[Dante’s POV]
I watch Valentina leave my study, spine straight despite the tension radiating off her. Even in the dress she wouldn’t pick for herself, in the home of a man she hates, she still moves like someone who hasn't figured out how to surrender.
Good. I’d be disappointed otherwise.
My mind drifts to that morning five years ago—twenty-five and stupidly convinced love could outrun blood. Wrong.
The summons came at dawn. One conversation, one impossible choice. Walk away or suffer for it. I made a choice over her happiness, which sounds noble until you realize it just makes me a coward.
My thoughts drift to territory I usually keep locked. My mother tried to run when I was twelve. She couldn't. She died slowly. Illness. I believed lies for fifteen years until I found documents telling a different story. Some rooms stay locked—too many ghosts.
I shake my head. Valentina doesn't need my tragic backstory—she needs to survive this year and disappear. The day passes in violence disguised as business. By evening, I've had enough. I buzz Enzo. "Send Valentina to my study."
"Right away, padrone."
She arrives ten minutes later looking suspicious, beautiful, back in her maid uniform, and ready for a fight. Her dark eyes flash with anger and determination that makes something in my chest twist. I ignore it because feelings are liabilities.
"You wanted to see me?" Her tone could frost glass.
I don't look up from the contracts, just keep signing and flipping pages, making her wait while her irritation builds. A minute passes, then another.
"Why am I here?" She finally snaps.
I glance up. "Come closer."
She hesitates but curiosity wins. She crosses to my desk and I reach out, catch her wrist, pull her onto my lap in one smooth motion. She gasps, hands flying to my shoulders for balance.
"What are you—"
"Quiet." I return my attention to the contracts. "I'm working."
My left hand continues signing documents while my right slides beneath her uniform, fingers trailing up her thigh. She tenses immediately, breath catching. Her skin is impossibly smooth. I can feel goosebumps rising, muscles twitching involuntarily as I map her inner thigh.
"Dante—" Her voice wavers, already breathless.
"I said quiet." My hand moves higher, finding where fabric begins. She's trembling while her body betrays her with every shallow breath. "You wanted to know why you're here? This is why. Now stop talking."
Her pulse hammers where I'm gripping her hip—fast, frantic, heartbeat accelerating. Perfetto. She's already wet, damp heat radiating through thin fabric.
Her body has zero interest in her mind's protests. I sign another contract while my right hand explores. I trace the edge of her underwear, watching her pupils dilate. Her thighs try to close but my position prevents it.
She's warm, responsive, her body betraying her while her mind screams at her to fight. I can feel the tension in her muscles, that war between what she wants and what she thinks she should want. Bella. So stubborn, so perfectly infuriating, completely unable to hide how much she wants this.
My phone rings. Perfect timing. I answer without pausing, shifting my grip on her hip. "Yes?"
"Capo." Marco. "The schedules you requested."
"Go ahead." I slide my hand between her thighs, pushing aside soaked fabric. She jerks, biting back a sound that would make Marco ask questions. The wet heat of her coating my fingers makes something primitive coil in my gut. She's drenched, arousal slicking my palm as I explore with methodical precision.
Marco runs through details—arrival times, cargo manifests, guard rotations. Standard boring bullshit requiring five percent of my attention. The other ninety-five percent is focused on the woman trembling on my lap, trying desperately to stay silent.
I find her clit and circle it slowly with my thumb—she gasps immediately, can't help it, fingers digging into my shoulders hard enough to leave permanent impressions.
Her hips rock forward involuntarily, seeking more friction, more pressure, more of anything I'm willing to give her. The small whimper she's trying to muffle against my neck makes something primitive in me purr with satisfaction. Brava ragazza, fighting so hard to stay quiet while her body screams for release.
"And the Calabrese situation?" I ask Marco, voice perfectly level while I slide one finger inside her. She's tight, clenching around me immediately, her whole body going rigid. "Any movement?"
"Nothing yet. We have eyes on their—" He continues talking and I add a second finger, feeling her stretch around the intrusion. She buries her face against my shoulder, breathing hard against my suit jacket while her internal muscles flutter around my fingers—that telltale sign she's getting close.
I curl them slightly, finding that spot that makes her thighs start shaking. Her arousal coats my hand now, slick and hot, and I can feel her pulse in the rhythmic clenching.
She's trying so desperately to stay still, maintain some dignity, but her body has other ideas entirely. Her hips are moving in tiny circles, chasing the pleasure I'm deliberately, clinically providing. Perfetto—absolutely coming apart and trying so hard not to.
"Good." I increase the pace, fingers working with the kind of precision I apply to everything else in my life. Control. Strategy. Calculated manipulation. "Keep me updated. Double the watch on the east docks."
"Si, capo."
I can feel her getting close now—all the telltale signs I've learned to read. Her breathing has gone ragged, quick little gasps against my shoulder that she's trying desperately to muffle. Her thighs are trembling, muscles tensing and releasing in waves.
The rhythmic clenching around my fingers gets tighter, faster. Her arousal is coating my hand, dripping down my wrist. Her clit is swollen under my thumb, pulsing with each circle I draw around it.
She's right there. Right on the fucking edge. Her whole body is coiled tight, waiting for permission to fall. I can feel the tension in her muscles, the way her back arches slightly despite her best efforts to stay still.
Her fingernails are digging into my shoulders through my jacket—probably drawing blood at this point. The small sounds she's making—those helpless little whimpers she can't quite suppress—are music.
Just a little more. Just a few more seconds and she'll come apart completely, shatter into pieces I'll have to put back together. Her inner walls are fluttering rapidly now, that unmistakable sign that she's about to—
"Anything else?" I ask Marco, voice still perfectly controlled.
"No, padrone. That's everything."
"Bene." I end the call and withdraw my hand in one smooth, deliberate motion—complete denial executed with surgical precision. "You're dismissed."
"What?" She stares at me, processing, gasping for breath.
"I said you're dismissed." I set her on her feet, steadying her when she sways. "Close the door on your way out."
She stares at me for a long moment. Then rage floods her expression—beautiful, murderous rage that makes me want to pull her back. But I don't. She leaves on shaking legs without another word, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the frame.
I sit alone afterward, staring at contracts I signed while dismantling her composure. My hand still carries her scent—jasmine and something uniquely her, her arousal coating my fingers like evidence of everything I shouldn't want.
This is easier, I tell myself—control without vulnerability, desire without confession, power maintained through calculated cruelty. Codardo. Coward wrapped in justifications.
But cowardice kept her alive five years ago. It'll keep her alive now, even if she hates me for it.