DANTE'S POV
Arriving at the party, my head swirled with confusion and a relentless sense of something vital, something important just out of reach. Helena. Her name felt like a whisper in the wind, teasing and evasive. I couldn't piece together why she haunted me the way she did, like an unsung melody or a name on the tip of my tongue that I couldn't remember. Every time I tried to focus, the memory slipped further away, leaving only a gnawing frustration in my chest.
I stepped into the lavish room filled with swirling lights, laughter, and the clinking of glasses with Gianna latched on my hips. The room was a pulsating mess of color and life but my eyes searched relentlessly for her, I knew she was going to be here. The whole party was put together by Paulo's wife who in turn was Helena's sister, but it was no longer strange that I had no memory of that.
Then I found her, lounging in the corner. The way she stood, graceful yet tense, with her dark hair cascading down her back in a way that begged to be touched. She wore a black sleeveless dress that hugged her curves and made my breath catch, even from across the room.
I took a step toward her, driven by something deeper than recognition-a need, raw and untamed. But before I could reach her, Gianna slid into my path, a glass of champagne in her hand and a smile that no longer stirred my heart the way it used to.
"Here," she said, pushing the flute into my hands. "You look like you could use this – you could definitely use one glass"
I frowned, glancing at the drink and back at her. "I'm not supposed to drink on the meds."
"One glass won't hurt anybody," she insisted, her eyes glinting with an edge I chose not to question. By the time I looked back up, Helena was gone, swallowed by the sea of guests. A twinge of regret clenched my chest, and I downed the champagne in one gulp, hoping to dull the emptiness. Gianna was right-one glass wouldn't kill me.
She slipped her hand into mine and tugged me onto the dance floor. The heat of bodies and the rhythm of the music pounded against my skin. Gianna pressed herself close, her blonde hair brushing against my jaw, her breath warm and laced with alcohol. This was the woman I had vowed to love, the one I'd spent years dreaming of. But why did she now feel like a shadow of something I couldn't quite place? An echo instead of a heartbeat.
"You know it's always been us, right?" she slurred, her fingers lacing behind my neck, her voice sultry but dissonant. "Just us. Forever and ever."
I forced a nod, muttering, "I know." But the words felt like lies. There was a chasm inside me, one that Gianna's touch couldn't fill. She leaned into me, her body swaying in drunken rhythm, and I wrapped my arms around her waist, more out of habit than desire. My mind was elsewhere, haunted by dark eyes and laughter that felt like it belonged to me.
The night blurred after that. I remembered flashes of her face, the press of Gianna's lips, the music sinking into white noise. The world seemed too bright and too dark all at once.
****
The next morning, Gianna's insistence dragged me out of bed. She tugged me out onto the streets of Algreen Cove, chirping about breakfast as if the party and the memories haunting me hadn't happened. The streets buzzed with life, reckless and raw, masking the undercurrent of violence and secrets that ran through the town like a dark vein.
We stopped at a small coffee shop with painted windows, and Gianna ordered with her usual confidence. I waited, eyes drifting around the street until something caught my attention. Across from us, a dance studio stood, a beacon of light among the gray facades. The windows revealed young dancers, legs raised high and bodies bending with impossible grace.
A sharp pain struck behind my eyes, stealing my breath. Memories flashed, vivid and searing: Helena dancing in my boardroom, her body moving like water, her eyes fierce and defiant. The sound of my voice in the past, saying her name. The way she'd looked at me, eyes filled with challenge and something deeper. The memory of holding her, the taste of her name on my tongue-Helena.
"Dante?" Gianna's voice was an irritating hum at the back of my mind, tugging at the frayed edges of my control. But I couldn't look at her; my gaze was fixed on the dance studio as the memories surged forward, breaking past the fog that had shrouded them.
Helena in a white dress, the wedding in the garden. The warmth of her skin as I pressed my lips to her wrist. The chill of gunfire at the wedding brunch – the Anotti's attacking – her father's night – the night I killed Tony. The echo of a vow, whispered in shadows. My heart pounded against my chest, as though trying to break free. "Damn," the word escaped before I could hold it back.
"Dante?" Gianna's voice sharpened, tugging at my arm. "What's the problem?"
"I remember," I said, my voice rough, weighted with realization. "Everything. I have to find her."
Her fingers tightened, nails digging into my skin. "You can't-you can't have."
I wrenched my arm free. "I need to find her," I said, the urgency in my voice leaving no room for argument. I turned, striding to the car with the world spinning around me, each pulse of pain in my head a reminder of what I had to do. Helena. I could still see her standing at that party, and I cursed myself for letting her slip away.
The drive to her father's house was a blur of screeching tires and honking horns, my knuckles white against the wheel. I pushed past the memories surging back in fragments-the weight of her sorrow, the fire in her touch, and the way she had always looked at me as if I held the key to her very breath.
When I reached the house, her mother was in the garden, her hands buried in the soil. She looked up, startled, as I approached.
"Helena," I gasped, barely managing the word between breaths. "Where is she?"
She shot me an odd look that confused me and my heart began to pound for the fear of the unkown
"Helena just left for the airport," she said, voice calm, detached. "She's going back to Paris. Didn't she tell you?"
My world stopped instantly