Chapter 4 Knowing Dante
Dante POV
The woman’s name was Isabella Conti, black hair like ink, olive skin kissed by the Italian sun, and those striking green eyes that cut straight through the dark. The first time I saw her, I was seconds away from carving her open right there on the sidewalk. The knife was already in my hand when a sliver of light hit her face and I recognized her.
I didn’t plan it, I didn’t stalk her. She simply crossed the wrong alley at the perfect moment. I don’t believe in destiny, but I do believe in karma and karma delivers exactly what’s owed.
She walked right to me because she was meant to. Because I needed her. Because the blood war wasn’t over it had only been sleeping.
I drove away from the lake and turned left, steering up the winding mountain road toward the property I’d bought years ago. No neighbors or witnesses. Just unforgiving terrain and the perfect isolation for the things I needed to do.
Isabella was silent beside me. I’d told her flat out that she didn’t have long to live. Now she was counting her minutes. I just needed to decide how to end her and I wanted it to hurt.
A simple drowning in that frozen lake would have been too merciful. I wanted to return her to Conti Luca in pieces let him feel the same agony my mother felt when she watched my father bleed out after Gianna Conti stabbed him.
I’d seen pictures of Isabella growing up, but they didn’t prepare me for the real thing. She had all her father’s Italian sharpness paired with her mother’s beauty a devastating combination.
Even I could admit that.
By the time we reached the villa at the mountain’s peak, my left arm was going numb. Blood soaked through my jacket and jeans. If I didn’t treat it soon, I’d end up in a hospital and I refused that weakness.
The kiss earlier had been pure instinct. She had fought me from the first second I dragged her into that van every shove, every curse, every attempt to escape. When she couldn’t run, she crawled. When she couldn’t crawl, she still found a way to defy me.
I’d tased her over and over. Enough to knock out a grown man. But she never stopped.
It should’ve annoyed me. Instead, it impressed the hell out of me.
I’d never met anyone like her.
The odds smothered her, but she never lowered her head. Never begged, never pleaded her humanity or innocence. She knew exactly what I was and faced me anyway.
And then she shot me, she aimed for my heart.
And fuck nothing turned me on like that.
I pulled the van into the garage beside the other vehicles and led her inside. The fire was burning strong, warming the villa. Michael would clean up the blood trail later.
Isabella paused, scanning everything the corners, the shelves, the fireplace looking for a weapon, of course she was.
I grabbed the first aid kit from a shelf and dropped onto the leather couch near the fire. “Sit.”
She crossed her arms, chin lifted. Flames made her green eyes glow like gemstones.
I pulled out the needle and thread. “Trust me, you don’t want to make me ask again.”
I shrugged off my bloody leather jacket, peeled off my long-sleeved shirt, and tossed it aside.
Her gaze moved over my tattoos ink covering muscle, scars, bullet holes. The sleeve on my left hand and arm was a full x-ray done in black and bone white ink. It wasn’t art. It was a declaration.
“Why would I listen to you?” she snapped.
“Because I’ll shove your hand into that fire just to hear you scream.” My eyes locked on hers, daring her to test me.
She didn’t. She sat.
“I can thread a needle,” she muttered. “I’ve never stitched anything.”
“I’ll talk you through it.”
I dug the tweezers into the wound, found the bullet, and yanked it out. Tossed it onto the coffee table like it was nothing. After holding gauze to the wound, I poured vodka straight over it. Didn’t flinch.
Then I told her to sew.
She followed my instructions, hands steady despite everything. When she finished, I wrapped the wound myself.
She set the bloody tools aside and whispered, “I hate myself for helping you.”
“Burns would’ve been worse. You’d still be screaming.”
Michael entered the room then froze when he saw Isabella. “Sir”
“I told you to stop calling me sir,” I muttered. “Remove all weapons from the house and lock them in the vault. Turn off Wi-Fi and cut cellular service. She’s a fighter.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And make dinner.”
He nodded and disappeared into the hallway.
I grabbed a bottle of scotch, filled a glass, and downed it in one swallow. The burn lit up my chest. I poured another.
“You’re rude,” Isabella said.
“Now?” I raised an eyebrow. “I’ve been an asshole from the second we met. Your standards are shifting fast.”
She stepped closer, eyes flashing. “If you’re going to kill me, I deserve a drink.”
“You want scotch instead of fancy Conti wine?”
She grabbed the bottle, took a long pull straight from it, and set it down with a sharp clink. Drops glistened on her lips.
“Now what?”
“What want me to kill you right now?”
“What are you waiting for?” she demanded.
“I need to do it right. I want it to stay carved into your father’s mind forever.”
Her eyes narrowed, blazing with hatred. “What did my family do to you?”