Chapter 4 Episode 4

Dante didn't return to the office that night.

I waited, not because I wanted to see him-but because I wanted answers. I wanted to make sense of the man I was bound to, and for a fleeting moment, I thought we might've had... something real. A glimpse. A flicker.

But then the sun rose, and I was still alone.

Again.

I hated how easily he could disappear. How he made me feel like I was the only one emotionally drowning in this arrangement. I hated even more that despite all the bitterness, I was beginning to look for him in shadows. Wondering if he thought of me at all.

---

The next morning, I decided to reclaim my mind.

I needed to do something-anything-to distract myself from the black hole of silence and solitude.

I wandered into the library again. This time, I didn't just skim the titles. I traced my fingers across the spines, looking for something-something not about power or mafia or legacy. Something human.

And then I found it.

A book of Italian poetry. Old. The leather was worn, the pages brittle.

I tucked it under my arm and headed for the garden.

The garden was the only place in this mansion that felt alive. The roses had been trimmed to perfection, but there were wild vines curling up the fence in rebellion-like they didn't care what the gardeners wanted. I liked that.

I sat in a shaded spot beneath a massive olive tree and opened the book.

I lost track of time.

The poetry wrapped around me like a balm. The metaphors, the aching words-it reminded me that passion existed somewhere. That even if I couldn't feel it yet, it was real.

"Interesting choice."

His voice shattered my peace like glass.

Dante.

I hadn't even heard him approach.

He stood just beyond the edge of sunlight, dressed in dark slacks and a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms.

Effortless. Dangerous. Beautiful.

He stepped closer. "Didn't peg you for the poetry type."

I closed the book but didn't stand. "Didn't peg you for someone who'd stock it in his library."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips.

"I didn't," he said. "That belonged to my mother."

The words threw me.

He sat down opposite me on the stone bench, just far enough that our knees wouldn't touch.

"I didn't know your mother liked poetry," I said.

"She used to read it to me when I couldn't sleep," he said. "Especially when the world got loud."

"Was the world always loud for you?"

He looked at me for a moment too long. "Louder than you could imagine."

---

There was a shift.

Not in him.

In me.

I didn't want to feel something for him, but... I was beginning to.

His silence wasn't always cold. Sometimes it was heavy. As if he was carrying things he didn't know how to put down.

I opened the book again, turned it toward him. "Read me something then."

He raised an eyebrow. "You're giving orders now?"

"Just one."

He hesitated-but took the book.

And then he read.

His voice was low, steady, surprisingly intimate as he recited a poem about longing and loss. The words sounded like silk in his accent. Like secrets he hadn't meant to share.

When he finished, I realized I'd been holding my breath.

He closed the book. Looked at me.

Neither of us said anything for a beat too long.

"You should eat," he finally said, standing.

"That's your go-to exit line, huh?"

He gave a small laugh-almost bitter. "No. Just a reminder that I know how stubborn you are."

---

That night, I didn't eat dinner in the dining room alone.

We sat across from each other for the first time. He poured the wine himself. Served my plate. We didn't talk much, but there was a shift in the air.

Something was softening.

Or breaking.

---

The days that followed were strange.

He was still absent more often than not. But when he was around, he noticed things.

He asked if I was sleeping. If I needed anything. He even brought me a new book one evening and left it on my nightstand without a word.

A small gesture. But it meant more than I wanted to admit.

And I found myself watching him too.

He didn't just rule from behind his desk. He worked late. He had endless phone calls. He paced when he was angry. He drank more coffee than any man should.

And late at night, when he thought no one could hear... he played music.

Real music.

Old jazz. Slow, haunting, raw.

There was something about him that didn't fit the hardened mold I'd imagined.

He was broken in ways I hadn't figured out yet.

And I was starting to wonder if we were both just pretending to be whole.

---

One evening, while walking through the hall, I overheard a conversation.

Two men in the foyer. One of them was Luca-Dante's right-hand man.

"She's just a girl," Luca said. "What harm could she do?"

"That's exactly why she's dangerous," the other man replied. "You don't see it yet, but she's changing him."

My blood ran cold.

They were talking about me.

"She's not a threat," Luca insisted.

"She's a distraction. He can't afford that right now."

There was silence. Then footsteps. I slipped around the corner before they could see me.

---

That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, my heart pounding.

I had no idea what they meant.

Change him how?

And why was it a problem?

Was I being watched?

Used?

I didn't feel like a pawn anymore. I felt like a bomb ticking in the center of a very delicate arrangement.

And Dante?

Was he pretending to care?

---

The next morning, I demanded answers.

I waited in the study until he returned from a meeting, arms crossed, defiant.

"Are you using me?" I asked as soon as he entered.

His expression didn't change. But the room did. The air thickened.

"Define using," he said.

I walked toward him. "Am I just another tactic to win over the council? To convince everyone you've changed?"

His eyes darkened. "You're my wife."

"That doesn't answer the question."

He stepped forward, slow. Controlled.

"I didn't ask for this marriage," he said. "But I'm not pretending to care."

I froze.

"You don't care," I whispered.

He leaned in, close enough for me to feel the heat of his breath.

"Don't mistake restraint for indifference, Giulia," he said. "I haven't touched you because I respect the war inside you. But make no mistake... I see you. And I feel every second of this tension."

My pulse spiked.

"You don't know me," I said.

"Then let me."

His hand hovered near my cheek-but he didn't touch me.

We stood like that, breathless, neither giving in.

Until he finally walked away.

Leaving me aching.

---

That night, I couldn't sleep.

I stared at the spot beside me in bed, still empty, still cold.

And then, just before midnight, the door creaked open.

Dante stepped inside.

Said nothing.

Just walked over, removed his jacket, and sat on the edge of the bed.

"I won't touch you," he said. "Not until you ask me to."

My breath caught.

"But I won't keep pretending this is just politics."

And then he lay down beside me.

Not touching.

But close enough that the silence felt intimate.

And for the first time, I wasn't afraid of falling asleep next to him.

I was afraid of wanting to.