Amara Blake had always believed the worst thing that could happen in a hotel bar was a spilled drink on her dress. She was wrong.
It was supposed to be a quick meeting. Her best friend had begged her to stop by the Aurelio, one of the most exclusive hotels in the city, and Amara had agreed—though she felt out of place the moment she walked through the gilded doors. Everything screamed luxury: marble floors polished to a mirror shine, chandeliers dripping with crystal, waiters in pressed suits carrying champagne on silver trays.
She clutched her bag to her chest, weaving through strangers dripping in diamonds, until her phone buzzed. Running late. Meet me upstairs, suite 909.
The text made her stomach twist. Ninth floor? Her friend never mentioned knowing anyone in suites that cost more per night than Amara made in a month. Still, she rode the elevator up, heart ticking faster with every floor.
The hallway was hushed, lined with doors heavy enough to keep secrets locked inside. When she reached 909, she hesitated. The door was ajar, just a fraction, as if someone had left in a hurry.
She should have knocked. She should have turned back.
Instead, curiosity tilted her forward.
The smell hit her first—sharp, metallic. Then came the sound: a wet, choking gasp.
Amara pushed the door an inch wider.
Her world stopped.
A man knelt on the carpet, blood soaking his shirt, eyes bulging as he tried to breathe. Standing over him was another man—tall, broad-shouldered, immaculately dressed in a black suit that hugged every inch of power carved into his body. His hand was wrapped around a crystal glass of scotch, utterly steady despite the crimson mess at his feet.
Dante Moretti.
She knew the name the way everyone in the city knew it. He was whispered about in boardrooms and back alleys alike. Billionaire. Mafia heir. Ruthless, untouchable, dangerous. Women wanted him. Men feared him.
But Amara saw him now not as a myth, not as a headline, but as a man whose boot pressed against the throat of another human being.
"Talk," Dante said, his voice deep, threaded with something cold enough to freeze bone.
The man on the floor coughed blood. "I—I don't know—please—"
The heel ground harder. The man's plea turned into a strangled scream.
Amara's hand flew to her mouth, but the gasp escaped before she could stop it.
Dante's head lifted.
His eyes found hers instantly, slicing through the shadows like blades. Steel-gray, predatory, assessing. For one dizzy second, Amara swore he could see straight into her soul.
Her breath caught. She stumbled back, her shoulder slamming against the doorframe. But it was too late.
The predator had seen his prey.
Dante's lips curved—not into a smile, but something far more dangerous. He stepped off the bleeding man and straightened to his full, intimidating height.
"Well," he murmured, setting the scotch glass down on a table without looking away from her. His voice was silk over steel. "What do we have here?"
Amara's pulse roared in her ears. Her body screamed run, but her legs locked in place.
"I—I'm sorry," she stammered, her voice thin, shaking. "I—wrong room—"
Dante moved toward her, unhurried, each step deliberate. His presence filled the room like smoke, thick and suffocating.
"Wrong room?" His gaze swept over her—the modest dress that clung to her curves, the way her hands shook as she tried to clutch her bag, the panic in her eyes. Something dark flickered in his expression, amusement edged with hunger. "You walked into a private suite without knocking?"
"I—" Her throat tightened. "I was supposed to meet someone. My friend—"
"Your friend isn't here." He stopped a breath away from her, close enough that she could smell him: whiskey, smoke, something sinfully male that made her knees weaken in betrayal.
She tried to edge back, but his hand slammed against the doorframe, caging her in. His palm was mere inches from her head, veins flexing under his skin, dominance radiating off him like heat.
"Tell me, innocente," Dante drawled, tilting his head. "What exactly did you see?"
Her lips trembled. "N-nothing."
The sound of boots scraping carpet reminded her the bleeding man was still on the floor, wheezing faintly, his shirt soaked crimson. The lie stuck in her throat.
Dante's gaze darkened, reading her too easily. "Nothing," he repeated softly, his mouth curving as if savoring the word. He leaned closer, his breath brushing her cheek. "Then you won't mind proving it."
Her heart slammed. "P-prove—?"
He reached down suddenly, fingers gripping her chin, tilting her face up to his. His touch wasn't gentle—it was a claim, an examination, like he was studying the very bones of her. His thumb dragged slowly across her bottom lip, and the humiliating heat that flushed through her body betrayed her.
"You're trembling," he said, voice husky now, intimate. "Fear… or something else?"
Amara's breath came short. Every nerve screamed to push him away, but her body betrayed her, locked in place under the weight of his stare.
Behind them, the dying man gave a final, wet rattle. Silence followed.
Amara's stomach twisted. "He—he needs help—"
Dante's expression hardened instantly, steel shutters slamming down. "He made his choices. And now…" His thumb released her lip, dragging up to her cheek, brushing it almost tenderly. "…so have you."
Her blood went cold. "What… what do you mean?"
Dante leaned down, his lips almost brushing her ear, his whisper searing.
"It means, dolcezza, you don't walk out of this room the same way you walked in."
The words sank into her like a knife. Her pulse pounded so hard she thought she might faint.
She didn't know if he meant she was about to die—or something far worse.