Chapter 2 “I’m Your guardian”
I clutched the towel tighter around me, my heart slamming against my ribs. Steam from the bathroom still hung in the air, making everything feel hazy. But there was no mistaking him.
Dante.
He stood in the doorway like he owned the room—hell, he owned the whole house. But he looked... different. Older, yeah, but not in a bad way. His dark hair was shorter now, styled back, with just a hint of gray at the temples that hadn't been there before. His jaw was sharper, covered in that perfect stubble. The black shirt he wore hugged his chest and arms in a way that made it clear he spent a lot of time in the gym. Broader. Stronger. More... man.
The last time I'd seen him like this—up close, not just a quick video call—was the night Dad died. He'd been younger then. Softer around the eyes. Now? He looked like power. Like danger wrapped in a custom suit.
His gray eyes locked on mine, then flicked down—just for a second—to the towel barely covering me. Something flashed in them. Surprise? Anger? I couldn't tell.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, my voice steadier than I felt.
"This is my house." His tone was low, rough. Unbothered. Like walking in on me half-naked was nothing.
"I meant in my room." I straightened up, refusing to back down. "You could've knocked."
"I did. You didn't answer." He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The room suddenly felt smaller.
I glanced at the bed where my clothes were laid out—pajamas, underwear. Great. "I was in the shower. Obviously."
He didn't move closer, but he didn't leave either. Just stood there, arms crossed, leaning against the door like he was blocking my escape.
"You look different," I said before I could stop myself.
His eyebrow arched. "So do you."
I rolled my eyes, trying to play it cool. Adult. Unbothered. "Yeah, well, four years will do that. You didn't exactly come pick me up from the airport. Sent your guys instead. Guess you're too busy running the world now."
A muscle ticked in his jaw. "The car was for your safety."
"Right. Safety." I shrugged, shifting the towel higher. "Whatever. I'm not a kid anymore, Dante. I don't need an escort everywhere."
"You do in this life."
"This life?" I laughed, short and bitter. "Your life. Not mine. I was fine at school. No guards following me to class."
"You were protected there too. You just didn't see it."
Of course. He probably had people watching me the whole time. The thought made my skin prickle.
"I'm not a little girl anymore," I said quietly. "You can't tell me what to do."
"I'm your guardian."
"Until I'm twenty-five or married. That's what the will says. Four more years. I can wait."
He leaned in, voice low. "You think you're going anywhere?"
My heart pounded. "Try and stop me."
For a second, something flashed in his eyes. Something hot and angry. Then it was gone.
"Dinner's at eight," he said. "Don't be late."
He turned and left, the door closing softly behind him.
I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. My legs felt shaky as I dropped the towel and pulled on my clothes. What the hell was that?
Dinner was at eight, like always. Maria had set the table in the main dining room—the long one with the crystal chandelier and the view of the gardens. Fancy. Formal. Just the two of us.
I came down in jeans and a sweater—nothing special. Dante was already there, at the head of the table. Black shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up. He stood when I walked in, pulled out my chair like he used to when Dad was alive.
Old habits.
"Thanks," I muttered, sitting.
Maria served pasta—carbonara, my favorite—and poured wine. She chatted a bit, asking about school, then left us alone.
The silence stretched.
I twirled my fork, not really hungry. Dante ate like everything was normal.
"So," I said finally, breaking it. "Now that I'm here, what's the plan? Am I allowed to leave the house, or is this prison?"
"It's not prison."
"Feels like it. Guards at the gate. Escorts to the airport. What's next? A list of rules?"
He set his fork down. "Yes."
I stared at him. "You're joking."
"No boys," he said, voice flat.
I laughed. "Excuse me?"
"No dates. No guys over. No sleeping around."
"Wow." I leaned back, crossing my arms. "You don't get to decide that. I'm twenty-one."
"You're under my roof. My protection."
"Your rules are insane."
"They're for your safety."
"From what? Boys?" I shook my head. "Dad never cared this much."
"Your father isn't here."
The words hit hard. I looked down at my plate.
He softened—just a little. "Liliana. This world... it's not safe. Especially for you. You're Antonio Caruso's daughter. People remember."
"I know that." My voice was quieter now. "But I can't live like a nun forever."
He didn't say anything for a moment. Then: "What about tomorrow?"
"Sophia wants to go out. Drinks. Dancing. Normal stuff."
He nodded slowly. "Fine."
I blinked. "Fine?"
"You can go. But my guys go with you. They drive. They watch the door. They bring you home by one."
"One?" I groaned. "Come on, Dante. I'm not sixteen."
"One-thirty. And no arguments."
His eyes were on me—steady, intense. Possessive. Like he was daring me to fight him on it.
I wanted to. God, I wanted to push back. Tell him to go to hell. But something in his stare stopped me. Made my skin heat up.
"Fine," I said. "One-thirty."
He picked up his fork again. "Good."
The rest of dinner was quiet. But the air felt different. Charged. Like something had shifted.
I glanced at him across the table. He was watching me—subtle, but there. His hand tight around his wine glass. Jaw set.