Chapter 47

Chapter 47
Chapter 10

The drive back to her place silent, all except for the smooth jazz that rings out in her Mercedes. Vanessa’s hands grip the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary, her fingers aching, but she doesn’t loosen them. She should be thinking about how to fix things... how to get Arturo Castellano out of the picture before Victor loses his patience, but all she can think about is that look in Victor’s eyes before she walked out of his office. That promise of consequences...

The roads are dark, winding through the quiet outskirts of the Santoro estate. She doesn’t live far. Never has. Victor liked keeping his people close, and she liked having a short distance between herself and the only life she’s ever known...

Her house is small. Not some grand mansion, not draped in gold and excess like Victor’s place. It’s simple and modern. A quiet little space tucked away from the world, the kind of place no one would expect a killer to call home. She parks right in front of the house, stepping out of her car and making her way to the front door. 

She reaches the front door, unlocking it with facial recognition software, making the door click open just as she steps inside.
The second the door shuts behind her, the weight on her shoulders presses down hard.

She exhales slowly, walking her living room and tossing her bag onto the kitchen counter as she approaches it. The place is dark, moonlight streaming in through half-closed blinds. It’s not much, she didn't need a lot. But let's just say she knows how to spend the money Victor pays her, enough for her to live comfortable. A vodka bottle on the counter that’s seen better days catches her attention. She already had something to drink tonight, and right now, she needs a clear head.

She can’t sit now. If she sits, she thinks. And if she thinks, she spirals.

So she does the only thing that’s ever worked—she peels off her clothes, leaving them in a messy trail toward the bathroom, and steps into the shower.

The water scalds her skin, but she doesn’t turn it down. She lets the heat sink into her muscles, washing away the tension coiled deep inside her.

But it doesn’t help.

Because her mind is still racing.

Not just with Victor’s warning. Not just with the second chance she’s been given.

With him.

Arturo Castellano.

She presses her forehead against the cool tile, her fingers curling into fists. She should have put a bullet in his skull before she ever knew his name. She should have never hesitated, never let him get the better of her.

But she did. And now she has to fix it.

She squeezes her eyes shut, the water dripping down her face. She should be thinking about the job. She should be thinking about how to track him down, how to end this before Victor decides she’s the loose end that needs to be tied up.

But instead, all she can think about is that damn smirk of his, the way he looked at her like he saw right through her, like he knew something she didn’t. Like he was waiting for her to catch up.

Her nails dig into her palms.

She won’t make the same mistake again.

She shuts the water off and steps out, steam curling around her as she reaches for a towel. She dries herself off, wraps the fabric around her body, and moves toward the bedroom, her mind still tangled in too many thoughts.

And that’s when the knock comes.

Sharp. Firm.

She freezes.

Her gun is on the nightstand. She moves toward it, muscles tensed, heart hammering just enough to make her angry at herself.

Another knock.

She grips the gun, flicks the safety off, and moves toward the door. Peers through the peephole.

Her stomach twists.

It’s Dario.

For a second, she just stands there, gun still in her hand, towel still wrapped around her. He knocks again, less patient this time.

She exhales slowly, sets the gun down, and opens the door.

Dario’s standing there, shoulders tense, jaw tight. His dark eyes skim over her quickly, taking in the damp hair, the towel, the slight flush in her cheeks from the heat of the shower. He doesn’t react. Not visibly at least.

“You gonna let me in?” His voice is quiet, filled with audacity.

Vanessa hesitates.

She shouldn’t. She knows she shouldn’t.

But she steps aside anyway.

Dario walks in, closing the door behind him. His presence fills the space, heavy and familiar. He doesn’t look at her right away, instead his eyes sweep over the apartment like he’s cataloging everything, like he’s making sure she’s really alone.

She crosses her arms over her chest, shifting her weight. “What are you doing here?”

Dario finally looks at her, his expression curious. “Came to check on you.”

“I don’t need checking on.”

His jaw ticks slightly. “Victor was pissed...”

Vanessa snorts, shaking her head. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Dario doesn’t smile. He just watches her, his gaze lingering a second too long. “You alright?”

She hates that question. She hates the way it makes something inside her clench, the way it almost feels nice to have someone ask.

She turns away, moving toward the kitchen. “I’m fine.”

She hears him move, his steps slow, deliberate. He doesn’t believe her. She can feel it.

“I mean it, Vanessa,” he says. “You don’t gotta pretend with me.”

She grips the edge of the counter, her knuckles going white.

She doesn’t pretend. She survives.

She exhales sharply and turns to face him. “What do you want, Dario?”

There’s a beat of silence. His eyes flick down to the towel still wrapped around her, then back up.

She doesn’t look away.

Neither does he.

Something shifts. The air between them tightens, pulls like a rope fraying at the edges.

Dario exhales through his nose, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “You should get some sleep.”

She should.

She won’t.

She steps closer instead. Just a fraction. Just enough to test something.

Dario’s eyes darken.

“Vanessa,” he murmurs, a warning, a plea—she doesn’t know which.

She leans in.

She doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Maybe it’s the heaviness of the night pressing down on her. Maybe it’s the fact that for all his flaws, for all the ways he’s tangled up in this life just as deep as she is, Dario is familiar. He’s steady. He’s safe.

And right now, she just needs to forget.

Her fingers skim the fabric of his shirt. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t stop her.

She tilts her chin up, her lips a breath away from his.

"You came here for a reason... Is this it...?" Vanessa asks, her voice low and seductive as she slowly opens the towel for him, revealing her still damp body to him. His jaw clenches at the sight of her and he gulp inaudibly before his eyes return to hers.

“You sure about this?” he asks, his voice low, rough.

"I am." She answers. However, she isn’t.

But she kisses him anyway...

Vanessa shouldn’t be doing this.

She knows it the second Dario's lips crash against hers, the second his hands find her waist, pulling her flush against him like he’s been waiting for this—waiting for her...

She lets herself fall into it anyway.

Because for one night, she doesn’t want to think.

Doesn’t want to think about Victor, about Arturo Castellano, about the way her world is unraveling piece by piece.

She just wants to forget.

Dario’s hands are rough, calloused from years of working under Victor, of pulling triggers and breaking bones. But here, now, they move over her with a surprising softness—like he thinks she might slip through his fingers if he isn’t careful.

She hates that. Hates that he’s treating her like something delicate, like something that can be held.

So she reminds him exactly who she is.

Vanessa pushes him back against the couch, her body straddling his before he can take control. His breath hitches, but his hands tighten on her hips, steadying her. His dark eyes flick up, searching hers, waiting—like he always does.

She doesn’t wait.

Her mouth claims his again, rough and demanding, fingers tangling in his short, dark hair. She feels him groan against her lips, feels the heat rolling off of him, feels the way he wants this just as much as she does.

Maybe more.

Because that’s the thing about Dario—he’s always wanted her. Always looked at her like she was something just out of reach. And for years, Vanessa ignored it. Pretended not to see the way his eyes lingered too long, the way he was salways the first to come running if she was hurt, the way he never let anyone else get too close.

But she’s never been his.

And she never will be.

Because no matter how much she lets herself melt into his touch, no matter how good he makes her feel, she knows—Dario wants something from her that she can’t give.

Something real. Something genuine...

And that? That’s not part of the deal.

She throws off her towel completely and tilts her hips against him, feeling the sharp intake of his breath, the way his fingers dig into her thighs.

“Vanessa,” he mutters, his voice rough, wrecked.

She liskes that sound.