Chapter 36 Chapter 36
Lily
I sit alone in the VIP lounge of Dante’s club, watching the way bodies move to the rhythm on the dance floor, the way strangers laugh and flirt by the bar. The lounge is full, every table occupied with people dressed in silk, suits, and sin. The whole club is alive, massive, and breathtaking with dim golden lights and velvet shadows dancing over every surface.
A glass of pink gin rests in my hand, cool against my palm. I take small sips, trying to soak in the atmosphere. The waiter passes by again, checking in with a polite smile, making sure I’m comfortable—Dante must’ve warned them to treat me like royalty.
I glance toward the bar where the bartender starts doing a little show, flipping bottles, fire, and flair. It makes a few people clap and cheer.
That’s when I hear it, low, slurred, and coated in a thick Italian accent.
“Is the seat taken, young lady?”
I turn, and there he is—a man. Older. Unsteady on his feet. He reeks of danger and alcohol. There’s something about his stare that feels wrong.
“Yeah. The seat is taken,” I say firmly.
But instead of walking away, he just sits. Like I never spoke. His hand places a knife on the table, casually but intentionally—like a warning.
I stand up.
He grabs my arm, hard. Yanks me back into the seat.
Before I can even gasp, the knife is at my neck.
“Sit down and shut the fuck up,” he growls.
My pulse races. I open my mouth to scream, but the music outside drowns everything. Nobody notices. Nobody turns.
His hand touches me—rough, unwanted. His fingers slide up my inner thigh, and I freeze.
Suddenly, there’s a sharp bang.
The man jerks. Then slumps.
His body collapses face-first onto the table in front of me, and blood splatters across the white tablecloth.
I’m trembling, my whole body going numb.
When I look up, I see him.
Dante. Standing at the edge of the upper floor, a gun still raised.
In a blink, he’s already downstairs, pushing through the chaos like a storm in human form. His arms find me instantly.
“Lily. Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” he asks, eyes scanning me, voice thick with panic.
I can’t speak. I can’t breathe. My gaze is stuck on the corpse in front of me. His blood is staining the table. My hands are shaking. I've never seen a man die. Never.
“Lily… sunshine.” Dante cups my face, gently shaking me back into focus. “Talk to me.”
“I…” My voice breaks. “He touched me.”
Dante’s jaw clenches. Fury sharpens his expression.
“Where?”
I nod toward my thigh. “Here.”
He pulls me into a protective embrace, holds me tight like he can shield me from what just happened. His lips press to my forehead. “Okay. I’ve got you now. You’re safe. You’re safe with me.”
I swallow, still trembling. “You… killed him.”
“I did,” he says without hesitation. His tone is calm, like it was never a choice but a certainty.
“You murdered him, Dante.”
“He had a knife to your throat. And God knows what else he could’ve done to you.” His arms tighten. “I don’t care if it was murder. I’ll kill again if it means keeping you safe.”
Around us, his men are already at work. I watch through blurry vision as they drag the body away. The blood. The mess. And yet… no one in the lounge flinches. It’s like this is normal. Common. Expected.
Dante leads me upstairs—away from all of it.
His office is dim and luxurious, black and gold from ceiling to floor. The silence here is eerie; the music is completely gone. Soundproofed. Safe.
He helps me sit on the black leather couch. Then he disappears for a second and returns with a glass of water.
“Drink. Slowly, sunshine.” He kneels in front of me, holding the glass until I bring it to my lips.
My hands are wet with sweat. I take a few sips, barely able to hold the glass without trembling.
“You’ll be okay,” he assures me gently. “You’re strong.”
“Why did you kill him?” I ask, my voice small and distant.
“He had a knife to your throat, Lily. He was touching you, he was threatening you. He deserved worse.”
“But… why murder?”
Dante’s eyes blaze. “Because if I hadn’t, he could’ve raped you. Or killed you.”
He reaches out, placing his hand over my thigh, right where that man touched me, only now it feels different. Dante’s touch is not violent. It’s a reclaiming. A promise.
“Only I can touch you like this,” he murmurs. “No man will ever lay a hand on you without paying the price.”
He sets the glass aside, then leans forward and kisses me, deep and fierce. It’s not about lust. It’s about grounding me, pulling me back from the panic, reminding me who I now belong to.
Dante doesn’t let go of me until he’s certain I’m steady again, until my breathing evens out and the tremble in my fingers begins to fade. His touch is gentle but firm, his presence a shield that wraps around me as if to block out everything that just happened.
When he decides I’m calm enough, we leave the club together. His hand never leaves mine.
The night air in Palermo is cooler now, the sharpness of it sobering as we slip into his car. Dante starts the engine, but even as he drives, his focus remains on me.
“You’re okay?” he asks softly, glancing over more than once.
“Yes, Dante. I’m fine,” I answer, resting my head against the seat.
“Good,” he mutters, but there’s a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, as if he’s proud I’m holding it together.
His phone lights up between us. I spot the name instantly. The godfather.
But Dante doesn’t even blink. He ignores the call, letting it ring out.
“You won’t answer him?” I ask, surprised.
“I’ll call him once we’re home,” he replies coolly, eyes fixed on the road.
I nod slowly, letting the silence settle between us.
It’s quiet, calm. Safe.
And with Dante beside me, I know nothing will ever touch me again.