The tension in the Alpine villa had reached a boiling point where the line between hatred and desire was no longer just blurred it was gone. The photo of Sienna wearing the Moretti ring had done exactly what Dante intended: it had turned Lorenzo Cavallo into a rabid dog.
Dante sat at the head of the long oak dining table, the flickering candlelight casting sharp shadows across his face. Sienna sat opposite him, picking at a plate of *osso buco* she barely tasted. The silence was heavy, punctuated only by the occasional crackle of the fireplace.
"He replied," Dante said, his voice cutting through the quiet like a blade.
Sienna dropped her fork. "What did he say?"
"He didn't send words. He sent a video of one of my couriers being executed in a warehouse in Naples." Dante took a long drag of his cigar, the blue smoke swirling around his head. "He's trying to show me he can still reach my people. But he's sloppy. He's reacting with his heart, not his head. You're making him weak, Sienna."
"I'm not making him anything," she snapped, her eyes flashing. "He doesn't have a heart. He's just protecting his brand. To him, I'm an asset. A very expensive asset that you've vandalized with that ring."
Dante stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. He walked slowly toward her, his presence filling the room. "Is that all you are? An asset?"
He stopped behind her, leaning down so his lips were inches from her ear. "Because the way you were screaming my name an hour ago didn't feel like business. It felt like you were finally admitting that you've been waiting for a man like me to tear you out of that gilded cage."
Sienna's breath hitched. "You're a narcissist. You think because I've succumbed to... this... that I've forgotten who you are? You're a murderer, Dante. You're the man who attacked my car and killed my drivers."
"And your father is the man who killed my brother," Dante growled, his hands sliding onto her shoulders, his thumbs massaging the base of her neck. "We're both covered in blood, *piccola*. Don't try to play the saint now. It doesn't suit the dress."
He turned her chair around so she was forced to face him. He knelt between her legs, his hands resting on her thighs. The possessiveness in his gaze was suffocating.
"Tell me the truth," Dante demanded. "If the door was unlocked right now, and there was a car waiting to take you back to your father, would you get in it?"
Sienna looked down at him, her heart hammering against her ribs. She wanted to say yes. She wanted to say she hated him and everything he stood for. But then she looked at the ring on her finger, and she remembered the cold, clinical way her father had looked at her every day of her life.
"He would marry me off to the highest bidder by next month," she whispered. "Probably some sixty-year-old underboss in Sicily just to secure a shipping route."
"And here?" Dante asked, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "What do you have here?"
"I have a madman who treats me like a prize he stole," she said, her voice trembling. "I have a man who looks at me like he wants to set me on fire and watch me burn."
"I don't want to watch you burn, Sienna," Dante muttered, his hand sliding up her thigh, bunching the silk of her emerald dress. "I want to be the fire."
He stood up, pulling her with him. He backed her against the heavy oak table, his body pinning hers.
"Say it," he hissed. "Say you don't want to go back."
"I don't want to go back," she breathed, the words feeling like a betrayal and a release all at once.
"Fucking finally," Dante cursed.
He kissed her then not with the cold calculated intent of a kidnapper, but with the raw, desperate hunger of a man who was losing his own war against himself. His hands were everywhere, possessive and rough, marking her skin.
"You're mine," he growled against her lips. "If he tries to take you, I'll kill every single person with the name Cavallo. I'll leave the world empty before I let him have you back. Do you hear me? You're fucking mine."
"Then show me," Sienna challenged, her hands ripping at the buttons of his shirt. "Stop talking about my father. Stop talking about the war. Just make me forget his name. Make me forget everything but you."
Dante didn't need to be told twice. He swept the crystal glasses and silver plates off the table with a crash, the wine spilling like blood across the wood. He lifted her onto the table, his eyes dark with an obsessive, terrifying love.
In the shadows of the Alps, the world outside was preparing for a massacre, but inside, two enemies were destroying each other in the most beautiful, dark way possible. Sienna knew this would end in ruin. She knew she was dancing with a devil. But as Dante's hands claimed her, she realized she didn't want a savior. She wanted him.