The car ride to Dante's penthouse had been silent, the only sound the rhythmic tap of Alessia's fingernails against the bulletproof glass. Lucian's blood had dried on her wedding ring, rust-brown against platinum.
Dante hadn't looked at her once.
Now, standing in the sterile luxury of his safe house, she finally spoke. "You knew."
He shrugged off his suit jacket, revealing the gun holstered at his ribs. "Knew what?"
"That someone would try to kill me tonight."
A beat. Then a cold smirk. "Try being the operative word."
She hurled a crystal paperweight at his head.
He caught it without blinking.
"You used me as bait." Her voice trembled—not with fear, but fury.
Dante set the paperweight down with deliberate calm. "If I wanted you dead, principessa, you'd be in the morgue, not my bed."
The implication hung between them, thick as the scent of his cologne—spice and gunmetal.
Alessia scrubbed at the bloodstains on her hands until her skin turned raw. The mirror reflected a stranger: smudged mascara, lips bitten red, the lace of her wedding gown torn at the shoulder.
Lucian's warning.
"You're in danger."
Not from Dante—from someone else.
The door creaked open. Dante leaned against the frame, his silhouette swallowing the light. "You're wasting water."
She didn't turn. "Go to hell."
"Already there." He tossed a black silk robe onto the counter. "Sleep. We negotiate terms in the morning."
"Terms?"
His gaze locked onto hers in the mirror. "How long you stay alive."
The bed was too large, too cold. Alessia stared at the ceiling, listening to the distant hum of the city—and the quiet click of Dante's pistol being reloaded in the next room.
She slipped her hand under the pillow, fingers closing around the switchblade she'd stolen from his coat.
Trust no one.
---
Dante stood in the shadows, phone pressed to his ear. "She doesn't know yet."
A male voice crackled through the receiver. "And the Duvall ledger?"
"Patience." His thumb traced the scar on his lip—the one Alessia had given him years ago. "She'll break before dawn."
A floorboard creaked behind him.
Dante turned slowly.
Alessia stood in the doorway, her robe slipping off one shoulder, the switchblade gleaming in her grip. "Who the hell are you talking to?"
The wind howled between them.
Somewhere in the city, a church bell tolled.