The kiss changed everything. It was a line crossed in blood and desire, and there was no going back.
For two days, a tense, electric silence hung between them. Dante was gone from the house on business, leaving Valentina to pace the beautiful, empty rooms, her lips still burning with the memory of his. The fear was still there, a cold undercurrent, but it was now braided with a wild, thrilling heat. He was her captor, the man who held her life in his hands, and she had kissed him as if she were starving.
When he returned, it was late. She heard the heavy front door, his low voice murmuring to Leo, then his footsteps on the polished concrete—not heading to his study, but toward the west wing. Toward her.
He didn't knock. He simply opened the door to her sitting room. He looked exhausted, shadows under those piercing eyes, his jacket gone, his white shirt smudged with something dark at the cuff. Is that blood? Her heart leapt into her throat.
"You're still up," he said, his voice gravelly.
"I couldn't sleep."
He nodded, as if that made perfect sense. He walked to the sideboard where a decanter of brandy sat, poured two glasses, and held one out to her. She took it, their fingers brushing.
"Moretti is handled," he said, staring into his glass. "For now. He will not make another offer for you."
"How did you 'handle' him?"
A faint, cold smile touched his lips. "I reminded him that while his family deals in drugs and prostitution, mine controls the ports, the unions, and the waste management for this half of the state. I can make his product disappear and his money smell like a landfill. It was a… persuasive conversation."
This was the reality of him. Not the man who discussed Caravaggio, but the Don. The killer. She should have been repulsed. Instead, a treacherous part of her was fiercely glad. He had protected what was his.
"And the… the smudge on your cuff?" she dared to ask.
He glanced at it, his expression unreadable. "A different matter. One that is also now resolved." He took a long drink. "It is the world I live in, Valentina. The world you are now part of. It is not gentle."
"I'm beginning to understand that."
He set his glass down and crossed the room to stand before her. He didn't touch her, but his presence was a physical force. "The other night," he began, his voice dropping. "I crossed a line. I took advantage of your situation."
Her pride flared. "I kissed you back. Or did you miss that part?"
His eyes flashed. "I missed nothing. I remember every second." He lifted a hand, his thumb hovering near her bottom lip. "But you are here under duress. Your consent is… complicated."
Her breath hitched. "Are you asking for my consent now?"
"Yes." The word was stark, raw. "I want you. In my bed. In my life. Not as a prisoner, not as a debt, but as a woman. But I will not take what is not freely given. Even from you."
The power he was handing her was dizzying. The most dangerous man she'd ever met was giving her a choice. She saw the war in his eyes—the ruthless Don battling the man who craved something real.
She placed her untouched glass on the table. Then, slowly, deliberately, she reached for the first button of his stained shirt. "This is filthy," she whispered, her fingers trembling only slightly. "You should take it off."
A low groan escaped him. He captured her hand, bringing her fingertips to his lips, kissing them once, fiercely. "Sei sicura? Are you sure?"
Her answer was to finish unbuttoning the shirt, pushing it off his shoulders. The scars she revealed stole her breath—a latticework of old violence etched across his chest and abdomen, a stark contrast to his powerful physique. She traced one, a long, thin line over his ribs. "Who gave you this?"
"A man who isn't alive to regret it," he said, his voice tight. His hands came up to frame her face. "Last chance to run, mia bella."
Instead of running, she rose on her toes and found his mouth with hers.
This kiss was different. It was not a clash, but a claiming. It was slow, deep, and devastatingly thorough. He lifted her into his arms as if she weighed nothing and carried her into the bedroom.
He laid her on the cool sheets and followed her down, his weight a welcome anchor. He worshipped her with his hands and his mouth, peeling away her clothes with a reverence that brought tears to her eyes. He explored every inch of her, learning her secrets, tracing her curves as if committing her to memory. When he finally entered her, it was with a slow, careful intensity that shattered her completely. She cried out, not in pain, but in overwhelming sensation, her fingers digging into the scars on his back.
They moved together in the dark, a frantic, beautiful rhythm of give and take. The outside world—the debts, the violence, the danger—fell away. There was only this: heat, skin, whispered promises in Italian, and the stunning realization that in his arms, in this gilded cage, she had never felt more free.
Afterward, he held her, her head on his chest, his fingers stroking her hair. The silence was peaceful, profound.
"My brother," she whispered into the dark. "Marco. At St. Ignatius. He's… he's all I have left."
He stilled, then his arm tightened around her. "He is safe. I had him moved the day after the auction. To a better school, under a new name, with guards I personally trust. Moretti will never find him."
A sob of relief broke from her. She hadn't even dared to hope. "Why? Why would you do that?"
He was silent for so long she thought he wouldn't answer. Then, his voice rough with emotion, he said, "Because I saw the way you looked at his picture on your first night here. Because his innocence is your innocence. And because…" He turned, leaning over her, his silver eyes gleaming in the moonlight. "You are mine to protect now. All of you. That is the new rule."
He kissed her again, sealing the vow. The lines were gone. They were in the deep end together, and Valentina was no longer sure she wanted to swim for shore.