Chapter 10 The Accusation

Alina's breath caught as Dante's fingers skimmed her cheek, his touch featherlight, a cruel contrast to the weight of his words.

Then who did?

His voice was smooth, controlled-but beneath it, rage simmered.

Her heart pounded, every instinct screaming at her to step back. But she forced herself to hold her ground.

"I don't know," she said evenly.

Dante's jaw tightened. "Wrong answer."

His fingers curled slightly against her skin, a silent warning, though he didn't hurt her. Not physically.

But the power in his presence, the sheer dominance of him-it was suffocating.

"I didn't kill your sister," she repeated, meeting his gaze head-on. "And you know that."

His smirk was slow, sharp. "Do I?"

Alina's chest rose and fell with controlled breaths. "If you really thought I was responsible, I'd already be dead."

A tense silence stretched between them.

Dante didn't move, didn't react, but she could see it-hesitation.

A crack in his certainty.

Because she was right.

For all his anger, for all his hatred, he hadn't killed her.

Because something inside him-something buried deep beneath his vengeance-wasn't sure.

Dante stepped back, his expression unreadable. "You're good," he murmured, voice almost amused.

Alina clenched her fists. "This isn't a game, Dante."

"Everything is a game," he corrected. "The question is-do you know how to play?"

Her stomach twisted.

Dante moved toward his desk, picking up a glass of whiskey before leaning against the edge.

He studied her over the rim of his glass, as if deciding something.

Then, he spoke. "Tell me, wife," he drawled, "why were you there that night?"

Alina's blood ran cold.

That night.

The night his sister died.

She had been there. Wrong place, wrong time. But that wasn't enough for Dante. He wanted more.

And he would keep pushing until he got it.

She swallowed hard. "I told you. I was meeting someone."

Dante's lips curved, but there was no humor in it. "Convenient, isn't it? That your meeting happened to be at the same location where my sister was murdered?"

Alina's nails dug into her palms. "I didn't plan that."

"But you were there."

Her throat tightened. "Yes."

Dante studied her in silence, his fingers tapping against the glass.

Then-he tossed the drink aside.

The crystal shattered against the floor, amber liquid spreading like blood across the marble.

Alina flinched, but she didn't move.

Dante exhaled sharply, rubbing his jaw, as if trying to rein himself in.

"I should kill you," he murmured.

Alina's heart pounded, but her voice was steady. "Then why don't you?"

Dante's eyes snapped to hers.

And for the first time-he had no answer.

The air between them crackled with tension. Not just hatred. Something else.

Something neither of them were ready to name.

Then, Dante turned away, heading for the door.

"Go back to your room," he ordered, his voice cold again. "While you still can."

Alina swallowed, but she didn't argue.

Because as much as she hated him, as much as she wanted to fight-

She knew one thing for certain.

Dante Valenti was a man on the edge.

And if she pushed him too far...

She might not survive it.