Blood & Velvet

Chapter 1 The Gala was supposed to be the highlight of Serafina Marchetti's career. After years of clawing her way up through New York's cutthroat art world, she'd finally secured the Bernardino collection for her gallery. The champagne tasted like victory as she moved through the glittering crowd at the Meridian Hotel's penthouse ballroom. "You look radiant tonight, cara." The voice made her skin crawl. Lorenzo Castellano materialized beside her, his cologne aggressive and cloying. The real estate mogul had been pursuing her for months, unable to comprehend that money couldn't purchase her interest. "Lorenzo." She kept her tone neutral, professional. "Enjoying the exhibition?" "I'd enjoy a private viewing more." His hand found her elbow, fingers pressing too firmly. "Perhaps we could—" "The lady's not interested." The voice was dark velvet over broken glass. Serafina turned to find a man she'd never seen before standing close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. Tall and broad-shouldered, he wore his charcoal suit like armor. But it was his face that stole her breath—harsh angles and brutal beauty, with eyes the color of smoke before a storm. Lorenzo's grip tightened. "This is a private conversation, friend." "No." The stranger's lips curved in what couldn't quite be called a smile. "It's not." Something dangerous flickered in those grey eyes, and Lorenzo's hand fell away from her arm. He muttered something in Italian—a curse, from the tone—and melted back into the crowd. Serafina should have been grateful. Instead, she was acutely aware that she'd simply traded one predator for another. This man radiated barely leashed violence beneath his civilized veneer. "Thank you," she managed, "but I had it handled." "Did you?" His gaze swept over her, assessing. "Lorenzo Castellano doesn't understand 'no.' Trust me on that." "And you're an expert on Lorenzo's comprehension skills?" This time his smile was genuine, transforming his face for just a moment. "Let's say we've had... business dealings." A waiter passed with champagne. The stranger snagged two flutes, offering her one. When their fingers brushed, electricity shot up her arm. "Dante Torrente," he said. The name hit her like ice water. Dante "The Ghost" Torrente. The Calvino family's most feared enforcer. The man who made problems disappear. She was standing here making small talk with a killer. "I should go." But her feet didn't move. "Because of my reputation?" His voice held dark amusement. "Don't worry, dottoressa. I don't hunt in art galleries." The way he said her title—the Italian flowing like aged wine—made her stomach flutter. "You know who I am." "Serafina Marchetti. Twenty-eight. Doctorate in Italian Renaissance art from Columbia. Youngest senior curator in the Whitmore Gallery's history." He sipped his champagne, watching her over the rim. "You specialize in authenticating pieces from the Medici collection." A chill ran down her spine. "Why would someone like you know that?" "Someone like me?" The dangerous edge was back. "You mean because I'm not one of these trust fund dilettantes playing at culture?" "Because you're a—" She caught herself. "Killer?" He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. "Careful, beautiful. Words have power." She should run. Every instinct screamed danger. Instead, she found herself asking, "What does a man in your... profession want with Renaissance art?" "Maybe I appreciate beautiful things." His gaze held hers, intense and unwavering. "Especially beautiful things that aren't afraid to bite back." Heat bloomed low in her belly. This was insane. She was flirting with one of the most dangerous men in New York. "Mr. Torrente—" "Dante." "I should really—" Gunshots shattered the night. Screams erupted as the ballroom's floor-to-ceiling windows exploded in a shower of glass. Dante moved with inhuman speed, tackling her to the ground and covering her body with his. More shots. Someone was screaming—no, many someones. "Stay down," he commanded, his body a warm, solid shield above her. Through the chaos, Serafina saw Lorenzo Castellano stagger past, his white shirt blooming crimson. Their eyes met for one horrifying moment before he crumpled, reaching out to her with bloody fingers. "Don't look." Dante's hand cupped her face, turning her head away. "Close your eyes, Sera." But it was too late. She'd seen the light leave Lorenzo's eyes. Seen who pulled the trigger. Marco Castellano. Lorenzo's own brother. Sirens wailed in the distance. Dante hauled her to her feet, his grip firm but not painful. "We need to go. Now." "But the police—" "Can't protect you from what's coming." His face was granite. "You just became a witness to a Castellano family execution. That means you're dead unless you come with me." "I don't even know you!" "You know I'm the only thing standing between you and a bullet right now." As if to emphasize his point, someone shouted in Italian from across the room. Dante's entire body tensed. "Choose fast, dottoressa. Live with the devil you know, or die with the angels you don't." Another gunshot, closer this time. Serafina made her choice. Chapter 2 Dante's penthouse was a fortress in the sky, all dark marble and bulletproof glass. Serafina stood at the wall of windows overlooking Central Park, her cocktail dress still dusted with glass fragments, trying to process how her life had imploded in the span of an hour. "You're in shock." Dante appeared beside her with a crystal tumbler of amber liquid. "Drink this." "I don't want—" "It's not a request." The whiskey burned, but it chased away the numb cold that had settled in her bones. She studied him in the reflection of the window—he'd shed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, revealing corded forearms marked with intricate tattoos. "How long do I have to stay here?" "Until I eliminate the threat." "You mean until you kill Marco Castellano." He didn't deny it. "Among others. Marco's power grab affects more than just his family. There are alliances to consider, retributions to calculate." "And I'm what—leverage?" "You're under my protection." The words held weight, finality. "In my world, that means something." "Your world." She turned to face him fully. "I didn't ask to be part of your world." "No, you were just content to take Lorenzo's money for your gallery while pretending his hands were clean." His eyes flashed. "Don't play innocent with me, Sera. You knew exactly what kind of man was courting you." Anger flared hot and bright. "Knowing and witnessing murder are very different things." "Are they?" He moved closer, crowding her against the glass. "Tell me you didn't feel it tonight. The danger. The thrill." His hand came up to cup her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek. "Tell me your pulse didn't race when I touched you." She should slap him. Should rage at his presumption. Instead, she heard herself whisper, "That doesn't mean I want this." "Doesn't it?" His thumb traced her lower lip. "Your body tells a different story." Heat pooled between her thighs, and she hated herself for it. "You're holding me prisoner." "I'm keeping you alive." His grip gentled. "But make no mistake, dolcezza. While you're here, you're mine to protect. That means you follow my rules." "Which are?" "Simple. You don't leave the penthouse. You don't contact anyone from your old life. You don't question my methods." His gaze dropped to her mouth. "And you don't look at me like that unless you're prepared for the consequences." "Like what?" "Like you want me to bend you over that window and fuck you until you forget everything but my name." The crude words should have appalled her. Instead, they sent liquid fire through her veins. "You're awfully sure of yourself." "I'm sure of what I see." He released her, stepping back. "Your bedroom is upstairs, second door on the right. You'll find clothes and everything you need." "How long have you been planning this?" Something flickered across his face. "Get some rest, Sera. Tomorrow will be... challenging." Chapter 3 Sleep was impossible. Serafina lay in the king-sized bed, staring at the ceiling and replaying the night's events. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Lorenzo's blood. Saw Marco's cold satisfaction as he pulled the trigger. A sound from downstairs made her freeze. Footsteps. Multiple sets. She crept to the door, pressing her ear against it. Voices carried up the stairs—Dante's low rumble and others she didn't recognize. The conversation was in Italian, too muffled to make out clearly, but she caught one word that made her blood run cold: Marchetti. Her name. Heart pounding, she eased the door open and slipped into the hallway. The voices grew clearer as she descended the stairs, keeping to the shadows. "—not just a witness," someone was saying. "She's leverage against her father." "Enzo Marchetti has been retired for fifteen years," Dante replied. "Retired from the Torrino family, maybe. But old loyalties die hard. If he thinks his daughter's in danger..." Serafina's knees nearly buckled. Her father. Her art professor father who'd raised her alone after her mother's death. Who'd encouraged her love of Renaissance paintings and sculpture. Who'd apparently been connected to one of New York's five families. "Sera." She jerked at Dante's voice. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, his expression unreadable. "I... I heard voices." "And decided to investigate?" He mounted the steps slowly, purposefully, backing her up until they were in the hallway again. "What did I say about following rules?" "My father—" "Is not your concern right now." "You knew." Rage and betrayal warred in her chest. "You knew who I was all along. That's why you were at the gala." "Yes." The simple admission knocked the breath from her lungs. "Was any of it real? Or was I just bait?" Something dangerous flickered in his eyes. He crowded her against the wall, caging her with his arms. "You think I planned for you to witness a murder? Think I wanted you here, driving me to fucking distraction with every breath?" "I don't know what to think!" "Then let me clarify." His mouth crashed down on hers. The kiss was punishment and possession, all teeth and tongue and barely leashed violence. She should have fought him, but instead she melted, her body betraying every rational thought. Her hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer as he devoured her mouth. He tasted like whiskey and danger and every bad decision she'd ever wanted to make. When he finally released her, they were both breathing hard. "Your father's past has nothing to do with how much I want to fuck you against this wall right now," he growled. "But it has everything to do with keeping you alive. Marco knows hurting you would bring Enzo out of retirement. He's counting on it." "So I'm still leverage." "You're still under my protection." His hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head back. "The difference is, I won't let anyone touch you. Not Marco. Not your father. No one but me." "I'm not yours to claim." "Aren't you?" His free hand skimmed down her throat, over the racing pulse at its base. "Your body says otherwise. I could take you right here, right now, and you'd beg for more." She wanted to deny it. Wanted to feel outrage instead of the molten heat pooling between her thighs. "You're an arrogant bastard." "Yes." He released her abruptly. "And you're a witness under protective custody. Remember that before you go sneaking around my home again." He left her there, trembling against the wall, caught between fury and a desire that threatened to consume her whole. Chapter 4 The next morning brought revelations with breakfast. Dante slid a tablet across the marble kitchen island, the screen displaying her father's face above a headline that made her stomach drop: "Former Torrino Enforcer's Daughter Key Witness in Castellano Murder." "They leaked it." She pushed the tablet away, unable to look at her father's younger face—sharp-featured and dangerous in a way she'd never associated with the gentle man who'd raised her. "Marco's opening move." Dante poured espresso into tiny cups, the domestic action at odds with the gun visible beneath his shoulder holster. "He wants to draw your father out." "Will it work?" "Enzo Marchetti didn't survive twenty years in this life by being predictable." He studied her over his cup. "But a threat to his only daughter... that changes the mathematics." "I need to call him. Warn him—" "Already done." At her sharp look, he added, "I had a conversation with your father at dawn. He's... unhappy with the situation." "Unhappy?" She laughed bitterly. "His daughter's been kidnapped by a rival family's enforcer. I imagine 'unhappy' is an understatement." "You haven't been kidnapped. You're under protection." "A distinction without a difference when I can't leave." Dante set down his cup with deliberate precision. "Would you prefer I release you? Let you walk out that door and see how long you last? Marco has men watching your apartment, your gallery, every place you might run." "So I'm trapped either way." "With me, you're trapped and alive." He circled the island, approaching her with predatory intent. "Or is it something else that bothers you? The way your body responds to mine, perhaps?" "Don't." "Don't what? Speak the truth?" He stopped just shy of touching her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. "You were wet for me last night. Are you wet now?" Heat flooded her cheeks. "You're crude." "I'm honest." His fingers ghosted over her wrist, barely a touch but enough to send electricity shooting up her arm. "Your pulse is racing. Your breathing's shallow. Your nipples are hard beneath that silk." She crossed her arms, hating that he was right. The thin silk pajamas he'd provided hid nothing. "Physical reaction doesn't equal consent." "No, it doesn't." He stepped back, giving her space. "Which is why I haven't touched you beyond that kiss. But don't lie to yourself, Sera. You want me as much as I want you." "What I want is my life back." Something softened in his expression. "I know. And I'll make that happen. But until then..." He gestured to the penthouse around them. "Make yourself comfortable. The gym and library are at your disposal. The pool too, if you swim." "A gilded cage is still a cage." "Better than a pine box." The softness vanished. "I have business to attend to. Luca will be stationed outside. Don't test him—he lacks my patience." "Where are you going?" "To remind certain people why crossing me is inadvisable." He checked his weapon with practiced efficiency. "I'll be back by evening. Try not to miss me too much." The arrogance should have infuriated her. Instead, she found herself fighting the urge to ask him to stay. Chapter 5 The pool was a miracle of engineering, cantilevered over the city with glass walls that made swimmers feel suspended in air. Serafina cut through the water, trying to exhaust the restless energy that had plagued her all day. Dante had been gone for hours. She told herself the knot in her stomach was just anxiety about her situation, not concern for the man holding her captive. The man whose kiss had rewired her nervous system. She pushed harder, swimming until her muscles burned and her lungs screamed. When she finally surfaced, gasping, he was there. Dante stood at the pool's edge, still in his suit but disheveled, his tie loose and shirt unbuttoned at the throat. There was blood on his collar. "You're hurt." She swam to the edge, concern overriding common sense. "Not mine." His eyes tracked over her, taking in the black bikini that had been among the clothes provided. "Enjoying the amenities?" "Did you kill someone?" "Several someones." He crouched down, bringing them to eye level. "Does that bother you?" It should have. She should have been horrified, repulsed. Instead, she found herself reaching up to touch the blood on his collar. "Did they deserve it?" "They threatened what's mine." The possessive note in his voice made her shiver despite the heated pool. "I'm not yours." "No?" His hand cupped her wet cheek. "Then why are you looking at me like you want to devour me whole?" "Maybe I do." The admission escaped before she could stop it. His eyes darkened. "Careful, dolcezza. I'm not feeling particularly civilized right now." "When are you ever?" Instead of answering, he stood and began stripping. Jacket, tie, shirt—each piece of clothing revealed more of the lethal machine beneath. His chest was a work of art, all hard planes and intricate tattoos that told stories in ink and scars. "What are you doing?" "Swimming." He kicked off his shoes, hands going to his belt. "Unless you object to sharing?" She should object. Should flee. Instead, she watched, mesmerized, as he stripped down to black boxer briefs that left little to imagination. The man was built like a Roman god, all powerful lines and barely leashed strength. He dove in, surfacing near her with droplets clinging to his dark lashes. "Better," he said. "Blood and chlorine—the perfect end to a perfect day." "You're insane." "Probably." He moved closer, backing her against the pool wall. "But you like it." "Arrogant." "Accurate." His hands found her waist beneath the water. "Tell me to stop." "No." "No, you won't tell me to stop? Or no, don't stop?" "Dante..." His name came out as a plea. "I've wanted to taste you since the moment you tried to handle Castellano yourself," he murmured, lips brushing her ear. "Wanted to bend you over and show you what real danger feels like." "Then why haven't you?" "Because when I take you—and I will take you, Sera—it won't be because you're scared or grateful or bored." His mouth traced the column of her throat. "It'll be because you're desperate for it. Begging for it." "I don't beg." "You will." He nipped at her pulse point, making her gasp. "You'll beg so prettily for me." His hands skimmed up her ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts through the bikini top. She arched into him, shame and desire warring in her chest. "But not tonight," he said, releasing her abruptly. "What?" She blinked up at him, dazed. "Tonight, you're still processing. Still thinking too much." He swam backward, putting distance between them. "When I fuck you, I want your complete surrender. Nothing held back." "You're so sure it'll happen." "I'm sure of what I see in your eyes." He reached the opposite edge, hauling himself out in one fluid motion. "What I feel when I touch you. What I scent in the air between us." She watched him towel off, frustrated beyond measure. "You can't just—" "I can do whatever I want," he interrupted. "I'm the one keeping you alive, remember? But I'd rather do what you want. What you need. When you're ready to admit what that is." He walked away, leaving her aching and empty in the cooling water. Chapter 6 That night, Serafina couldn't find rest. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt Dante's hands on her skin, his mouth at her throat. Her body burned with frustrated desire, made worse by the knowledge that he was just down the hall. A soft knock interrupted her torment. "Come in," she called, expecting maybe the housekeeper. It was Dante, wearing low-slung pajama pants and nothing else. The moonlight through the windows turned his skin to marble, highlighting every ridge and valley of muscle. "Can't sleep either?" He lounged against the doorframe like a great cat, all lazy power and barely concealed danger. "Hard to sleep when you're being held prisoner by a madman." "Mad?" He entered the room, movements fluid. "Perhaps. But not about this." He sat on the edge of her bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. "I've been thinking about your father." The change of subject threw her. "What about him?" "He'll surface soon. Enzo was never one to let others fight his battles." Dante's hand found hers atop the covers. "When he does, things will escalate quickly." "Meaning?" "Meaning the war between the families will turn bloody. More bloody," he amended. "Your father has old allies, old debts he can call in. Marco knows this." "So why provoke him?" "Because Marco's young and stupid and thinks fear equals respect." His thumb traced circles on her palm. "He doesn't understand that men like your father—men like me—we don't respond to fear. We respond to challenges." "Is that what I am? A challenge?" His eyes glinted in the darkness. "You're a complication I didn't anticipate." "But you knew who I was. You said—" "I knew Enzo Marchetti had a daughter in the art world. I didn't know she'd be..." He paused, seeming to search for words. "You." "What's that supposed to mean?" Instead of answering, he lifted her hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to her palm. "It means I have a problem." "Which is?" "I want you." Another kiss, this time to her wrist. "But wanting you makes me vulnerable. Distracts me when I need to be focused." Her breath caught. "Then stay away." "Can't." He moved up the bed, caging her with his body without quite touching. "Tried all evening. Kept thinking about you in that pool. In that bikini. Wet and wanting." "Dante—" "Tell me you didn't touch yourself after I left." His voice was rough velvet in the darkness. "Tell me you didn't slide your hand between your thighs and imagine it was mine." Heat flooded her face. She had, in fact, done exactly that. In the shower after her swim, with hot water sluicing over sensitized skin and his name on her lips. "Your silence is answer enough." He leaned down, breath feathering over her lips. "Did you come thinking of me?" "Yes." The word escaped as barely a whisper. "Good girl." He rewarded her honesty with a kiss, slow and deep and devastating. "But I bet it wasn't enough. Not nearly what you need." "Nothing happened in the pool." "Everything happened in the pool." His mouth traced her jaw. "You surrendered. Not your body—not yet. But your resistance? That wall you've been trying to maintain between us? It's gone." He was right. She knew it, hated it, craved it. "What do you want from me?" "Everything." He pulled back to look at her. "Your pleasure. Your trust. Your submission. Your defiance when I push too hard. Your nails in my back when I make you scream." "You're very sure of yourself." "I'm sure of this." He took her hand, pressing it to his chest where his heart thundered. "Feel that? You do that to me. Just by existing in my space. Just by breathing." The confession broke something in her. "I'm scared." "Of me?" "Of how much I want this. Want you. It doesn't make sense." "The best things rarely do." He stretched out beside her, gathering her against his chest. "Sleep, Sera. Tomorrow the real war begins." "Stay?" "Try to make me leave." She fell asleep like that, surrounded by his warmth and scent, feeling safer in the arms of a killer than she'd ever felt in her normal life. Chapter 7 Serafina woke to an empty bed and the sounds of violence. Gunshots. Breaking glass. Shouting in Italian. She rolled off the bed, heart hammering, just as her door burst open. But instead of Dante, a stranger stood there—young, wild-eyed, blood on his cheap suit. "The Marchetti bitch," he said in accented English. "Marco will pay well for—" His words cut off in a gurgle as a knife appeared in his throat. He toppled forward, revealing Dante behind him, death incarnate in black tactical gear. "Get dressed," he ordered, stepping over the body. "Now." She didn't argue, pulling on jeans and a sweater with shaking hands. "What's happening?" "Marco got impatient." He checked his weapons with mechanical efficiency. "Sent a team to retrieve you." "How many?" "Twelve." At her shocked look, he smiled darkly. "Were twelve. Now they're examples." More gunfire, closer now. "Luca's handling the stragglers," Dante continued, handing her a bulletproof vest. "Put this on." "Where are we going?" "Somewhere they can't follow." He helped her into the vest, fingers sure and quick. "Do exactly as I say, when I say it. Understand?" She nodded. "Good girl." He kissed her hard and fast. "Stay close." They moved through the penthouse like shadows, Dante leading with lethal grace. She saw bodies—so many bodies—but felt oddly detached. These men had come to take her, to use her, to kill her. Their deaths didn't trouble her conscience. When had she become this person? The private elevator was their escape route, descending into the building's bowels where a garage waited. Dante's car—a murdered-out Audi RS7—purred to life. "Buckle up," he advised, then proved why. He drove like he fought—controlled violence married to precise skill. They screamed through empty streets, taking corners at impossible angles while Serafina white-knuckled the door handle. "Where are we going?" "Safe house. Off the grid." He checked the mirrors, satisfied they weren't followed. "We'll regroup, plan our next move." "Our?" "You're in this now, whether you like it or not." His hand found her thigh, squeezing. "But don't worry. I protect what's mine." "Still with that?" "Especially with that." He downshifted around a turn. "Those men came into my home. Threatened you. That's a declaration of war." "I thought you were already at war." "That was business. This is personal." They drove for hours, leaving the city behind for wooded roads that twisted through darkness. Finally, he turned onto a hidden drive, arriving at a house that looked more fortress than home. "Welcome to my private retreat," he said, killing the engine. "No one knows about this place. Not even the family." Inside was surprisingly warm—all exposed beams and modern comfort. He led her to a bedroom, then surprised her by continuing past it to his own. "You're staying with me tonight," he said, brooking no argument. "After what happened, I need you where I can see you." "Dante—" "Please." The word seemed to cost him. "I know I'm asking a lot. Know you have every reason to hate me. But tonight, I need to know you're safe." She studied him in the lamplight, seeing past the armor to the man beneath. He'd killed for her tonight. Multiple times. The civilized part of her should be horrified. Instead, she felt... protected. Cherished, even. "Okay," she whispered. Relief flickered across his features. "Thank you." They prepared for bed in strange domesticity, taking turns in the bathroom, carefully not watching each other change. When they finally lay down, he pulled her back against his chest, surrounding her with warmth and strength. "What happens tomorrow?" "Tomorrow, we hunt." His arms tightened. "But tonight, just let me hold you." So she did, drifting to sleep feeling safer than she had any right to in the arms of New York's most dangerous enforcer. Chapter 8 Dawn brought clarity and coffee. Serafina found Dante on the deck, watching sunrise paint the forest gold. He looked softer in the morning light, almost human. "My father called," he said without turning. "He's surfacing tonight. Wants a meet." "With who?" "Me. Marco. The heads of the five families." He sipped his espresso. "And you." "Me?" "You're the prize everyone's fighting for. He wants to see for himself that you're unharmed." She joined him at the railing, accepting the cup he offered. "Am I unharmed?" "Physically? Yes." He glanced at her. "The rest is debatable." "I should hate you." "But you don't." "No." The admission came easier than expected. "I think that makes me as twisted as you." "Or maybe it makes you honest." He set down his cup, turning to face her fully. "This thing between us—it's not Stockholm syndrome or trauma bonding or whatever label makes you comfortable. It's real." "How do you know?" "Because I feel it too." He cupped her face with surprising gentleness. "I've wanted plenty of women, Sera. But I've never needed one. Never felt like I'd burn alive without her touch." "Dante—" "Let me finish." His thumbs stroked her cheekbones. "After tonight, things will change. The meet will end in blood—it always does. Your father will want you back in his world, under his protection. You'll have a choice to make." "What choice?" "Whether you stay with me or return to your old life." "Can I return? After everything?" "I'll make it possible. New identity if necessary. Clean break." His forehead touched hers. "But selfishly, I hope you choose differently." "Why?" "Because I'm falling for you." The words hung between them, raw and honest. "And I think—hope—you're falling for me too." She kissed him instead of answering, pouring everything she couldn't say into the contact. He responded immediately, deepening the kiss until her knees went weak. When they broke apart, both breathing hard, he pressed something into her hand. A key. "Safe deposit box in Geneva," he explained. "If something happens to me tonight, everything you need is there. New identity, money, contacts who'll help you disappear." "Nothing's going to happen to you." "Promise me you'll use it if necessary." "Dante—" "Promise me." She closed her fingers around the key. "I promise." "Good girl." He kissed her again, softer this time. "Now come inside. We have preparations to make." "For the meet?" "For after." His smile turned predatory. "Because once this is over, once you're truly free to choose, I intend to spend days showing you exactly why you should stay." Heat pooled in her belly. "Confident." "Motivated." He backed her against the railing. "Do you know what I thought about all night? Holding you, feeling you breathe, knowing you were finally in my bed?" "What?" "How you'd look spread out beneath me. How you'd sound when I made you come. How many times I could take you before you begged for mercy." "I told you, I don't beg." "We'll see." He nipped at her throat. "But first, we survive tonight." Chapter 9 The meet was set for neutral ground—an abandoned warehouse in Queens that had seen its share of blood over the decades. Dante dressed her carefully, hands steady as he secured a ceramic knife to her thigh. "Just in case," he murmured, smoothing her dress over the concealed weapon. "Though if you need to use it, things have gone very wrong." "Comforting." "I prefer honesty to comfort." He straightened his own tie, checking his weapons with practiced ease. "Stay close to me. Don't speak unless spoken to. And whatever happens, don't show fear." "I'm not afraid." "I know." Pride flickered in his eyes. "You're magnificent." The warehouse was already crowded when they arrived. Five families meant five small armies, all eyeing each other with barely concealed hostility. Serafina recognized some faces from newspaper photos—men who ran the city from shadows. And there, across the space, stood her father. Enzo Marchetti looked older than she remembered, but the steel in his spine remained. His eyes found hers, relief flickering before his expression hardened again. "Papa," she breathed. Dante's hand tightened on her waist. "Not yet. Let the formalities play out." Marco Castellano strutted forward, all young arrogance and designer suits. "So good of everyone to come. Shall we discuss terms?" "The only term is your death," Enzo said quietly. "You killed my friend. Threatened my daughter." "Your daughter involved herself by witnessing family business." "Your brother was begging for death," Dante interjected. "You simply obliged him." Marco's face twisted. "Watch your tongue, Ghost." "Or what?" Dante stepped forward, and suddenly the air crackled with violence. "You'll send another dozen men to die in my home?" "Enough." One of the family heads—Torrino, Serafina thought—raised a hand. "We're here to find resolution, not shed more blood." "Blood's already been shed," Enzo countered. "My daughter's safety was violated. Reparations are required." "Name them." "Marco Castellano's life. And my daughter returned to me, unharmed." Dante's grip tightened possessively. "The lady's safety is not in question. She remains under my protection." "Your protection?" Enzo's eyes narrowed. "You dare—" Whatever he might have said was lost as Marco pulled a gun. "I'm done with this shit. The bitch dies, then—" He never finished. Dante moved like lightning, his knife taking Marco in the throat before the gun could fire. Blood sprayed across marble as the young Castellano collapsed. Then hell broke loose. Gunfire erupted from all sides. Dante shoved Serafina behind a pillar, shielding her as bullets chewed the air where they'd stood. She saw her father dive for cover, his own weapon appearing. "The knife," Dante commanded, reloading. "Now might be good." She hiked up her dress, drawing the ceramic blade as two men rounded their pillar. The first went down to Dante's bullets. The second got close enough to grab for her. Training she didn't know she possessed took over. The knife found soft spots between ribs, twisted, withdrawn. The man looked surprised as he died. "Fuck, that's hot," Dante growled, then spun to engage new threats. The firefight felt eternal but probably lasted minutes. When the smoke cleared, bodies littered the floor. Marco's power grab had failed spectacularly, his supporters either dead or fled. "Sera!" Her father crossed the carnage, pulling her into his arms. He smelled like gunpowder and Old Spice, achingly familiar. "Papa." She clung to him, emotions overwhelming. "My brave girl." He pulled back to examine her. "Did he hurt you? Did any of them—" "No." She glanced at Dante, who watched with unreadable eyes. "He protected me." Enzo followed her gaze. "The Ghost. I should kill you for taking her." "You could try." "Stop." Serafina stepped between them. "Both of you. Enough blood for one night." "She's right." Torrino approached, stepping over bodies. "The Castellano threat is ended. We return to business as usual." "And my daughter?" "Goes where she chooses," Dante said firmly. "The lady's free to leave with you, Enzo. But only if that's what she wants." All eyes turned to her. The weight of decision pressed down—safety with her father, return to her old life, pretend none of this happened. Or... She looked at Dante. Blood on his shirt. Death in his hands. And in his eyes, a vulnerability he'd never show others. "I'm staying," she said quietly. "With Dante." "Sera—" "I love him, Papa." The words came out sure, certain. "I know it's insane. Know what he is, what this means. But I love him." Enzo studied her for a long moment. Then he turned to Dante. "You hurt her, and I'll make your death last weeks." "Understood." "Papa—" "You're your mother's daughter," Enzo said softly. "She chose this life too, against all reason. I can't fault you for the same courage." He kissed her forehead. "Be happy, cara. Be careful. But be happy." He left without looking back, taking his men with him. Soon only Dante and Serafina remained among the cooling bodies. "You chose me," Dante said, wonder in his voice. "Did you doubt?" "Every second." He pulled her against him, heedless of blood and gunpowder. "I love you too. Desperately. Violently. Completely." She kissed him among the dead, tasting truth and promise and a future written in blood and passion. Chapter 10 Back at the safe house, adrenaline transformed into something else entirely. They barely made it through the door before Dante pressed her against the wall, mouth hungry on hers. She responded with equal fervor, hands tearing at his bloodstained shirt. "Sera," he groaned against her lips. "If we do this—" "We're doing this." She bit his lower lip. "You promised to show me why I should stay. Show me." Control snapped. He lifted her easily, carrying her to his bedroom while she attacked his throat with lips and teeth. They fell onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and desperate need. "Clothes," she demanded. "Off. Now." "So demanding." But he complied, stripping efficiently while she did the same. "I like it." Then they were skin to skin, and thought fled. His hands were everywhere—cupping her breasts, teasing her nipples, skating down her ribs to grip her hips. She arched into him, beyond shame or hesitation. "So beautiful," he murmured, mouth following his hands. "So fucking perfect." When his lips closed around one nipple, she cried out, threading her fingers through his hair. He lavished attention on each breast until she was writhing, desperate for more. "Please," she gasped. "Please what?" He moved lower, tongue tracing her navel. "Use your words, dolcezza." "Touch me." "I am touching you." "Dante!" "Say it." He nipped at her hip bone. "Tell me what you want." Pride warred with need. Need won. "I want your mouth on me." "Where?" His breath feathered over sensitized skin. "Here?" A kiss to her inner thigh. "Or..." His tongue found her center. "Here?" She screamed, hips bucking as he settled between her thighs with obvious intent. His mouth was sin and salvation, tongue and lips and teeth working in concert to drive her higher. "That's it," he encouraged between strokes. "Let go for me." She shattered, his name a prayer on her lips as waves of pleasure crashed over her. He worked her through it, gentling but not stopping until she pushed at his shoulders. "Too much," she panted. "Never enough." But he relented, moving up her body with predatory grace. "You taste like heaven." She could taste herself on his lips when he kissed her. It should have embarrassed her. Instead, it made her burn hotter. "My turn," she said, pushing at his chest. He let her reverse their positions, eyes dark as she explored his body with hands and mouth. Every scar had a story, every tattoo a meaning. She traced them all, learning the map of him. When she took him in her mouth, his control fractured. Hands fisted in her hair, not forcing but guiding as she found a rhythm that made him groan. "Sera... fuck... if you don't stop..." She didn't stop. Didn't slow. Not until he dragged her up, flipping her onto her back with casual strength. "Witch," he accused, settling between her thighs. "Beautiful, perfect witch." "Yours," she countered, wrapping her legs around his waist. "Mine." He entered her in one smooth thrust. They both froze, overwhelmed by the connection. Then he started to move, and coherent thought became impossible. It was everything—tender and violent, sacred and profane. He took her apart with systematic precision, finding angles that made her see stars. She gave as good as she got, nails raking his back, meeting him thrust for thrust. "Look at me," he commanded when her eyes fluttered closed. "Want to see you when you come." She locked gazes with him, drowning in grey fire. "Together." "Together," he agreed, hand sliding between them to find where they joined. It took three strokes. She flew apart, his name a scream as pleasure detonated through every nerve. He followed instantly, her name a growl as he buried himself deep. They collapsed together, sweat-slicked and breathless. He gathered her close, pressing kisses to her temple. "Stay," he murmured. "Not just tonight. Always." "Always," she agreed, meaning it with every fiber. In this blood-soaked world, they'd found something pure. Something worth fighting for. Something worth killing for. Epilogue - Six Months Later "Mrs. Torrente, the Medici authentication came back positive." Serafina looked up from her desk at the Whitmore Gallery, smiling at her assistant. It still thrilled her to hear her married name, even after three months. "Excellent. Have them prepare it for transport to the private collection." The private collection being Dante's ever-growing archive of Renaissance art. Her husband had developed quite the appetite for beautiful things—beyond her, of course. "Will you be leaving early today?" her assistant asked. "For the anniversary?" "Soon." Six months since that bloody night in Queens. Six months since she'd chosen this life, this man, this beautiful violence. Her phone buzzed. A text from Dante: Car's outside. Wear the red dress. Demanding as ever. She loved it. The ride home—to their new penthouse, since the old one held too many memories of invasion—passed quickly. She found Dante on the terrace, champagne waiting. "Happy anniversary, dolcezza." He pulled her close, kissing her deeply. "You remembered." "I remember everything about you." His hands skimmed her sides possessively. "The dress is perfect." "You always liked me in red." "I like you in nothing better." He nipped at her throat. "But red suits you. Beautiful and dangerous." "Like you." "Like us," he corrected. They'd found their balance these past months. She kept her gallery work, her passion for art. He kept his position in the family, though their world had stayed remarkably quiet since Marco's death. "I have news," she said, pulling back to look at him. "Oh?" "Papa's coming for dinner Sunday. Bringing someone he wants us to meet." Dante groaned. "Please tell me your father hasn't started dating." "Would that be so bad?" "Your father dating means eventually explaining to some poor woman that her boyfriend used to dissolve bodies in acid. It's awkward." She laughed, loving how he could make even that sound normal. "Our lives are complicated." "Our lives are perfect." He spun her, the city lights blurring. "We have each other. Everything else is details." "I love you," she said, meaning it more with each passing day. "I love you too." He set her down, eyes serious. "Enough to burn the world if it meant keeping you safe." "I know." She'd seen him come close, those first weeks when threats still lingered. "But the world's intact, we're together, and all is well." "All is very well." He backed her against the railing. "Now, about that red dress..." "What about it?" "It needs to go." His hands found her zipper. "Immediately." She let him strip her there on the terrace, high above the city that had brought them together. Let him worship her body as the sun set, painting them both in shades of gold and crimson. Later, wrapped in silk sheets and each other, she traced the tattoo over his heart—new ink that spelled her name in delicate script. "No regrets?" he asked softly. "Never." She kissed the mark. "You?" "Only that I didn't find you sooner." "You found me exactly when you were supposed to." She settled against his chest. "When I was ready for you. For this." "My wise wife." He pulled her closer. "My beautiful, deadly wife." "Your wife who has another surprise." "Oh?" He tensed slightly. "Good or bad?" "Depends." She took his hand, placing it low on her belly. "How do you feel about expanding our family?" He went absolutely still. "Sera... are you...?" "Eight weeks. I found out this morning." "Fuck." He rolled her beneath him, hands framing her face. "Really?" "Really." The kiss he gave her was different from all the others—tender and reverent and full of wonder. "A baby," he breathed against her lips. "Our baby." "Our baby," she confirmed. "Though I should warn you—Papa's already threatened to spoil it rotten." "Of course he has." Dante laughed, the sound pure joy. "A little prince or princess for the empire." "Let's maybe not call it an empire around the child." "What should we call it?" She considered. "A family business. With very specific HR policies." "I love you," he said, kissing her again. "Both of you." "We love you too." They made love slowly, carefully, Dante treating her like spun glass despite her protests that she wouldn't break. Afterward, he kept his hand possessively over her still-flat stomach, already protecting what was his. "Boy or girl?" he asked. "Don't care. Long as they have your eyes." "And your courage." She smiled against his chest. "They'll be terrifying." "They'll be perfect." And they would be, she knew. A child born of blood and beauty, danger and devotion. A perfect heir to their imperfect world. But that was the future. Tonight was for them—killer and curator, predator and prey turned partners. Tonight was for love among the ashes. Tonight was theirs. THE END