Chapter 18 The Other Women
Elena found the photographs while searching for bandages in Dante's bathroom cabinet—a hidden compartment that sprang open when she pressed the wrong panel, revealing a collection of memories he'd thought were buried.
Women. Beautiful women. A dozen different faces across two dozen photographs, each one captured in intimate moments with Dante. His arm around their waists. His lips on their temples. His rare, genuine smile directed at someone who wasn't Elena. The images were old—she could tell by his younger face, the different haircut—but they hit her like a physical blow anyway.
Before Elena. Before obsession. Before he'd become the man who beat someone for touching her arm.
These were the women Dante had chosen. The ones he'd wanted without kidnapping. The ones who'd had his affection freely given instead of violently claimed.
And every single one of them was stunning in ways Elena would never be.
"Looking for something?"
Elena spun, photographs scattering across the counter. Dante stood in the doorway, fresh from the shower with a towel around his hips, his expression unreadable.
"I was looking for bandages. The cabinet opened." Elena's face burned. "I wasn't snooping."
"Yes, you were." But there was no anger in his voice, just weary resignation. "And now you've found my past. So let's hear it—which hurts worse? That I had other women, or that they were all more beautiful than you?"
The casual cruelty of the question stole Elena's breath. "Excuse me?"
"That's what you're thinking, isn't it? That's the comparison you're making. Wondering how you stack up against the models and socialites I used to fuck."
"Don't." Elena's hands clenched. "Don't make this ugly."
"It already is ugly, cara. Jealousy always is." He picked up a photo—a stunning brunette. "Sophia. Lasted three months. Daughter of an Italian ambassador. Smart, sophisticated, perfect pedigree. I ended it when she started talking about marriage."
He tossed it aside and picked up another. "Natasha. Russian ballet dancer. Two months. Incredible in bed, completely vapid out of it. I got bored."
Another photo. "Isabella. You've met her. My ex-fiancée. That lasted almost a year because it was politically useful. She understood the game, played her part perfectly. And I felt absolutely nothing for her beyond strategic appreciation."
Elena watched him catalogue his past lovers with clinical detachment, each description a knife to her chest. "Why are you doing this?"
"Because you need to understand something." Dante set down the photos and gripped the counter on either side of her, caging her in. "Every single one of these women—the beautiful ones, the sophisticated ones, the ones who actually belonged in my world—they meant nothing. Interchangeable. Forgettable. I could tell you their names, what they looked like, how long they lasted. But I can't tell you anything that mattered about them."
"Then why keep the photos?"
"To remind myself not to get attached." His eyes locked on hers. "After my mother died, I decided emotional investment was weakness. So I kept these as evidence of my own detachment. Proof that I could have beautiful women and feel nothing."
"Past tense?"
"Past tense. Because then you stumbled into my warehouse, and every carefully constructed wall came crashing down. And these women—" He gestured at the photos. "They stopped being proof of my control and became proof of how empty I'd been."
Elena wanted to believe him, wanted to let the jealousy burning in her chest dissipate. But she couldn't stop staring at the photos, at the stunning faces of women who'd had parts of Dante she could never reclaim.
"Did you love any of them?" The question came out small, vulnerable.
"No." The answer was immediate, absolute. "I didn't even try. Love was for people who could afford weakness. So I picked women based on utility—beauty, connections, convenience. Used them like chess pieces and felt nothing when they left."
"That's horrible."
"I know. But it's also proof of something important. Every single one of these relationships was chosen rationally. I picked women who made sense, who fit my world perfectly. And I felt nothing."
"Your point?"
"My point is you're the opposite of every choice I ever made." Dante's thumb brushed across her cheekbone. "You don't belong in my world. You fight me constantly. Being with you is strategically disastrous. And Cristo, Elena—I'm more alive with you than I ever was with any of them. You make me feel when I'd convinced myself I couldn't."
"You're just saying what I want to hear."
"I'm saying what's true." He reached past her and swept all the photographs into the trash. "I should have thrown these out the day I brought you here. Should have buried that past the moment I decided you were my future."
"What changed?"
"You did. The moment you told me you loved me despite everything—despite the kidnapping, despite the violence—I stopped being that cold, calculating monster." His forehead dropped to rest against hers. "Or maybe I'm more of a monster now because I'm willing to wage war to keep you. But either way, I'm changed. And these women are ghosts of a man who doesn't exist anymore."
Elena wanted to believe him. Wanted to let his words soothe the irrational jealousy eating at her. But she couldn't shake the image of Dante with those beautiful, appropriate women who'd chosen him freely.
"They didn't need to be kidnapped to want you," she said quietly. "They saw you and said yes without coercion."
"Without seeing me," Dante interrupted. "They saw the king. The power. The image I projected. But you've seen me at my worst. Covered in blood from killing. Consumed by jealousy. And you still said you loved me. Not the image. Not the power. Me."
"That's not—"
"It is." He kissed her, soft and reverent. "Do you know what it's like to be seen like that? Really seen, with all the ugly parts exposed, and still be chosen? Those women never saw that. But you kept digging until you found the man underneath, and instead of running, you stayed."
"I didn't have a choice about staying."
"You had a choice about loving me." His eyes searched hers. "And you chose it anyway. That's worth more than a thousand beautiful women who wanted the king but could never have handled the monster."
Elena felt some of the jealousy ease, replaced by something warmer. But not all of it disappeared.
"Isabella lasted a year. That's longer than we've been—" She couldn't quite finish.
Dante's expression darkened. "Isabella was a business arrangement. I would have married her if you hadn't happened, and we both would have been miserable. But it was the smart move."
"Do you miss her?"
"Cristo, no. I miss having a simple arrangement where emotions didn't enter the equation. But Isabella herself? I feel nothing."
"That's cold."
"I told you I was cold. Until you." His hand slid into her hair. "With you, I'm burning. So far from cold I can barely remember what detachment felt like."
Before Elena could respond, footsteps sounded. Enzo's voice called through: "Boss? We've got a situation."
"What kind?"
"The kind that involves your ex-fiancée demanding entry with a dozen of her father's men."
Dante cursed. "Tell her no."
"Already did. She says she's not leaving until she speaks with you. Something about wanting to negotiate."
"It's a trap," Elena said immediately. "She wants to see me. Wants to confirm I'm here, that I matter to you."
"Probably." But Dante was already moving, pulling on clothes. "Which is why you're staying here. Locked in."
"No. If she's here to negotiate, you need me there. She needs to see that I'm not going anywhere."
"Absolutely not. Isabella is dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with physical violence. She'll take one look at you and know exactly how to exploit us."
"Then let her look." Elena lifted her chin. "Let her see that I'm not intimidated. That I'm not some prisoner you can be convinced to give up."
Dante stared at her, something like pride flickering across his face. "You want to stake your claim."
"I want her to know she's not an option anymore. That past you're talking about? It's dead."
"Cristo, you're magnificent when you're jealous." Dante pulled her against him, his kiss hard and possessive. "Fine. But you stay beside me. You don't engage unless I say so. Understood?"
"Understood."
They descended together, Dante's hand possessively on her waist. Isabella waited by the windows, flanked by men in expensive suits, looking like she'd stepped off a runway. Everything Elena wasn't.
Isabella's eyes locked on Elena immediately, and her smile was razor-sharp.
"So this is the little mouse that cost me my engagement. She's exactly as ordinary as I imagined."
Dante's hand tightened on Elena's waist. "Say what you came to say. Then leave."
"I came to offer you a deal." Isabella's gaze never left Elena. "Give her to the Morettis. End this war. I'll convince my father to support you. You get the alliance, your men go free, and she fulfills her purpose as leverage."
The casual way she discussed Elena's death made the temperature drop.
"Get out," Dante said quietly.
"Be reasonable. She's nobody. Nothing." Isabella's tone remained pleasant. "Why destroy everything for—"
"Because I love her. Because she's worth more to me than every alliance combined." Dante pulled Elena closer. "So no. No deal. Just you leaving before I forget we were once engaged."
Isabella's mask slipped, fury flashing. "You're choosing her over your empire. Are you insane?"
"Probably. But she's mine. And nothing will make me give her up."
Isabella's gaze shifted to Elena, sharp and assessing. "What did you do to him?"
"I didn't do anything. I just saw him. Really saw him." Elena found her voice. "Something you were apparently never capable of."
"You really love him." Isabella's voice carried surprise. "This isn't Stockholm syndrome. You actually love him."
"More than anything."
"How inconvenient for everyone." But Isabella's tone had shifted. "It would be easier if you were just a frightened prisoner."
She left in a swirl of expensive perfume, and Elena felt tension drain.
But as Dante pulled her close, Elena caught something in Isabella's parting look.
Not defeat.
Satisfaction.
Like everything had gone exactly as planned.
And Elena wondered what they'd just walked into.