The city was alive with light, but Amara's room felt like a cage.
She hadn't slept. Not really. She'd drifted in and out of restless dozes, waking every time the memory of Dante's voice echoed in her skull.
Elias.
Her brother's name had fallen from Dante's lips like a curse, like a secret he owned but refused to share. And that was what tormented her more than the blood she had seen on his hands, more than the danger surrounding him—Dante knew. He knew something about Elias, and he wasn't telling her.
By the time dawn stretched across the skyline, staining the penthouse windows in amber and gold, Amara's eyes burned with exhaustion and fury. She sat curled on the edge of the bed, her fingers twisted in the sheets, her heart pounding with one thought:
I won't let him keep this from me.
The sound of the lock clicking open made her flinch.
Dante walked in as though the room already belonged to him. His suit was pristine, a dark charcoal that hugged his broad frame, his tie a sharp slash of silk. There was no trace of last night's chaos in his demeanor. His every step radiated control—ruthless, deliberate, unshaken.
"You didn't sleep," he said, his tone flat but knowing.
"No." Amara forced her voice to steady. "Not after what you said."
He raised a brow, amusement flickering briefly in his eyes as he stepped closer. "Which part kept you awake? The blood you saw? The fact you're locked in my home? Or…" His lips curved faintly. "…the name I spoke?"
Her pulse jumped. "Elias. My brother. How do you know him?"
Dante stopped at the foot of the bed. His eyes, cold steel in the daylight, held hers without flinching. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he moved—fast. Too fast.
Amara gasped as his hand closed around her jaw, tilting her face up until she had no choice but to meet his gaze.
"You're braver in the morning," Dante murmured, his thumb brushing the curve of her cheek, his touch deceptively gentle. "Last night you trembled. Today you bite."
Her heart hammered in her chest, but she refused to look away. "Don't play with me. If you know something about Elias, you tell me now."
"You don't make demands of me, dolcezza." His voice lowered, a thread of danger coiling beneath the softness. "You earn answers."
Amara tried to pull back, but his grip didn't budge. Her words cracked with desperation. "He's my brother. I deserve to know if he's alive."
His eyes darkened. "Alive…" Dante's thumb traced her lower lip slowly, deliberately, as though testing her strength. "You speak as if life is something I can grant or take at will."
"Can't you?" she whispered, fury and fear colliding inside her chest.
A shadow passed over his face, gone as quickly as it came. Then Dante smiled—slow, sharp, merciless.
"Careful," he said softly, releasing her chin only to catch her wrists instead. He pushed them above her head in one swift motion, pinning her against the wall. "Keep provoking me, and I'll give you something else to scream about besides your brother."
Her stomach twisted at the heat in his words. The threat wasn't empty. His body was pressed against hers now, solid, unyielding, and the steady weight of him made her breath falter.
"I hate you," she whispered, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her.
Dante's smirk deepened. He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "And yet…" His breath was warm against her skin. "…your body doesn't lie as well as your mouth does."
Heat flooded her, unwanted and humiliating, as if her very flesh betrayed her resolve. She shoved against him, but it was like trying to move stone.
He chuckled, low and dark, the sound curling down her spine like smoke.
"Tell me, Amara," he whispered, his mouth a breath away from hers. "Do you truly want to know what became of Elias? Or are you afraid the truth will destroy what little strength you have left?"
Her heart slammed against her ribs. She wanted to scream, to demand, to claw the truth out of him—but the weight of his words froze her.
Before she could answer, a sharp buzz cut through the air.
Dante's phone.
He froze for a second, irritation flashing across his face. Then he pulled back, releasing her wrists abruptly. Amara stumbled, her arms falling uselessly to her sides, her skin tingling where he'd held her.
Dante pulled the phone from his pocket, glanced at the screen, and his expression hardened instantly. Whatever he saw shifted him from predator to something colder, sharper.
He slid the phone away, straightened, and adjusted his cufflinks with calm precision.
"Get dressed," he said simply.
Amara blinked, breathless. "What?"
"You heard me." His tone brooked no argument. "We're leaving."
Her pulse raced. "Where?"
His lips curved into that infuriating smirk, the one that made her blood boil and her skin burn all at once.
"To meet someone," Dante said, his voice velvet-wrapped steel. "Someone who knows exactly what happened to your brother."
Amara's heart stopped. For a second, the air left her lungs entirely.
"You're lying," she whispered. "You're playing with me again."
Dante stepped closer, lifting her chin with one finger until her gaze locked with his. His steel-gray eyes burned with a promise she couldn't read.
"Patience, dolcezza," he murmured. "You'll get your answers. But not here. Not yet."
He leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear in a mockery of tenderness.
"Truth is best savored face to face."
And then he was gone, leaving her trembling in the silence of the room.
The silence he left behind was deafening.
Amara stood frozen, her chest rising and falling in shallow bursts as the echo of his command clung to the air. Get dressed. As if she were nothing but a pawn to be moved across his board at will.
Her legs felt weak beneath her, but she forced herself to move. If he was serious—if he truly meant to take her to someone who knew about Elias—then she couldn't falter. This was the first thread she'd had in months, the first chance at truth. Even if Dante wrapped it in cruelty, she had to grab hold of it.
She opened the wardrobe across the room, the doors swinging wide to reveal row after row of women's clothing. Dresses. Blouses. Shoes. All perfectly arranged, as though prepared for her. Her stomach turned. He had planned this. Planned to keep her here, dressed her like a doll in a gilded cage.
Still, she pulled a simple black dress from the rack and slipped it over her head. It hugged her figure but gave her enough modesty to breathe. Sliding her feet into a pair of low heels, she caught sight of herself in the mirror.
Her reflection startled her.
The Amara staring back looked paler, sharper, as if her innocence had already been carved away by Dante's hands. Her eyes—once warm, once full of quiet determination—now burned with a mix of defiance and something she hated to name.
Fear. And beneath it, shameful heat.
The door opened without a knock.
Dante stood in the doorway, his gaze sweeping over her slowly, deliberately, like a predator assessing prey. A faint smirk tugged at his lips.
"Better," he murmured.
Amara's fingers clenched at her sides. "You could have given me privacy."
"This is my house," he replied smoothly, stepping into the room. "There's no such thing as privacy here."
She wanted to spit at him, to tear that smirk from his face, but she bit her tongue. Instead, she straightened her spine. "Then let's go."
Dante's eyes narrowed slightly, as though weighing her tone, testing her resolve. Then he extended a hand—not to help her, but as a silent command to move.
She brushed past him without taking it. His chuckle followed her into the hall.
The penthouse was breathtaking, its high ceilings and glass walls spilling morning light across marble floors and black leather furniture. But none of it touched her. To Amara, it was nothing more than another layer of his cage.
Two men in suits waited near the private elevator, their posture rigid, their eyes scanning every shadow. Security. Dante's men.
The taller one pressed the button. The elevator chimed, and the polished steel doors slid open.
Dante placed a hand against the small of Amara's back—not gentle, not forceful, but insistent enough to remind her he could guide her wherever he wished. She stiffened under the touch, but stepped inside.
The doors closed. The descent was silent but heavy, the hum of the machine the only sound. Dante stood inches away, his presence filling the small space, his reflection looming behind her in the mirrored wall.
Amara forced herself to speak. "Who are we meeting?"
"You'll see."
"Why won't you just tell me?"
He turned his head slowly, his gaze catching hers in the reflection. "Because anticipation sharpens the truth. Makes it cut deeper when it comes."
Her fists curled at her sides. "You're cruel."
"Yes." His answer was unapologetic, almost proud. "Cruelty keeps people alive in my world."
"And what about Elias?" Her voice cracked before she could stop it. "Did cruelty keep him alive too?"
For the first time, Dante's smirk faded. His expression darkened, shuttering, and he said nothing.
The elevator chimed again, breaking the tension. The doors slid open into an underground garage. A sleek black car waited, its engine already running. Another suited man stood by the rear door, holding it open.
Dante gestured. "After you."
Amara hesitated. The garage smelled of gasoline and cold concrete, the shadows deep, the silence unnerving. Every instinct screamed at her not to climb inside. But then she thought of Elias—his laugh, his protective arms around her when they were younger—and she forced her legs to move.
She slid into the back seat. The leather was cool beneath her palms, the windows tinted so dark she couldn't see outside. A prison on wheels.
Dante joined her, sliding in beside her with effortless grace. The door shut, and the car pulled forward.
The city blurred past, but Amara's gaze stayed locked on him.
"You enjoy this, don't you?" she whispered. "Dangling answers just out of my reach."
His head tilted, his eyes gleaming in the dim light. "What I enjoy," he said slowly, "is watching how far you'll go for the truth. How much of yourself you'll give up before you break."
Her chest tightened. "I won't break."
His lips curved, sharp and knowing. "Everyone breaks, dolcezza. The question is… who will be there to pick up your pieces?"
Amara turned away, staring at the blur of buildings outside, fighting the sting of tears. She wouldn't let him see her fall apart. Not here. Not now.
The car slowed. Her stomach lurched. They had arrived.
The driver pulled into a gated courtyard, the iron gates closing behind them with a clang that sounded like a prison door.
Amara swallowed hard as the car rolled to a stop in front of a grand stone villa, its facade draped in ivy, its windows tall and dark. A place that looked timeless, elegant—and utterly menacing.
The door opened. Dante stepped out first, then extended his hand to her.
This time, she took it. Not because she wanted to, but because her knees threatened to give way beneath her. His hand was warm, steady, frighteningly reassuring.
As they mounted the steps, the heavy front doors swung open.
And standing in the threshold was a woman Amara recognized immediately—though she had never met her in person.
Claudia Rossi.
Beautiful, poised, with lips painted the color of blood and eyes that glittered with amusement as they locked onto Dante.
"Darling," Claudia purred, her voice smooth as silk, "you brought me a present."
Amara's stomach dropped.
Dante's hand tightened around hers.
And Amara realized, with a sickening twist of dread, that the answers she had been chasing might cost her more than she was ready to give.