Dante's confession changed the atmosphere in the glass house. The outright hostility was gone, replaced by a tense, charged curiosity. He stopped treating her like a purely hostile asset. He began asking for her opinion on the art he acquired, listening with genuine interest. He found her one afternoon in the library, curled in a chair with a book of Caravaggio prints.
"He understood violence and grace," Dante remarked, looking over her shoulder at the painting of Judith beheading Holofernes.
"He understood contrast," Valentina corrected softly, without thinking. "The divine light and the human darkness. They need each other to exist." She felt his stillness behind her and immediately regretted the intimate observation.
"Yes," he said after a long moment, his voice oddly thick. "They do."
He started joining her for coffee in the mornings on the east terrace, overlooking the river. The conversations were stilted at first, then gradually flowed easier. They spoke of art, history, music—everything but their own bloody history. It was a fragile, silent truce. Leo's watchful presence was a constant reminder of her true status, but within the walls of the house, she was given an illusion of freedom.
That illusion shattered one Thursday afternoon.
A sleek, unfamiliar car pulled up the drive. From her window, Valentina saw a man emerge—handsome, slick, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. Marco. Not her brother, but Marco Moretti, the underboss who had bid for her at the auction. Her skin crawled.
She heard raised voices from Dante's study—Dante's, a low, dangerous rumble, and Moretti's, wheedling and arrogant. Silvia, the housekeeper, found her pacing in the sitting room.
"The Boss says you are to stay here, signorina," she said, her face grim. "Do not come out."
But Valentina had spent weeks being passive. The fear for her brother, the real Marco, coiled in her gut. What if Moretti was here about him? She waited until Silvia left, then crept down the hall, pressing herself against the wall near the half-open study door.
"…a generous offer, Conti," Moretti was saying. "You paid five million for a pretty vase. I'm offering seven. You turn a profit, I get the decoration I wanted, everyone wins."
"She is not for sale," Dante's voice was deathly calm.
"Come now. We both know what she is. A tool. A bit of revenge against a dead man. Have your fun, then let business be business. My father is keen to… consolidate our families' interests. This would be a gesture of goodwill."
The implication was clear. Valentina's blood ran cold.
"Leave," Dante said. "Before I forget you are here under a flag of parley and remove your tongue for suggesting I would trade what's mine."
There was a scrape of a chair. "You're making a sentimental mistake, Conti. Sentiment is a weakness our world punishes."
"Leo." Dante's single word was a gunshot. A second later, Leo appeared, a mountain of silent threat, and escorted a sputtering Moretti out.
Valentina tried to slip away, but Dante's voice stopped her cold. "I know you're there. Come in."
She entered, her heart hammering. The study felt different—smaller, charged with a violent energy. Dante stood by the window, his back to her, shoulders rigid.
"You heard," he stated.
"Yes."
He turned. His expression was terrifyingly blank, but his silver eyes burned. "Come here."
Hesitantly, she obeyed, stopping a few feet from him. In a blur of motion, his hand shot out, but instead of striking her, it cupped the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair. He didn't pull, just held her there, forcing her to look up at him.
"The first rule," he said, his voice a low, searing whisper. "You are mine. Not Moretti's. Not a tool. Not just a debt. Mine. Do you understand the difference?"
She was trembling, but not entirely from fear. The possessive fire in his eyes ignited something deep and forbidden within her. "I understand the words," she breathed.
"Good." His gaze dropped to her lips. "The second rule. You never, ever put yourself in danger like that again. Eavesdropping on a meeting with a man like Moretti? If he had seen you…" He inhaled sharply, his control visibly fraying. "The thought of his hands on you makes me want to burn the world down."
The confession hung between them, raw and shocking. This wasn't about asset management. This was something else entirely—something dark, possessive, and intensely personal.
His head bent, his lips a breath from hers. "Do you want me to let you go, Valentina?" The question was a test, a temptation.
Every sane instinct screamed yes. But the part of her that had seen his pain, that had sparred with him over coffee and art, that thrilled at the heat of his touch, whispered something else. She didn't answer. She closed the infinitesimal distance herself.
The kiss was not gentle. It was a conflagration. It was years of grief, rage, and twisted longing unleashed. He crushed her to him, his mouth claiming hers with a desperate, hungry fury. She kissed him back with equal fire, her hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer. It was a battle and a surrender, all at once.
When he finally pulled away, both of them were breathing raggedly. He rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed. "Dio mio," he swore softly. "What are you doing to me?"
He had set out to break her. Instead, she was unraveling him. And in that unraveling, in the wreckage of their kiss, a new, dangerous alliance was born.