Chapter 9 Morning After
Sunlight slipped through the heavy blackout curtains in thin, pale slivers. I woke slowly, body heavy with the kind of sleep that comes after too much adrenaline and not enough rest. The bed smelled like him—smoke, cedar, clean skin—and for a second I forgot where I was.
Then I registered the sound: the shower running in the attached bathroom. Steady hiss of water against tile. Steam curling out from under the half-open door.
I stretched, feeling the cool sheet slide over my bare legs. I was still in my leggings and sweater from last night. Dante must have slept on top of the covers the whole time, never once crossing that invisible line he’d drawn for himself.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand—once, twice. I reached for it, squinting at the screen.
Unknown number.
Jamal.
I sat up fast, heart kicking. I’d forgotten he’d texted after the club. Forgotten I’d given him my number in the chaos before the shooting started.
I answered on the third ring, keeping my voice low.
“Hello?”
“Liliana?” His voice came through warm, familiar, a little cautious. “Hey. It’s Jamal. From Eclipse. You okay?”
I swallowed. “Yeah. I’m… okay. Just a graze. Thanks for checking.”
“I’ve been thinking about that night nonstop. The way everything went down so fast. You disappeared before I could even make sure you were alright.”
“I’m alright,” I said again, softer. “Dante got me out.”
A short pause. “Yeah. I saw that. Guy moves like he owns the shadows.”
I almost smiled. “Pretty much.”
Another pause, longer this time. Then: “Look, I know things are probably crazy right now. But… I keep thinking about how easy it was talking to you on the floor. Before the bullets started. I’d like to see you again. No clubs. No chaos. Just coffee. Or dinner. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
My breath caught. A date. Normal. Simple.
“Dante’s got the house on lockdown,” I said quietly. “Rossi stuff. It’s… complicated.”
“I figured. But if you ever get a window—even a small one—let me know. I’ll come to you if I have to. Just say the word.”
I glanced toward the bathroom door. Water still running.
“I’ll think about it,” I said finally. “I promise.”
“That’s all I’m asking.” His tone warmed. “Take care of yourself, Liliana. For real.”
“You too.”
I hung up just as the shower cut off.
The bathroom door opened wider. Dante stepped out.
Water dripped from his dark hair, sliding down the sides of his neck, tracing paths over his bare chest and stomach. He had a towel slung low around his hips—white against tanned skin, clinging just enough to outline every ridge and muscle. Steam followed him like smoke, curling around his shoulders. He looked like something carved out of marble and sin.
My mouth went dry.
He caught me staring. One dark brow lifted.
“Stop drooling,” he said, voice low and rough from sleep.
I snapped my mouth shut. “I wasn’t.”
He smirked—just a flicker—then turned his back to me and walked toward the walk-in closet. The towel slipped a fraction lower as he moved. I couldn’t look away. Broad shoulders. The long line of his spine. Scars I’d never noticed before—thin white lines across his ribs, a thicker one low on his left side. Reminders of the life he lived.
My hands slid to my lap, fingers curling into the sheet. Heat bloomed low in my belly. Thoughts I had no business having flooded in: what it would feel like to trace those scars with my fingertips. To press my mouth to the damp skin at the base of his neck. To pull that towel away and finally cross every line he’d drawn.
He disappeared into the closet for a minute. When he came back, he was in black boxer briefs, towel gone. He pulled open a drawer, grabbed dark jeans, stepped into them without ceremony. Then a black button-down. He didn’t bother with underwear first—just slid the shirt on, leaving it open while he fastened the jeans.
I pretended to look at my phone. Failed miserably.
Every movement was deliberate. Controlled. Like he knew exactly what he was doing to me.
He caught my eyes in the mirror as he buttoned the shirt. “You’re thinking too loud.”
“I’m not thinking anything.”
“Liar.” He finished the last button, rolled the sleeves to his forearms, then turned fully to face me. “I have a meeting upstate. Might not be back until the weekend.”
My stomach tightened. “The whole weekend?”
“Possibly.” He walked over, stopped at the edge of the bed. “Stay in the house. Don’t go out. I’ve doubled the security—two more men on the perimeter, cameras on every entrance. Marco will be here. If anything feels off, you call me. Immediately.”
I nodded slowly. “Okay.”
He studied me. Something flickered in his gray eyes—concern, suspicion, maybe both.
“You good?” he asked quieter.
“Yeah.”
He didn’t look convinced. He leaned down, braced one hand on the mattress beside my hip, the other cupping the side of my face. His thumb brushed my cheekbone.
“Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone,” he murmured.
I met his gaze. “Like what?”
“Like answer texts from guys who don’t know what they’re stepping into.”
My pulse jumped. He’d seen the call log. Of course he had.
“I’m thinking about it,” I said honestly. “That’s all.”
His jaw ticked. “Think hard.”
Then he kissed me—short, firm, possessive. Not gentle. A reminder.
He straightened, grabbed his coat from the chair, and walked to the door without another word.
At the threshold he paused, looked back.
“Lock the door behind me,” he said.
And then he was gone.
The house felt bigger the second the front door closed downstairs. Emptier.
I sat there for a long time, staring at the empty doorway, phone still warm in my hand.
Jamal’s text waited on the screen:
Whenever you’re ready. I’m serious—no rush.
I stared at it.
Then I typed one word.
Me: Maybe.
I hit send before I could change my mind.
The reply came almost instantly.
Jamal: That’s more than I expected. Let me know when “maybe” turns into “yes.”
I set the phone down. Heart racing.
Dante was gone until the weekend.
The house was locked down.
And for the first time in days… I felt the tiniest crack in the cage.