She walked out of the room with fire in her veins and defiance in her spine. Elena DeLuca. The girl with her father's blood, but none of his cowardice.
Dante stood alone, the heavy silence returning as the echo of her heels faded down the marble hallway.
He pinched the bridge of his nose.
What the hell was he doing?
He didn't need her. He shouldn't want her. She was leverage, nothing more—a pawn in a power play that had stretched years and cost lives. And yet…
There was something about her that made the lines blur.
He'd killed men for less than the attitude she'd thrown at him tonight. Others bowed. She burned.
Dante moved to the window and stared out into the dark pulse of the city. From here, everything looked small quiet obedient. A false calm. Just like him.
People liked to believe monsters were born. But Dante knew better.
He had been made.
Molded by his father's brutal legacy, by blood spilled too young, by lessons carved into him with fists and betrayal. Empathy was a luxury he'd never been allowed. Loyalty was currency. And love? Love was poison. A distraction that turned strong men into corpses.
He had no room for softness. No time for weakness.
And yet…
The memory of her eyes flickered again in his mind green like a forest fire, daring him to come closer even as they screamed at him to stay away.
He hated it. Hated how it made him feel like a man instead of a king.
He hadn't let anyone close in years. Not since Luca.
Dante's jaw clenched.
Luca had been his blood. His shadow. The only soul who truly understood what it meant to carry the Moretti name without flinching. Until he'd betrayed him. Until he'd died with a secret on his tongue and a bullet in his spine.
That was the last time Dante let himself feel anything.
Now Elena appeared, uninvited, unafraid. And worst of all honest. Too honest. She didn't play games, not the way everyone else did. No flirting for power. No masks. Just raw, righteous rage wrapped in elegance.
It terrified him more than a loaded gun.
What if she was the one thing he couldn't control?
He'd built his empire on control. Every move calculated. Every enemy accounted for. But Elena was chaos in heels. And somehow, he'd invited her in.
Why her?
Dante had met beautiful women before. Slept with them. Ignored them. Elena wasn't just beautiful. She was untouchable. A firecracker placed in his hands with a burning fuse—and he had lit it himself.
He could've crushed her family years ago. Could've leveled what was left of the DeLuca name. But something about the way she fought for her brother stirred something inside him he thought was long dead.
Not sympathy.
Recognition.
She would burn the world for the people she loved. Just like he once did.
Before he learned the world never burned back.
Dante turned from the window and sank into the leather chair behind his desk. For a moment, the weight of his choices settled on his shoulders like a second skin. Heavy. Inevitable.
He pulled out a file. Her brother's; Marco DeLuca. Nineteen. Reckless. Naive. Used by someone inside Moretti operations to push stolen arms across Dante's border.
Sloppy.
Which meant this wasn't just about Marco.
Someone wanted war.
And Elena… she had walked right into the center of it.
He told himself she was just a piece on the board. Another tool. But something in his chest tightened when he thought about her getting caught in the crossfire.
She was too raw for this world. Too sincere. And that made her a liability.
Or a weapon.
Maybe both.
Dante dragged a hand through his hair and exhaled sharply. He didn't need complications.
He needed results.
He'd keep her close, use her to root out the mole, then send her back to whatever life she thought she could rebuild.
He would not fall.
He would not feel.
But when he closed his eyes, all he could see were the sharp lines of her mouth as she said, "Good. Because you'll never have it."
And it wasn't rejection he heard in her voice.
It was challenge.
And Dante Moretti had never walked away from a challenge in his life.