The car ride back to the city was suffocating, though not a word was spoken. Elena sat rigid in the leather seat, her fingers twitching against the hem of her coat as her mind spun. She wasn't playing his game anymore — at least, that's what she kept telling herself.
But Dante had left a mark she couldn't scrub clean. His presence clung to her like cigarette smoke — subtle, suffocating, and inescapable. She hated how he lingered in her thoughts long after he'd left the room.
Outside the tinted windows, the city blurred past in streaks of gold and steel blue. Neon signs flashed ghostlike in the distance. The driver remained stoic, eyes on the road, as though the tension saturating the backseat didn't touch him.
Dante hadn't said much since they left his mansion. Just a single command wrapped in silk and steel:
"Tomorrow. 9 a.m. My office. Don't be late."
He hadn't needed to say more. The message was clear. You're in my sights now.
As the car pulled to the curb outside her apartment, a knot twisted tighter in Elena's chest. She knew what had to happen next — compartmentalize. Push the pull of Dante's world aside and focus on survival. Stay small. Stay invisible. Be the bartender and nothing else.
Before the driver could move, she opened the door herself.
"I'll walk," she muttered flatly and stepped into the chill night air.
She didn't care if the driver's gaze followed her retreat. Let him report back whatever he wanted. Her priorities were clear.
The quiet creak of her apartment door closing behind her felt like an exhale after holding her breath for hours. The familiar clutter of her modest space wrapped around her like armor. Exposed brick walls, weathered wooden floors, the faint scent of old coffee and vanilla. Her safe haven.
She peeled off her coat and began pacing, boots echoing softly. The clock ticked loud in the hush. Her mind replayed every glance, every word from Dante. Why me? What had he seen that made him focus on her?
Her phone buzzed sharply against the counter, cutting through her thoughts like a blade. She lunged for it.
One message.
Dante Salvatore:
I trust you found your way back.
Tomorrow at 9 a.m. My office. Don't be late.
Her thumb hovered over the screen, debating a response. No. Better to leave it untouched. Too eager, and she looked desperate. Too cold, and she looked defiant. Silence was safest.
She set the phone down and exhaled.
Tomorrow.
The next morning arrived faster than she liked. Steel skies loomed over the city as Elena approached Dante's building — a towering monolith of glass and iron. Sleek, sharp-edged, modern. A fortress in plain sight.
Every step inside made her pulse thrum harder. The lobby gleamed coldly, hushed voices echoing in marbled corners. People in tailored suits moved like whispers, never standing still long enough to catch.
The receptionist didn't spare her more than a fleeting glance. No questions. No pleasantries. Just a silent acknowledgement that Elena was expected. That she belonged — or at least, someone powerful had claimed her presence here.
A tall, broad-shouldered man — clean-cut, expression carved from stone — approached and gestured silently toward the elevators. His crisp suit barely shifted as he moved. He didn't speak as she stepped inside.
When the doors slid open on the top floor, Elena found herself staring at a pair of black double doors, polished so smooth they reflected her faint silhouette.
Another guard stood at attention. His sharp gaze assessed her, and without a word, he pushed the doors open.
She stepped through.
Dante stood with his back to her, silhouetted against a floor-to-ceiling window that framed the entire city like a painted backdrop. His dark suit contrasted against the pale morning light, his posture relaxed but commanding. A king surveying his kingdom.
"You're on time," he said, voice rich and smooth without turning.
"I don't make a habit of being late," Elena answered coolly.
At that, he turned — slowly, deliberately. His dark gaze swept over her, sharp as glass but unreadable. His lips tugged faintly at the corners, as if her answer mildly amused him. With a flick of his hand, he gestured to the chair opposite his desk.
She sat, back straight, hands clasped in her lap, projecting calm she didn't entirely feel.
"I trust your evening was uneventful," he remarked, a soft lilt of mockery under his words.
"Surprisingly so," she replied dryly, lifting an eyebrow. "But let's not waste time. Why am I here?"
The amusement in his eyes deepened, but there was steel behind it. "You know what I do, Elena. You've seen the edges of it, even if you pretend not to. Loyalty is currency in my world. And you…" His gaze narrowed slightly. "…are a wildcard."
"I pour drinks and mind my business. That doesn't sound too unpredictable."
He circled the desk slowly, measured steps echoing against the polished concrete floors. When he stopped in front of her, he dropped his hands to the edge of her chair, leaning down slightly. His face was inches from hers, and the weight of his presence pressed heavily against her skin.
"You're not just a bartender." His voice dropped low, threading between her ribs. "I don't believe in coincidences. And I don't believe someone with your instincts stumbles into my bar without a reason."
Her breath caught, but she didn't flinch. "I don't play both sides, Dante."
He smiled faintly, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I'll decide that." He straightened slowly, sliding a small black card across the desk to her. Embossed lettering glinted faintly.
"Tomorrow night. Private party. You'll be working it."
"And if I say no?" Her voice remained steady, but her heart hammered.
"You won't," he said simply. "Because you're smarter than that." His gaze darkened. "And because outside these walls… you don't have anyone watching your back."
The unspoken warning settled heavily between them. Stay close, or drown.
After a long pause, Elena slid the card into her pocket and rose to her feet, mirroring his composure.
"I'll see you tomorrow then."
Dante's lips twitched into a shadow of a smile. His gaze pinned her where she stood.
"I'll be watching."
And as she turned to leave, the sinking realization weighed in her gut — there was no walking away clean from a man like Dante Salvatore.
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