By the time the black car arrived at her curb, Elena was ready.
She had spent hours calculating every detail.
Her dress was elegant but understated — black silk that skimmed her frame, high-necked, sleeveless, cut clean along her back. Alluring but not ostentatious. A dress that whispered I belong here, even if she didn't.
Her makeup was minimal, lips painted a muted plum, eyes darkened just enough to be arresting in dim light.
Underneath the silk, however, was another story.
The slim blade strapped to her inner thigh.
The micro listening device tucked into the delicate stud earring on her left ear.
The fine-gauge garrote wire threaded through the stitching of her clutch.
Elegance over a battlefield.
The car was a sleek matte black, windows tinted darker than regulations allowed. The driver — broad-shouldered, silent, and suited in charcoal — offered no greeting. Simply opened the door and waited.
She slid in without hesitation, smoothing her skirt as the door shut behind her.
The city blurred past as they drove north, away from the crowded, neon streets and into a part of town few dared wander after dark. The buildings grew taller. Sleeker. The lights colder.
When the car finally slowed, it was before a wrought-iron gate embedded in high stone walls. Beyond, she glimpsed a sprawling estate — all glass and steel, rising against the night sky.
Not a penthouse, not a mansion — something in between. A fortress dressed in luxury.
The gates creaked open soundlessly, and the car swept up the winding drive.
Her pulse stayed steady. Her breathing even.
Outwardly flawless.
Inwardly alert.
When the driver finally opened her door again, she stepped out smoothly. He gestured her forward — toward the entrance where tall double doors loomed, black with silver handles.
Before she could lift her hand to knock, the doors opened.
And there he stood.
Dante Salvatore.
Tonight, the mafia king wore black — as always — but tailored softer. His shirt open at the collar, sleeves cuffed to reveal forearms corded with lean muscle and the faintest hint of ink.
His hair swept back, deliberate but slightly disheveled. As though even perfection annoyed him.
And those eyes — silver steel, locked on her. Unreadable and endless.
"Eva," he greeted her smoothly, voice low and velvet-dark. "You came."
"I was invited," she answered, her smile cool, controlled. "It would have been rude to refuse."
A flicker of something passed through his gaze — amusement or approval, she couldn't tell.
"Come inside."
He stepped aside, letting her glide past him. The space beyond was cavernous — high ceilings, dark polished floors, glass walls that overlooked the city's glittering skyline.
It was silent, save for the low hum of music somewhere distant. Sparse furniture in dark leather and brushed steel. Clean lines. No warmth. No family photos. Nothing personal.
A home built by a man who trusted no one.
Dante motioned toward a long dining table near the far window. Black marble, set for two.
Candles flickered low, and a single bottle of wine breathed beside two crystal glasses.
"Wine?" he asked, moving fluidly toward the table.
"Please."
He poured with precision, and when he handed her the glass, their fingers brushed — just briefly. A spark. Intentional. She met his gaze without flinching.
They sat.
A silent server emerged from a hidden door and placed dishes before them — seared lamb, figs, charred greens. The food was immaculate, but it might as well have been ash on her plate. She had no intention of lowering her guard enough to truly eat.
Dante's eyes never left her. Even when he cut his food, even when he sipped his wine, he studied her as if memorizing the way she breathed.
"You intrigue me, Eva," he said at last, voice smooth as silk but sharp as glass. "I make it a point to know everything that happens under my roof. Every deal. Every face. Every secret."
She tilted her head slightly, lips curving faintly. "I'm just a bartender, Mr. Salvatore."
"Are you?" His smile didn't reach his eyes. "You stand too still for a bartender. You watch the room like a tactician. And your hands—" He set his knife and fork down deliberately. "Calloused in the wrong places. Not from mixing drinks. From training. Weapons, maybe. Combat."
Her heart thudded once, heavy. But outwardly, she only arched a brow. "Quite the imagination."
"I don't imagine things," he murmured, leaning forward slightly. His voice dropped an octave. "I uncover them."
Silence stretched long between them, taut and humming.
Outside the glass walls, the city twinkled far below. A different world. A safer one.
Finally, Dante sat back, gaze narrowing slightly.
"You don't belong in that bar, Eva. You don't belong pouring drinks for men who don't deserve your mind or your body." His voice softened — dangerously. "You belong somewhere more powerful."
Her breath caught, but her expression didn't change.
"What makes you think I'm only working for you?"
For the first time, Dante stilled — completely. His thumb grazed her wrist slowly once, then retreated.
He sat back, smile returning. But now it was razor-edged.
"I'm giving you a choice," he said quietly.
"Work for me. Or be my guest until I decide whether you're a threat."
Her pulse kicked. So there it was — the trap snapped shut. He didn't have proof. Not yet. But he wouldn't let her out of his sight now.
She let her lips curl, cool and confident.
"And what if I'm already involved with something more dangerous than you?"
Dante's smile didn't fade, but the moment stretched longer, almost uncomfortable. His eyes hardened slightly, intrigued, but calculating. He wasn't sure if she was bluffing. He wasn't sure if she even knew what game she was playing.
"Well then," he said, voice low, "we'll see just how dangerous you can be."
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