CH-35

CH-35
Isabella POV

The club still smelled like fresh paint and sawdust.

Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, illuminating the polished concrete floor and sleek, obsidian countertops.

It was nothing like Midnight, the old club I’d burned to the ground—this place was cleaner, quieter, more modern. There were no hidden tunnels, no bulletproof mirrors, no shadows built for hiding bodies.

And yet, ghosts still lived here. Not the kind you see. The kind you feel.

“You’re not listening.” Sabrina Leone’s voice cut through my thoughts like a scalpel. The new lawyer I’d hired had the sharpest cheekbones I’d ever seen and a voice smooth as silk and just as dangerous.
“I am,” I lied.
Sabrina raised a brow. “Then you’d know your investor’s due diligence clause is stricter than a Vatican confession.”

I leaned on the bar. “He’ll deal with it.”

“You say that with a lot of confidence for someone whose bloodline is in every Italian crime archive from Rome to Sicily.”
I smiled thinly. “That’s what I hired you for.”
She smirked, finally impressed. “Touché.”

Before she could lecture me again about offshore shielding and shell corporations, the glass doors slid open with a soft hiss—and in strode a girl who looked like she’d hacked her way straight out of an underground rave. Hoodie pulled low over her head, combat boots scuffed but somehow stylish, she moved with the kind of confidence that made it clear she didn’t care whether you thought she belonged or not—she knew she did.

“Isabella De Luca,” the girl announced, snapping her gum like it was punctuation for her words.

“You owe me three chocolate bars, one burner phone, and safe passage to Argentina.”

I blinked, momentarily thrown off balance. “Kora?”

The hacker Dante had quietly hired weeks ago stood before me now, fully embodied chaos wrapped up in leather and ink.

Short black hair spiked just enough to look deliberate, nose ring glinting under the harsh office lights, and tattoos trailing down her wrist—binary code, I realized belatedly, because of course they were binary.

Her eyes flicked between Isabella and me, sharp as razors, too clever for someone barely twenty. Too clever for anyone, really.

Without waiting for permission, she tossed a USB stick onto the counter. It landed with a dull clink, skidding slightly against the polished surface.

“Got your files,” she said, jerking her chin toward the tiny device like it wasn’t potentially worth millions—or lives. “But if I’m gonna stick around, there are conditions.”

She ticked them off on gloved fingers:

“One, my own room. Two, no creepy bodyguards lurking outside my door. Three, a decent Wi-Fi connection—I mean decent, not whatever ancient router setup you’ve got humming away in this mausoleum. And four…” She paused, leaning forward just enough to make sure we were paying attention. “…tell the blonde guy—Marco—to stop checking my bag every time I walk past him. He’s bad at subtlety.”

Isabella raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “We’re offering you protection, Kora. Not a vacation.”

Kora smirked, unfazed. “Protection implies choice, sweetheart. Last I checked, I’m doing most of the heavy lifting here.”

She hooked a thumb toward herself, still grinning.

“You want answers? You keep me happy. Simple math.”

“You’ll be staying at the estate,” I said. “Not a prison. But there are rules.”

“I break rules for a living.” She grinned, wild and unrepentant.

\===============

Later that night, after the estate had gone quiet, I stood at the open doors of our bedroom, watching the moon pour silver across the Tuscan hills.

Wind stirred the curtains. In the bed behind me, Dante stirred.
“You’re still not sleeping,” he said softly.

I turned. He was sitting up, shirtless, bruises from Milan still fading along his ribs, the scar near his collarbone a stark reminder of everything we’d survived.

“I’ve been thinking about new lighting fixtures,” I said.

He chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “Is that what we’re calling insomnia now?”

I walked toward him slowly. “No. We’re calling it fear.”
His hand reached for mine, fingers warm and certain. “Of what?”

“Of finally having something to lose.”
He stood, pulling me into his arms. For a moment, neither of us spoke. The silence wasn’t heavy—it was reverent. Like prayer.

“I’m not him,” he whispered. “I’ll never be him.”

“You’re better than him,” I said, my voice trembling. “But I’m not my mother either. And I’m afraid I’ll never know how to protect what we’re building.”
“You don’t have to know everything,” he said, brushing his lips along my hairline. “You just have to stay.”

I looked up at him, heart bare. “Stay with me tonight. Not just in bed. In this.”
Dante didn’t answer with words.
He kissed me.

Not rushed. Not ravenous. This was slow, deliberate, a confession told in touch. His hands memorized me like I was a map he’d finally dared to unfold.

My shirt slipped over my shoulders. His breath stuttered when he saw me. And I saw the tremor in him too—not just desire, but awe.

Grief. Love. Fear.
He laid me down gently, like something holy. His mouth worshipped every inch of me. And when he finally entered me, it was more than sex.

It was surrender.

Our bodies moved together in quiet rhythm, not frantic but fierce. Like two people trying to rewrite history in the language of skin.

When it was over, he stayed pressed against me, heartbeat thudding softly against mine.

“You’re crying,” he said into my hair.

I was.

But for the first time in years, the tears weren’t from pain.

They were from hope.

“Dan, I need to tell you something.”