Chapter 33 Chapter 33
Lily
The garden is filled with quiet murmurs and the low hum of respect. Around twenty made men are gathered—some sitting around the long stone table, others standing in silent anticipation. The night air is warm, carrying the scent of Sicilian citrus and the faint smoke of cigars. The only light comes from delicate strands of fairy lights woven through the olive trees above, casting a golden glow over everyone’s faces.
Dante appears beside me, freshly showered and dressed in an all-black suit that fits him like a second skin. His hair is slightly damp, and his beard is neatly trimmed. He looks every bit the man in control—dangerous, elegant, and completely unreadable to anyone who doesn’t know him the way I do.
Earlier, he asked me to dress up, said he’d be introducing me to his men. I chose a simple, dark blue dress—nothing too extravagant, but enough to look respectful, composed, and worthy of standing beside him. I take one last breath before we step outside together.
As soon as we do, the energy shifts.
All the men rise from their seats. Heads bow in unison, a silent show of respect not just for Dante, but for me—because I stand beside him.
Dante’s voice cuts through the still night in smooth, fluent Italian, “Questa è la moglie di Sebastian. Lily Manchini.”
Another collective bow. I feel their eyes, some curious, others simply respectful. My heart beats a little faster, but Dante’s hand at the small of my back keeps me grounded.
He raises his glass slightly and says, in Italian again, “Un minuto di silenzio per miofratello. Sebastian Manchini.”
We all fall quiet. The silence stretches in reverence, heavy and meaningful. Dante’s fingers brush lightly over mine, a quiet reassurance. I glance at him and he nods softly, telling me without words: You’re not alone.When the minute passes, Dante begins to speak again, his voice firm, unwavering.
“From this day forward, Lily is to be treated with the same respect as me and Sebastian. No one will forget that.”
His men nod. There’s no questioning him. It’s understood—Dante doesn’t make requests. He gives commands, and they are law.
I quietly retreat inside after that, slipping back into the cool interior of the house. I settle on the couch in the living room, facing the wide glass doors that give a perfect view of the garden. The scene outside looks like something out of a film—the dark suits, the glowing lights, the quiet murmur of Italian, and Dante standing at the center of it all like he was born for this life.
He looks powerful. Magnetic. Utterly untouchable.
Still, even in the middle of all that, his eyes find mine through the glass. He tries to hold his serious expression, but I see it—the faint curve at the corner of his mouth, the softness only I get to see. I grin at him, and for a second, the danger disappears.
There’s just Dante. And me. In a world of shadows, we find light in each other.
I pour myself a glass of red wine, the deep liquid swirling gently before settling. The house is quiet except for the distant voices outside, the low rumble of men talking business, speaking a language I don’t fully understand but have come to admire. I settle into the couch, the fabric cool beneath my skin, and lean back as I watch him through the wide glass windows.
Dante.
It’s been an hour now. He hasn’t sat down once. He commands the space like a king holding court—his presence alone anchoring every conversation, every nod, every gaze. The fairy lights shimmer over his black suit, and the way his sleeves are rolled just slightly, his shirt collar undone at the neck, makes him look both polished and dangerous. It’s intoxicating.
One by one, the men begin to leave. Some shake his hand, others exchange a quick word or a respectful nod before disappearing into the night. Their shadows stretch across the garden stones, then vanish completely.
Soon, only Dante remains.
He leans back against the stoned table, the sleeves of his shirt creasing at the elbows. The muscles in his arms flex subtly under the fabric as he folds his arms, then—slowly, deliberately—he lifts one hand and motions to me with two fingers.
A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.
I don’t move at first. I raise the glass of wine to my lips, my eyes never leaving his. The red is smooth, dry, a little bold—just like him. I finish the last of it, set the glass aside, and stand.
My heels click against the tiled floor as I walk toward the glass doors. The sound echoes in the quiet, elegant and sharp. I know he hears it. I can feel the way his eyes track me, unblinking, dark with something unreadable but intense. Possessive. Proud.
I open the glass door and step outside. The night air is warm, filled with the scent of lemon trees and cut grass. My dress shifts slightly with the breeze, brushing against my thighs as I walk down the path toward him.
He doesn’t speak. He just watches.
“What?” I whisper.
Without saying anything he grabs me by the waist and makes me sit on the stoned table. He spreads my legs wide and stands between them. His hand trails downward, slipping beneath the fabric of my panties. A sharp breath escapes me as his fingers find me, and a shiver runs down my spine at his touch. He slowly slips my panties down my legs, eyes locked on mine, then casually folds them and tucks them into his pocket with a smirk that makes my breath hitch. He lifts his hand to my lips, offering me his middle finger. I take it into my mouth, warm and slow, tasting the heat between us.
Moments later, that same finger trails down and is inserted inside of my pussy. A moan escapes my lips, sharp and involuntary.
“Fuck, Lily,” he breathes, voice thick with desire, “you’re so tight.”
He starts moving his finger in and out of me.
“You’re so wet, sunshine,” he murmurs against my ear, his voice husky.
“Yeah…” I gasp, my eyes fluttering shut.
He leans in, brushing his lips against mine before deepening the kiss. It’s tender but full of hunger, like he’s pouring everything into it.
“Can I add another finger?” he whispers against my lips.
“Yes, please,” I breathe out.
He slips in a second finger, stretching me with care, and my moan catches between our mouths.
“D…Dante.”
He fastens his pace and starts fingering me roughly. I grabs his hand as I scream out loud with please, “Stop.” I am shivering. He doesn’t stop. I look at him in the eyes and he is smirking at me while still working his fingers fast.
“Dante please, I beg you…stop.”
He finally withdraws his fingers and I catch my breathe. I watch as he puts his finger in his mouth and taste me.
I am trembling with my legs still spread out wide.