisfaction of seeing her falter.
"I don't need your wolves," she said, voice like glass.
His gaze lingered, heavy, testing, before he finally inclined his head in mock respect. "Then you'll need miracles."
With that, he turned back into the Palazzo, the door shutting behind him with a thundering finality.
Elena remained rooted on the steps for a moment longer, her breath ragged, her entire body trembling with fury, fear… and something else she refused to name.
When she finally reached the bottom, her driver was waiting at the curb. The familiar black car idled, its engine low and steady. But as she approached, her stomach dropped.
Not the driver's car.
Another one. The same one she had seen outside the lawyer's office. The same shadow always trailing her.
Its windows were tinted, hiding the face—or faces—inside. But she felt the stare, heavy and unyielding. Watching. Waiting.
Her driver's actual car pulled up behind it, the headlights scattering across the cobblestones. The black car shifted, rolling forward just enough to slip into the night before she could do more than glare.
Her chest tightened. The message was clear: she wasn't alone, not even in her own steps. Every move she made, someone was there to see it.
Inside the safety of her driver's car, Elena pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window. The streets of Verona stretched ahead, narrow and glittering with lamplight. Behind her, the Palazzo D'Angelo loomed like a phantom, and somewhere inside it, Dante's words replayed like a curse.
Wolves. Bite. Bleed.
Her fear twisted into something sharper, harder. Anger. Resolve.
She would not be broken. She would not surrender.
But even as she swore it to herself, she couldn't shake the treacherous memory of how close he had stood, the way his presence had set her pulse racing. A spark—dangerous, forbidden—had been lit in the darkness.
And no matter how much she despised him, no matter how deeply she tried to bury it, Elena knew: sparks had a way of becoming fire.