Chapter 58 Chapter 58

Chapter 58 Chapter 58
Belladonna
 Present day
31 December
New York pulses with the energy of New Year’s Eve, lights glittering across the skyline, music drifting through the streets, but here I am, stepping into a world of elegance and celebration. I wear a crimson satin dress that hugs my curves, the fabric shimmering under the chandeliers. My dark black hair cascades down my back in loose waves, and my heels click softly against the polished marble floor. My makeup is sharp and precise, winged eyeliner, long lashes, and a dark nude pastel lipstick that completes the look.
I feel a thrill of excitement as we approach the hotel where Lily Manchini is launching her second book. It’s owned by one of the Manchini brothers, a place that already feels steeped in power and influence. My brother Enzo stands nearby, impeccably dressed in a dark grey suit, his posture rigid as ever. My mother glides past in a flowing white dress, graceful and commanding, while my father keeps to the back in a standard suit, surveying the crowd with a quiet intensity.
Inside, the space is decorated to match Lily’s book theme, navy blue banners, delicate floral arrangements, and elegant lighting that casts a soft glow over the room. The book’s title, Given in Debt to the Mafia King, is displayed prominently, a dark romance authored by my best friend. I already know the story, Lily has told me everything, but it still fills me with admiration. She walks confidently onto the stage, her presence radiant, her voice steady as she begins her speech.
I sip my drink, trying to focus on her words, but a presence tugs at my attention. From the shadows, from every corner of the room, I feel him. Dante Manchini. My heart skips, my pulse quickens, and I can feel his gaze fixed on me like a hawk circling its prey. I sense him watching, calculating, waiting. Every time I glance toward him, he disappears behind another alcove, only to reappear moments later, his dark eyes locked on me.
Lily notices my distraction and approaches after finishing her speech. She leans close, whispering, “Dante is gawking at you.”
I roll my eyes, a mix of annoyance and disbelief. “He better not be,” I mutter, though a strange flutter passes through me.
Once the party winds down, Enzo and I drift toward the hotel’s bar. He scans the room quickly and, spotting someone familiar, vanishes mid-conversation, leaving me to settle at the bar alone. I order a dirty martini, the sharp scent of vermouth and olive filling the air as I take a slow sip, letting the glass cool my fingers. I sink onto the barstool, enjoying the brief moment of solitude in the buzz of the hotel.
Antonio Manchini approaches, his presence commanding yet warm. “Hi, Belladonna,” he says, taking my hand and pressing a polite kiss to it. “Drinks are on the house for you.” He beams, the kind of smile that makes the room feel brighter.
“Thanks, Antonio. That’s really kind of you,” I reply, a small smile tugging at my lips.
He chuckles softly. “I’ve known you since you were born. I was thirteen back then—I remember holding you. You were so cute.”
Heat creeps up my neck, and I laugh nervously, swirling my drink. “Oh really?”
“Yeah. You’re still cute,” he adds, his tone easy, almost teasing. I feel a faint flutter in my chest and half-smile. Is he… flirting with me?
Before I can dwell on it, Dante appears beside him. “Hi, brother,” he says to Antonio, his voice smooth and deliberate. My gaze drops to my drink, careful not to meet Dante’s piercing eyes.
I hear Dante lean in, murmuring something into Antonio’s ear. Antonio clears his throat, his smile faltering slightly. “I’ll see you later, Belladonna,” he says, stepping away and leaving me alone.
Dante shifts closer, his presence filling the space beside me. He leans casually on the bar and says, low and deliberate, “Hello, Belladonna.”
I stiffen slightly, my fingers tightening around my glass. The tension between us is unmistakable, a dangerous pull that makes my pulse quicken.
I don’t say a word. I just glare at him, my eyes sharp, unflinching, burning with the memory of every slight, every past encounter. He doesn’t blink. Damn, he’s impossibly handsome. The black suit clings perfectly to his broad shoulders, his beard freshly trimmed, jaw tight and precise, every feature carved like it belongs on a statue. He is just… flawless, infuriatingly perfect.
My gaze drifts down to his hands resting on the bar. Knuckles white from a subtle grip, inked tattoos winding under his sleeves—probably all the way up to his chest. It’s dangerous, the way he carries himself, like he owns the air around him. My stomach twists. Part ofme wants to admire him, to lean closer, to see every detail—but I hate him. I really do.
I gulp down the rest of my drink in one hurried swallow. The sharp burn of the alcohol climbs my throat, racing to my chest, as if reminding me that my pulse is betraying me. My hands tremble just slightly. I stiffen my dress, gripping my purse a little too tightly, forcing my shoulders back.
Without a word, I turn and walk away from him. Each step is deliberate, measured, trying to escape the pull he seems to have over me without me even wanting it. I hate him. I hate the way he looks, the way he moves, the way he makes my heart betray me. And yet… a part of me is unwilling to completely look away.
I step outside into the crisp New York night, the cool December air biting at my bare arms. My phone buzzes immediately. I pull it out—it's Enzo.
Enzo: Go home, I’ll be late.
I type back quickly, fingers trembling slightly.
Me: But I came in your car. I don’t have a car to return home.
A few seconds pass, then another reply:
Enzo: Fine. I’ll make an arrangement.
I slide my phone back into my clutch and lean against the wall of the hotel lobby. My heels click on the marble floor as I pace slightly, impatience prickling at my skin.
Moments later, another message:
Enzo: I’ve asked Dante to drop you home.
My jaw tightens, and I reply sharply.
Me: What? Not!
Enzo: Just go with him. It’s almost midnight, everyone’s celebrating New Year. I can’t find you a driver.
I sigh, defeated.
Me: Fine.
I glance toward the glass doors and see him before I even hear the engine—a shadow in black, his tall frame moving with that infuriatingly calm precision. Dante waves at me, and I stiffen. I rise, irritation radiating from my every move, and stride outside. My heelsclack against the pavement as I follow him to his sleek black car. He stops, holding the door open for me. I ignore the gesture, slip inside silently, and let the leather embrace me.
He slides into the driver’s seat, and the engine hums. I focus straight ahead, fixing my gaze on the road. I tell myself firmly: do not look at him. Do not.
Then, the sky erupts. Fireworks bloom over the city, painting clouds with gold, red, and violet. I glance at my watch—midnight.
“Happy New Year, Belladonna,” Dante says, his voice low, calm, yet laced with that tension that makes my stomach twist.
I keep my eyes forward, only half-listening. Outside, people light firecrackers, their sparks and smoke swirling over the streets, making the night feel surreal, almost dreamlike. Dante pulls over, cuts the engine, and we step out onto the quiet street. The air is cold, and the smoke curls around our feet.
I wrap my arms around myself, shivering, frustration and something else heating my chest.
“I can’t believe I’m starting my New Year with you,” I mutter, teeth gritted.
I feel his gaze on me, intense and unyielding. My pulse quickens. My fingers tremble as I pull my arms closer. The heater in the car and the warmth of the hotel feel like distant memories. I didn’t plan on being here, standing alone on an unfamiliar street, watching fireworks with him.
Before I can protest, I feel his suit jacket draped over my shoulders. I freeze.
“I don’t need it,” I say instantly, pulling at the fabric.
“Take it and shut up,” he snaps, cold and commanding. My jaw tightens, but I let him. The jacket is heavy on my shoulders, carrying a weight far beyond fabric—control, protection, dominance. I smell his scent in the jacket. 
We lean against the sleek black BMW, the cold metal pressing into my back, and watch the New York skyline explode in a cascade of colors. Fireworks bloom like flowers in the night sky, gold and crimson and violet stretching across the darkness. The smoke drifts around us, curling lazily in the crisp December air.
Dante pulls a cigarette from his pocket, flicks it with practiced ease, and lights it. A thin trail of smoke drifts upward, mingling with the haze of fireworks above. He takes a slow drag, the ember glowing orange, and exhales, letting the smoke escape his lips. He looks effortlessly dangerous, every line of his jaw and the dark glint in his eyes making it impossible to look away.
I pull out my phone, fingers trembling slightly, and type a few messages. “Happy New Year” to Lily, to my family, to close relatives. My face is buried in the screen, and I feel the heat in my cheeks, partly from the cold, partly from him standing so close.
“I hope this year will be filled with happiness and lots of abundance,” Dante says, his voice calm but carrying that low, commanding tone. He blows smoke into the night air, his eyes flicking toward me.
I glance at him from the corner of my eyes, careful not to meet his gaze fully.
“Type it,” he says teasingly, smirking, the cigarette dangling from his lips.
Ishake my head, fingers hovering over my phone, unwilling to comply.
“Are you that mad at me?” he asks softly now, a subtle edge to his voice, curiosity and challenge wrapped into one. I don’t answer. My chest tightens, my stomach flutters. The fireworks continue their rhythm above us, and for a moment, the noise, the smoke, and the lights make everything else fade, except the tension curling between us.