The rain began, soft at first, like the world was trying to hush me. Then it grew louder, heavier, until it was all I could hear.
I stood on the terrace, barefoot, the cool marble slick beneath my feet. The downpour soaked through my dress, the fabric clinging to my skin, cold yet strangely awakening.
For the first time in days, I felt something.
The ache in my chest shifted, taking shape in my mind, in his shape. Dante's hands. Dante's voice. Dante's impossible nearness.
The rain became a memory, or maybe a fantasy.
I could almost see him stepping out of the storm, jacket gone, shirt dark and clinging to the lines of his body. His eyes, that relentless gray finding mine like a spark in the downpour. He'd walk toward me slowly, every movement deliberate, every breath pulling me deeper under his spell.
In my mind, he didn't speak. He didn't need to. The rain would fall harder as his hand slid to my jaw, tilting my face up, his thumb tracing the raindrops that trembled on my lips.
I'd breathe in the scent of him, smoke, rain, something wild and clean.
And then he'd kiss me. Not with tenderness, but with heat, the kind that burned away everything else. The kind that made the cold disappear. My pulse would race beneath his touch, my body arching toward him as though pulled by gravity itself.
The storm would rage around us, but inside it, everything would go still. Just him. Just me. The world narrowing to the space between our mouths.
I blinked, and the image shattered. The terrace was empty.
Just me, trembling, breath shallow, the rain plastering my hair against my face.
I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to steady the wild rhythm there. It didn't help. The ache didn't fade. It only grew stronger, a craving that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with the way he looked at me.
I hated how much I wanted him, even in my anger. Even when I swore I wouldn't.
"Isabella."
His voice.
I turned and there he was, exactly as my mind had conjured him. Standing in the doorway, rain misting the air between us, his expression unreadable. His shirt was open at the collar, the edges damp from the storm.
For one dizzy second, I couldn't breathe.
He took a step forward. Then another. "You'll get sick," he said softly, the rain catching on his lashes.
I tried to speak, but the words stuck in my throat.
He was close enough now that the air shifted, rain and warmth, thunder and heartbeat. His hand rose, hesitated, then brushed a wet strand of hair from my face. The touch was gentle, almost reverent.
For a moment, I thought he might kiss me, the kind of kiss that would undo every lie between us. But then his hand fell away, and he took a step back.
"Get dry," he murmured. "Before the storm gets worse."
And then he was gone.
The rain kept falling, but the ache he left behind was louder than the thunder.
The rain had eased to a drizzle by the time I changed into dry clothes, but the storm inside me hadn't passed. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him, the rain in his hair, the way his voice softened when he said my name.
He was impossible.
And yet, somehow, I couldn't stop reaching for the pieces of him he never meant for me to find.
I sat in front of the window, watching the last drops trace down the glass, trying to breathe evenly. The villa was too quiet, that kind of heavy silence that hums with secrets. Even the staff moved differently these days, slower, careful not to meet my eyes.
It wasn't just Dante who was hiding something.
It was this place.
I left my room before I could talk myself out of it.
The hallway smelled faintly of cedar and expensive whiskey, the same scent that always lingered on Dante's skin. I followed it down the staircase, past the dining room where half-finished glasses of wine from last night still gleamed like forgotten confessions.
At the end of the hall, a door stood slightly ajar. His study.
I hesitated, pulse quickening. I'd promised myself I wouldn't push again, but promises never seemed to survive in Dante's world.
The door creaked softly as I slipped inside.
His desk was immaculate, of course it was but not untouched. Papers, ledgers, and files lay stacked in perfect order. On the corner sat a single photograph in a black frame: a much younger Dante, standing beside a man I didn't recognize. They both looked dangerous and beautiful, the kind of power that didn't need to announce itself.
I traced a finger over the glass, following the curve of Dante's smile. It wasn't like the ones he gave now. This one was real.
Something tugged at the edge of the desk, a drawer slightly misaligned. I pulled it open.p
Inside was a leather-bound ledger, its edges worn, faintly smelling of smoke and salt. The handwriting inside was neat, methodical… and coded. Dates, numbers, symbols I didn't understand. But one name caught my eye, scrawled in darker ink.
The man from the gala. The one Dante had threatened.
My chest tightened. Why was his name here?
I turned another page and froze. A photograph was tucked inside.
It was Dante and him. shaking hands in front of the same chandeliered room where last night's event had taken place.
My breath caught. It didn't make sense. After what happened, after his fury, why would he?
A sound behind me.
Footsteps.
I snapped the ledger shut, shoving it back into the drawer just as the door opened.
"Looking for something?"
Luca's voice was calm, but it held an edge sharp enough to cut.
He leaned against the doorway, sleeves rolled up, eyes unreadable.
My pulse jumped. "I...I was just looking for Dante."
His gaze flicked to the half-open drawer. "In his private files?"
"I heard something," I lied quickly. "A noise. I thought someone was in here."
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he sighed, shutting the door behind him. "You shouldn't be in this room, signora."
"I'm not a prisoner," I said, the tremor in my voice betraying me.
"No," he replied quietly. "But you're something worse."
I frowned. "And what's that supposed to mean?"
He looked at me then, really looked, as though weighing whether to tell me the truth. "Someone he can't afford to lose."
My stomach dropped. "Then why..."
"Because that's exactly why you need to stop asking questions," he interrupted, voice low but urgent. "Whatever you think you'll find in here… trust me, you don't want to."
I stared at him, unable to tell if it was a threat or a warning. Maybe both.
"Luca," I whispered, "what is he hiding?"
He shook his head. "You think Dante's the one hiding something? He's the storm. The rest of us are just trying not to drown."
Before I could respond, he opened the door, glancing down the hall. "He'll be back soon. If he finds you here, I won't be able to protect you."
The word protect stuck in my chest.
I slipped past him, my heart still racing, every step echoing against the marble floor.
By the time I reached the stairs, I realized my hands were shaking.
Not just from fear. From knowing, deep down, that whatever truth Dante was keeping…
it was already starting to pull me under.