Chapter 57 Chapter 57
Prologue
Belladonna9 months ago
I was wrapped in a towel, hair wet and curling at my collarbones, skin still glistening from the shower. I was barefoot, moving slowly, unaware.
A sharp knock came twice at my bedroom door—the one that opened to the balcony. I frowned, wondering who it could be this late at night.
I turned, startled. Our eyes locked—and mine widened in shock. My grip tightened on the towel against my chest.
Dante Manchini.
He gestured. His voice was low, steady. “Open the door.” He was at my place because he suspected that it was me who actually helped Lily Manchini to escape. Lily was my best friend and I would’ve done anything for her. My loyalty above anything even if its mean to be dead.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I snapped, though my hands betrayed me as they hesitated before unlocking the door.
He stepped inside. The scent of jasmine and heat lingered in the air. His eyes swept the room once before settling back on me—on my bare shoulders, my damp hair, my quickened breath. He looked at me carefully, as though I were a novel he was attempting to read.
“Where is she?” he barked.
“Who?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.
“Don’t play with me, Belladonna. You know damn well who.”
“Lily?” I said smoothly, too innocent.
“I know you helped her.” His growl vibrated through the room as he stepped closer, pushing me back until my spine hit the wall. My towel shifted slightly, and I gripped it tighter.
“Tell me where she is.” His demand was rough, desperate.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I whispered.
He drew his gun—not to shoot, but to threaten. The cold metal pressed lightly against my neck. My breath hitched, but I didn’t back down. I knew he was trying to scare me into confessing.
“Speak. Now.”
I met his eyes. No fear. Only defiance.
“Where is she?” he hissed again.
And then, softly, almost breathlessly, I asked, “What are you going to do if I don’t tell you?”
His jaw clenched. Fury spiraled in his gaze, sharp and dangerous. In frustration, he yanked at my towel—just enough to send a wave of vulnerability crashing over me. I gasped, instantly covering myself with my arms, fire blazing in my eyes.
“Dante…” I whispered.
His fury faltered for a beat.
The room pulsed with silence. A war of breath, heat, and unspoken words.
“I’m going to torture you until you can’t utter a word,” he muttered, rage bleeding into every syllable.
He looked at me as if I were a goddess in that moment.
A small shiver of fear ran through me. He was Dante Manchini, and torturing people was nothing new to him. I shook my head, whispering no, but I had no option. He spread my legs while I was still standing.
He placed the gun down my pussy and rubbed it there. I trembled with the cold touch of metal. He moved the gun up and down.
“Dante… don’t,” I whispered, my voice trembling.
A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Then talk, Belladonna. Because the longer you stay quiet, the more I’ll penetrate this inside of you.”
I lowered my gaze, my voice barely a breath. “I’ve never … I’m still a virgin.” I was terrified by his action.
I sent something to him with my words. He rubbed the gun in my clit. I whimpered until I held his suit and clung into him. “Dante please stop…” I whimpered.
“Tell me the truth, belladonna.” He uttered rubbing it more roughly making me moan into his firm grip.
“I don’t know.” I burst into tears as I couldn’t take this torture anymore. There was too much sensation to it. I came once, screaming and gripping his suit with my claws. When he actually noticed that I was pleading him to stop that’s when he withdrew the gun from my pussy.
“Belladonna…” He whispered my name, barely breathing it as he pulled me into his arms.
I could not resist. My body trembled against his, fragile and furious all at once.
“I hate you, Dante,” I choked out, my voice breaking as the words spilled through my sob. But I didn’t pull away.
I clung to him, fists balled against his chest, crying as if I had been holding it in for too long.
And he held me tighter—because even in my hatred, I came undone in his arms.
“If you had told me the truth, I wouldn’t have had to do this,” he said coldly, his voice low and controlled.
He looked down at me, silent, watching the way I buried my face in his chest, my tears soaking into his shirt. I was trembling, trying to hide my pain from him, but he felt every crack in my breath.
“Shhh,” he whispered.
I pulled away from him and snatched my towel from the floor, immediately wrapping it around me, but it was useless—he had already seen every inch of my body. He had already touched me.
I watched as he left, tears streaming down my cheeks. That was the exact moment hatred for him rooted itself deep inside me. From that day forward, he became my rival, and I swore I never wanted to see his face again.