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The rain hadn't stopped for hours. It poured like the sky was trying to drown the city.
Alina stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of Dante's penthouse, staring down at the slick, shining streets below. Her reflection in the glass looked ghostly - like a woman who didn't belong to either world.
Behind her, Dante stood silent, watching her more closely than he watched the city.
"You never told me why you really came to the club that night," he said, voice low.
She didn't turn. "I could ask you the same."
"I own the place," he said.
She turned slowly. "Exactly. You could be anywhere in the world, but you sit in that dark corner every night like a man waiting to be punished."
Dante stepped closer. "Maybe I am."
Their eyes locked.
The room was dim, the only light coming from the city below and the lightning flashing in the distance. Shadows danced across his face, softening the hard edges. For a moment, he looked almost... human.
"I should hate you," Alina said, her voice nearly a whisper.
"You do," he replied, inching closer. "But you're still here."
She didn't move. Neither did he.
Her breath hitched as he reached up, gently brushing a strand of wet hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered against her cheek, tracing the curve of her jaw.
"You're playing with fire, bella," he murmured.
"I thought you liked fire," she whispered back.
"I like control."
They were inches apart now.
Her heart pounded in her chest. Not because she feared him - but because she didn't. Not anymore.
Her mission. Her father. The blood.
Everything screamed Don't trust him.
But her body... her body leaned in.
And for one impossible second, she thought he was going to kiss her.
His hand slid to the back of her neck, warm and steady. His lips brushed against hers - barely - and her eyes fluttered shut.
But then...
She pulled back.
Not because she didn't want it.
Because she wanted it too much.
"I can't," she whispered, stepping away. "Not yet."
Dante's eyes darkened, but not with anger.
With restraint.
He took a slow breath, then nodded once. "I won't force what's not ready."
She nodded, lips trembling.
But before she turned away, he added softly:
"You don't owe me trust, Alina. But you owe yourself the truth."
Her chest tightened.
The truth was a dangerous thing.
And she didn't know how long she could hide from it.
Later that night, she lay awake in the guest room he gave her - staring at the ceiling, heart racing.
She almost kissed him.
The man she believed murdered her father.
The man who, with a single word, could end her life.
But his touch didn't feel like danger.
It felt like safety.
And that scared her more than anything.
Tomorrow, she told herself.
Tomorrow she would dig deeper.
Find proof. Expose him. End this.
But deep down, a darker question whispered:
What if he isn't the villain?
What if I am?