The drive to the Moretti ancestral estate, Villa d'Ombra, was a descent into a different world. As the sleek black Maybach wound through the jagged cliffs and dense forest two hours outside the city, the air grew thick and heavy, as if the oxygen itself were being replaced by something ancient and sentient.
Dante sat in the back with Elara, the space between them charged with a static tension that made the fine hairs on her arms stand up. He was reading files on a tablet, the blue light accentuating the harsh, beautiful lines of his profile. Elara, meanwhile, couldn't stop her legs from rubbing together. The silk of her underwear was damp, a lingering consequence of their encounter in his office, and every time the car hit a bump, her breasts—heavy and sensitive—jiggled under her blouse, drawing Dante's dark eyes away from the screen for a lingering, possessive second.
"The Villa has been in my family for three centuries," Dante said, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "But it hasn't felt like a home in decades. It feels like a prison."
"Why keep it then?" Elara asked, her voice trembling.
"Because some things are too dangerous to be left empty," he replied cryptically.
As the iron gates groaned open, the estate loomed out of the fog. It was a gothic masterpiece of black stone and ivy, but there was something wrong with the geometry—angles that seemed to shift if you looked at them too long.
The car stopped, and the door was opened by a man who made Elara's blood run cold. He was thick-necked, with a jagged scar running from his ear to his chin, and eyes that held a sickening, oily glint.
"Welcome back, Boss," the man said, his voice a wet rasp. His gaze didn't stay on Dante; it slid immediately to Elara, traveling over her curves with a hunger that felt like a physical violation. This was Sloane, the Underboss.
"Sloane," Dante acknowledged, his tone freezing. He stepped out and immediately moved to Elara's side, his hand gripping her waist with a force that was both protective and territorial. "Keep your eyes on the perimeter, not the guest."
Sloane's smirk didn't fade. "Just admiring the architecture, Boss. She's... well-built."
Dante's jaw tightened, a muscle leaping in his cheek. He leaned down, his mouth brushing Elara's ear as he guided her toward the massive oak doors. "Ignore him. If he touches you, I'll take his hand. If he looks at you again like that, I'll take his eyes."
The interior of the Villa was a labyrinth of shadows. Despite the high-end light fixtures Dante had installed, the darkness seemed to swallow the light. As Elara stepped into the grand foyer, she felt a sudden, inexplicable chill. It wasn't just cold; it was a pressure against her skin.
"Do you hear that?" she whispered, stopping dead.
Dante paused. "Hear what?"
"It sounds like... breathing."
Dante's eyes narrowed. He scanned the empty hallway. "The house is old, Elara. The wind whistles through the masonry."
But it wasn't the wind. To Elara, it sounded like a rhythmic, wet heave coming from behind the walls. As she walked further, she felt a sudden, sharp sensation—like a phantom hand brushing against the curve of her hip. She gasped, jumping toward Dante.
"What is it?" he demanded, his hand flying to the holster beneath his jacket.
"Something... something touched me," she breathed, her heart hammering. Her breasts rose and fell rapidly, the tips poking sharply against her bra.
Dante pulled her flush against him, his large hands splayed across her back. "There's no one here but us, Elara. My men are all outside."
"I felt it, Dante. It was cold."
His expression softened from aggression to a dark, simmering heat. He looked down at her heaving chest, his pupils dilating until his eyes were almost entirely black. The "paranormal" dread of the house was suddenly eclipsed by the raw, erotic power he radiated.
"Maybe the house is jealous," he murmured, his voice a low growl. "It knows I've brought something beautiful into its guts."
He pushed her back against a cold stone pillar, his body acting as a shield against the shadows. He reached down, his fingers hooking into the waistband of her skirt. Elara let out a choked sound, half-terror, half-ecstasy. The throb between her legs had become an insistent, pulsing ache that demanded release.
"You're so reactive," Dante whispered, his hand sliding upward to cup one of her breasts. He squeezed, his thumb raking over her hardened nipple through the fabric. "Your heart is racing. Your skin is flushed. You want me to take you right here, in the dark, don't you?"
Elara couldn't deny it. The fear of the house and the lust for the man had fused into a single, overwhelming high. She arched her back, her breasts jiggling with the movement as she pressed herself into his palm. "Please," she whimpered.
Dante's mouth crashed onto hers, a brutal, hungry kiss that tasted of scotch and dominance. His tongue invaded her mouth, claiming her, while his other hand slid between her thighs, feeling the soaked silk of her panties.
"God, you're drowning for me," he groaned into her mouth.
Just as he prepared to lift her, a loud, metallic CLANG echoed from the floor above—the sound of a heavy iron door slamming shut.
Dante broke the kiss, his eyes snapping upward. The lust was replaced instantly by the cold focus of a predator. "Stay behind me," he hissed.
He drew his weapon, a matte black handgun that looked lethal in the dim light. They ascended the grand staircase, the wood groaning under their weight. As they reached the second-floor landing, Elara saw it—a trail of wet footprints leading into a room that should have been locked.
They reached the door to the master library. Dante kicked it open, but the room was empty. However, on the central table, a single item had been placed: a file from Elara's father's firm, soaked in what looked like fresh, red blood.
Attached to the file was a small, gold pin—the symbol of a sun rising over a cross.
"The Circle," Dante spat, his grip tightening on his gun.
Suddenly, the lights in the room flickered and died. In the pitch black, Elara felt that cold breath on the back of her neck again.
"Dante!" she screamed, reaching out blindly.
A hand grabbed her—but it wasn't Dante's. This hand was clammy, the fingers skeletal. It gripped her arm with bruising force, pulling her toward the darkness of the corner.
"Elara!" Dante's voice roared, followed by the deafening crack of a gunshot.
The muzzle flash illuminated the room for a fraction of a second. In that flash, Elara saw a figure in a white robe, a porcelain mask covering its face, standing mere inches from her. And then, as quickly as it had appeared, the figure vanished into the shadows of a hidden door.
The lights surged back on. Dante was at her side in an instant, checking her for injuries. Elara was hyperventilating, her blouse torn at the shoulder from the struggle, revealing the creamy curve of her skin.
"They were in here," she sobbed, clutching Dante's lapels. "They were right here!"
Dante looked at the bloody file, then at the secret panel in the wall that was now seamlessly shut. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated rage.
"They think they can play ghosts in my house," he whispered, his voice vibrating with a promise of extreme violence. "They think they can touch what belongs to me."
He turned to Elara, his eyes burning. He grabbed her face, forcing her to look at him. "This is the Stage 3 organization you're dealing with now, Elara. The 'Holy' men who kill in the dark. From this moment on, you don't leave my sight. Not to sleep, not to bathe. Do you understand?"
Elara nodded, her body still trembling, her core still throbbing with a confused mix of terror and the lingering heat of his touch. She was no longer just an architect; she was a pawn in a war between a billionaire devil and a "holy" monster.
And as they stood there, she could swear she heard a low, mocking laughter echoing through the very stones of the Villa.