Chapter 59 Chapter 59
Belladonna
“You know, Belladonna…” his voice is smooth, teasing, “…when you glare at me like that, it almost feels like you want to kiss me.”
My stomach twists, but I keep my face steady, my lips pressed into a thin line. I look away quickly, pretending to be fascinated by the sky. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
He chuckles under his breath, low and husky, as if my annoyance only amuses him more. “Ah, but you didn’t deny it.”
I roll my eyes, clutching my phone tighter. “You’re insufferable.”
Dante exhales another cloud of smoke, watching me instead of the fireworks. “And yet, here you are… standing next to me, starting your new year with me.”
“That wasn’t my choice,” I snap, hugging his jacket tighter around me before realizing what I’ve done. My face heats up, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of noticing.
He smirks knowingly, tilting his head. “But you’re still wearing my jacket.” His voice lowers, almost playful. “It suits you, you know. Makes you look like you belong to me.”
My heart skips, but I force a cold laugh, looking back at the sky. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’d rather freeze than belong to you.”
He steps closer, just enough for me to feel his warmth, and whispers near my ear, “Then why are you shivering?”
I inhale sharply, my pulse racing, but I refuse to look at him. Instead, I lift my chin, pretending to be unfazed. “Because it’s winter, genius. Don’t mistake basic human biology for desire.”
Dante chuckles again, that dark, rich sound that makes my chest tighten. “You can lie to yourself all you want, Belladonna. But your eyes tell me everything.”
I finally look at him, sharp and defiant, even though my heart feels like it’s going to betray me any second. “The only thing my eyes are saying is that I hate you.”
His smirk deepens, and he leans back casually against the car, taking another drag of his cigarette. “Good. Hate me, then. At least it means you’re thinking about me.”
The fireworks crackle above us, but all I can hear is the pounding of my own heartbeat. Dante crushes his cigarette under his shoe and nods toward the car. Without a word, I follow.
We slip back into the black BMW. The leather seats are cold, and so is his posture—his jaw tight, one hand gripping the steering wheel, the other resting lazily on the gearshift. He doesn’t look at me, not once, just keeps his eyes fixed on the road, as if the silence between us is heavier than the night itself.
I don’t say a word either. My fingers twist in my lap, restless, but I refuse to break first. The hum of the engine fills the space where words should be.
When we finally pull up to my street, I shrug off his jacket and fold it neatly before placing it on the console between us. “Here.”
He glances at it, then at me, his expression unreadable. “You can keep it… if you’re cold,” he says, his tone flat but his eyes flicker with something softer for a moment.
“No thank you.” My reply is immediate, sharp, like a shield.
His lips curve faintly, almost like a smirk, but he doesn’t push. Instead, he shifts back into his seat, fingers drumming once against the wheel. “Suit yourself.”
I clutch my purse and reach for the door handle. The air feels heavy, as if I should say something, but I don’t. I can’t.
Because if I do, I might reveal too much.
I step out into the night, slamming the door behind me.
The window rolls down halfway, and his voice cuts through the silence of the street—low, assured, dangerous.
“We will meet soon, Belladonna.”
My chest tightens. I don’t turn back, but the echo of his words follows me all the way to my door, burning hotter than the fireworks ever did.
Belladonna
I wake up with a pounding head, the kind that makes every sound feel like an insult. After brushing my teeth, I drag myself downstairs, the smell of toast and tea pulling me into the vintage dining room. Everything is white, the table, the chairs, the curtains. My mother loves vintage things, so the entire house feels like it belongs to another century.
“Happy New Year,” I mutter, sliding into a chair.
“Happy New Year, sis,” Enzo says, looking at me from across the table. He’s already dressed in a navy shirt, polished, ready for work. Of course. He’s always busy, always handling the family business like the perfect son.
“Happy New Year, honey,” my mother adds, her voice soft as she spreads jam on her toast with slow precision.
I spoon beans and scrambled eggs onto my plate, pour myself a cup of tea, and start eating. The silence stretches, comfortable for them, suffocating for me.
“Aren’t we going to celebrate New Year?” I finally ask, taking a sip of my tea.
“Yes, of course.” My mother takes a bite of her toast, as casual as if it’s nothing. “We’ll have dinner tonight.”
“Any guests?” My fork pauses midair.
“The Manchini will be joining us,” she says like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
I choke, nearly spraying tea across the table. “Dante?”
“Yeah.” Enzo doesn’t even look up from his plate. “We’ve extended the business with them. Especially Dante Manchini, he’s our new investor in the hotel plan.”
My brows knit together so tightly it hurts. “Why Dante?”
Enzo finally looks at me, his expression calm, logical, like this all makes perfect sense. “Because he’s young, filthy rich, and full of ideas. It’s a good move for us.”
I shake my head, pressing my lips together, trying to swallow down the heat rising in my chest. Hell no. The last thing I need is Dante Manchini around me, invading my family’s dining room, my space, my life.
I hate him.
I hate him a lot.