Amara couldn't breathe.
Her back was pinned to the door, Dante's hand still braced above her, his body so close she could feel the heat radiating off him. The room behind him stank of blood, the carpet soaked, the corpse sprawled like a warning.
Her instincts screamed run. But every time she tried to move, his gaze dragged her back—those cold gray eyes stripping her bare, dissecting every lie before it even reached her lips.
"Please," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I didn't see anything. I swear."
Dante tilted his head, studying her as though she were some strange, fascinating puzzle. "You think words save you?" His voice was low, threaded with that silky cruelty that made her stomach twist. "A man just begged for his life here. What did it earn him?"
Her throat went dry. She couldn't look at the blood again, couldn't think about the sound of that last rattling breath.
"I won't tell anyone," she tried, desperate. "I don't even know who you are."
His mouth curved, a humorless smirk. "Dolcezza, everyone knows who I am."
The air thickened. She felt the weight of his presence pressing against her like an invisible chain, locking her in place.
For one heartbeat, his hand lifted from the doorframe—freedom flickered. But before she could move, his fingers wrapped around her wrist, firm, unyielding.
Her breath hitched. The strength in his grip was terrifying, but what unsettled her more was the way her pulse jumped under his touch—and the way his eyes dropped to watch it flutter.
"So fragile," Dante murmured, his thumb brushing deliberately over her racing pulse. The small contact burned through her, shameful, unwanted, intoxicating. "So easily broken."
Amara yanked, panic flooding her veins. "Let me go!"
Instead, he tugged her closer, and suddenly she was against him, her chest colliding with the hard wall of muscle beneath his suit. His other hand caught her chin again, tilting her face up until she was forced to meet his eyes.
His gaze was merciless. But beneath it, something else simmered—something darker, hungrier.
"I should kill you." His words were soft, lethal. "That would be… simple."
Her lips parted in horror. The warmth of his body was a cruel contrast to the blade of his words.
"Then why don't you?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
Silence stretched. His thumb grazed her bottom lip again, the same way he had before—as if testing her weakness, savoring it. His breath fanned against her skin, and for a dizzy second she thought he might kiss her.
But then, just as suddenly, he released her.
Amara stumbled back, colliding with the door.
"You're coming with me," Dante said simply, turning his back to her as if her compliance were a fact, not a choice. He picked up his jacket, sliding it over his broad shoulders with unhurried grace. "You saw too much. That makes you mine now."
Her heart lurched. "What? No—I'm not going anywhere with you—"
His head turned slightly, and the look he gave her froze the protest on her tongue. Cold. Final. The kind of look that promised he could end her life before she finished the sentence.
"You walk away from me, innocente," he said quietly, "and you'll be found in pieces before sunrise."
The threat coiled around her throat like a noose.
She should have been terrified. She was terrified.
But beneath it, traitorously, a spark of something else licked through her veins—heat, curiosity, the terrifying awareness of how his nearness made her feel alive in ways that had nothing to do with fear.
Amara swallowed hard. "Where… where are you taking me?"
Dante's smirk returned, cruel and devastating. "To hell, dolcezza. And you'll walk there in heels."