"Tell me… have you ever been with a man before?"
The world seemed to still.
The waves crashed somewhere behind us, but they sounded distant now. My pulse roared in my ears, drowning everything else out.
His hand was still wrapped around my arm.
Not tight enough to hurt.
Just tight enough to remind me I wasn't in control.
My lips parted, but no answer came out.
I hated that he could do this. Reduce me to silence with one question.
"Why does it matter?" I managed finally, lifting my chin.
His gaze flicked over my face, studying every flicker of emotion like it was information he could weaponize.
"It matters," he said calmly, "because you're my wife."
The word hit differently this time.
Not romantic.
Possessive.
I swallowed.
"And that gives you the right to interrogate me?"
His jaw tightened slightly. Not anger. Something else. Something closer to restraint.
"I'm not interrogating you."
"It feels like it."
His thumb shifted slightly against my skin.
Heat spread from that tiny movement all the way down my spine.
The alcohol on his breath was faint. Not sloppy. Not careless. Just enough to loosen whatever iron control he normally wrapped himself in.
"Answer me," he said quietly.
There it was.
Not loud.
Not threatening.
Just… inevitable.
I could lie.
I could tell him yes just to see what would change in his expression.
But I didn't.
"No."
The word slipped out softer than I intended.
I didn't realize why my cheeks were getting heated all of a sudden.
Dante's eyes darkened.
Not with disappointment.
Not with relief.
Something deeper.
Something primal.
"You haven't?" he asked, voice lower now.
I shook my head once.
The silence between us shifted. Thickened.
His grip loosened slightly, but he didn't step away.
"You were going to wait?" he asked.
"I wasn't planning my future around you, if that's what you're asking."
That earned the faintest twitch of his mouth.
Not quite a smile.
But close.
"Careful," he murmured.
"Or what?" I shot back before I could stop myself.
For a second, something flickered in his eyes.
Almost like he was impressed.
"You don't scare easily," he observed.
"You don't realize how little control you actually have," I replied.
The wind picked up, whipping my dress against my legs. The night air was cool now, brushing against overheated skin.
His gaze dropped briefly.
Then came back up.
Slowly.
"You think I don't have control?" he asked softly.
I swallowed.
Because the truth was…
Right now?
I wasn't sure he did.
He stepped closer.
I stepped back.
My heel caught slightly in the sand and his hand shot out, steadying me instantly. Reflex. Instinct.
My hands pressed against his chest.
Big mistake.
He was warm.
Solid.
Real.
Too real.
God why did he have to be so damn hot?
My fingers curled slightly against the fabric of his shirt.
We both felt it.
The shift.
The awareness.
His voice lowered another degree.
"If I didn't have control," he said quietly, "you wouldn't be standing here untouched."
My breath caught.
"You act like I'm some fragile thing," I said, though my voice wasn't as steady now.
"You are," he replied immediately.
I narrowed my eyes at him. .
"I'm not fragile."
"You are in my world."
That silenced me.
Because he wasn't wrong.
His world was blood and deals and enemies who didn't hesitate.
And somehow I was in the middle of it.
Because of him.
The first firework explodes without warning.
A sharp crack splits the sky, and before I can process the sound, a burst of gold shatters above the ocean.
I flinch.
Dante doesn't.
His hand tightens instinctively around my waist, pulling me flush against him as if the noise were a threat instead of celebration.
Another explosion follows. Then another.
The dark sky over Amalfi blooms in violent color — crimson, sapphire, molten silver raining down over the water.
My heart is racing, but not from fear.
From him. We are close…too close.
His chest is solid against my back. One arm locked around me. The other steady at my hip. He smells faintly of cologne and alcohol and something warm that feels entirely male.
"Relax," he murmurs near my ear.
I don't know if he's talking about the fireworks.
Or about the way my body has gone rigid in his hold.
"I wasn't scared," I say, though my voice betrays me.
His breath brushes my temple. "You jumped."
The next explosion lights the sky bright enough for me to see his profile clearly his sharp jaw, grey eyes reflecting gold sparks.
He isn't watching the fireworks.
He's watching me.
I swallow.
"They're beautiful," I whisper.
"They're loud," he replies.
Another burst. This one white and violent, scattering like broken stars.
His grip loosens slightly, but he doesn't step away immediately.
And neither do I.
For one suspended second, we simply stand there.
Close.
Too close.
Then he releases me first.
"Go inside," he says quietly. "It's late."
That was it.
He turned on his heel and walked away.
We were back to being distant.
But somehow, that unsettled me more than if he'd pulled me closer.
I don't see him again that night.
I hear him moving in the sitting area hours later. The faint click of his laptop. A low voice speaking in Italian.
I stare at the ceiling long after he goes quiet.
The space between us feels deliberate.
Uncomfortable.
꧁ ❀ ꧂
The next morning, a black car waits in the driveway.
Dante stands beside it, sunglasses on, phone in hand. Dressed casually in a black shirt that hugs his muscles and white shorts.
He looked more laid back when he wasn't in a suit.
"We're going out," he says when I step outside.
"Out where?"
"To see friends."
The word surprises me.
Friends?
Dante has friends?
I slide into the passenger seat. It's just the two of us for the first time in a car.
He drives himself this time.
The coastline winds beside us, the sea glittering under mid-morning sun. I steal glances at him as he navigates the curves effortlessly.
I pry my eyes off his veiny arms.
"Are these… business friends?" I ask carefully.
"They're both."
That answers nothing.
Lovely.
꧁ ❀ ꧂
We pull up to a condo building that is modern and massive, all glass and steel overlooking the marina.
When we enter, two men are already waiting inside the sunlit living room.
The first one is leaning back against the wall, sleeves rolled up, dark hair slightly tousled like he's just run his hand through it. He's tall, not as broad as Dante, but athletic, relaxed in a way that suggests confidence rather than carelessness. Olive skin. Sharp cheekbones. A slow, easy smile.
He grins the moment he sees Dante.
"Dante," he says warmly, stepping forward to clasp his shoulder in a firm grip. "Hai un'aria terribile." (You look terrible.)
Dante smirks faintly.
"Good to see you too, Matteo."
Matteo.
He turns to me next, and the teasing edge in his expression softens into something more polite. Assessing, but not invasive.
"So this is the famous wife."
Famous?
Heat creeps up my neck.
"I'm Amalia," I say.
"Matteo Russo," he replies smoothly, taking my hand in a brief, respectful shake. His grip is warm. "Relax. Non mordo." (I don't bite.)
"Don't lie," a second voice says dryly from the kitchen island.
I glance over.
This one doesn't move immediately.
He's seated on a stool, one ankle resting over his knee, espresso cup balanced between long fingers. Darker hair than Matteo's almost black. Longer on top, pushed back. His jaw is sharper. His gaze quieter.
He isn't smiling.
Just studying us.
"Alessio," he says finally, setting his cup down and standing. He's slightly taller than Matteo, leaner, dressed in a tailored charcoal shirt that fits too perfectly to be accidental. "Piacere." (Pleasure to meet you.)
His nod is small, respectful.
Dante watches the entire exchange without interrupting.
Not possessive.
Not tense.
And something shifts in me.
Because here, with them, he seems…different.
Looser.
He sits, pours himself espresso, and actually leans back slightly.
Matteo talks easily, teasing Dante about finally getting married.
"By the way," he says, glancing between us, "we would've been there."
Dante's expression doesn't change.
"We heard it was…" Matteo pauses, choosing his word carefully. "Eventful."
Alessio exhales faintly through his nose. "That's one way to put it."
My stomach tightens.
Matteo's gaze shifts to me again, softer now. "Ci dispiace non essere venuti."
(We're sorry we couldn't come.)
"There were… complications," Alessio adds calmly. "The timing wasn't ideal."
Dante's jaw flexes slightly. "It's handled."
That's all he says.
Handled.
Matteo studies him for half a second longer than necessary. Something unspoken passes between them.
Then Matteo looks back at me. "I promise we'll make up for it. Proper dinner. No chaos."
Alessio lifts his espresso. "Preferably without gunshots this time."
I blink.
Dante doesn't.
"Enough," he says quietly in Italian. "Basta."
And the subject drops immediately.
Alessio discusses something about shipments and timing.
I listen quietly.
And I watch.
Dante listens more than he speaks. When he does speak, both men fall silent immediately.
Respect.
Not fear.
Respect.
It's… impressive.
At one point, Matteo glances at me. "He doesn't talk much at home either, does he?"
I almost laughed.
"Define talk."
That earns a genuine chuckle from him.
And something flickers across Dante's face.
It's small.
But I caught it.
Matteo glanced at Dante.
"If it's alright, I can take Amalia on a little tour. Show her around the city, let her breathe a bit. Alessio and you can discuss business without distraction."
Dante didn't answer immediately. He just tilted his head, studying Matteo, his sharp eyes calculating. For a heartbeat, the air felt heavy.
"Would that be acceptable?" Matteo asked, his voice careful, measured.
Dante's gaze flicked to me. I swallowed, my heart thudding at the unspoken tension between the two men. Then he nodded once, almost imperceptibly. "Fine. But only for a couple of hours. Don't stray."
"Of course," Matteo said, his lips curving into a reassuring smile. He glanced at me. "Shall we?"
I hesitated for a second. The last time I was left with another one of Dante's men, I was near death's door. My stomach twisted at the memory.
Dante stepped closer, his shadow falling over me. His voice was low, almost a murmur, just for me:
"Stai tranquilla… sei al sicuro con lui."
(Relax… you're safe with him)
I blinked, my chest tightening, and nodded ever so slightly.
Matteo's shoulders relaxed slightly. I'll bring her back in one piece."
Dante's eyes didn't leave him for a second, dark and deadly. His voice was low, calm, but every word carried a blade:
"You better. Altrimenti, ti ammazzo."
(Otherwise, I'll kill you)