I had time.
That night, alone in my bedroom one floor below hers, I dreamed of her.
She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her back straight, chin lifted. Her modest dress clung to her curves, the fabric doing little to hide thewildness beneath. Her auburn hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her eyes—those fiery, defiant eyes—met mine with a storm of anger and desire. I could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands clenched into fists. She was a caged animal, and I was the hunter.
“You think you can keep me here?” she spat, her voice trembling with a mix of fury and something else—something that made my pulse quicken.
I smirked, closing the distance between us with slow, measured steps. “You’re not a prisoner, Julietta. You’re an obsession.”
Before she could respond, I grabbed her wrist, my grip firm but not cruel. I pulled her to her feet, her body pressing against mine, her breath hitching as my hand slid up her thigh, beneath the hem of her dress. Her skin was warm, her muscles tense under my touch, but I could feel the tremor running through her body, a silent admission of her desire.
“Let go of me,” she hissed, but her voice lacked conviction. Her words were a mask, a flimsy barrier she hoped would protect her from the truth.
I ignored her, my lips brushing against her ear. “You want this as much as I do.”
Julietta’s breath caught, her body softening against mine, the tension draining from her limbs. I turned her, pressing her against the bed, my hands roaming over her body like a conqueror mapping his territory. Her dress fell to the floor, pooling there, revealing the lace-trimmed lingerie she wore beneath. Lingerie that I’d purchased, made sure was in her suite. Hoped she’d be wearing when she finally gave in. I traced the edges with my fingers, my touch deliberate, teasing, a promise of what was to come.
“Dante,” she whispered, her voice breaking, a plea and a surrender wrapped into one.
I smirked, my lips finding the curve of her neck. “Say it again.”
“Dante,” she repeated, almost a plea this time, a thread of sound that sent a shiver down my spine.
I kissed my way down her body, my tongue tracing the line of her collarbone, the swell of her breasts. Her hands tangled in my hair, her nails digging into my scalp as I teased her nipples with my tongue, my teeth. She moaned, arching her back, her body responding to my touch despite her defiance.
“Fuck,” she gasped, her voice thick with need.
I grinned against her skin, my hands sliding down to the edge of her panties. I hooked my fingers, pulling them down slowly, my eyes never leaving hers. Her pussy was wet, glistening in the moonlight, and I groaned at the sight.
“So fucking beautiful,” I murmured, my lips brushing against her core.
She gasped as my tongue dipped into her, tasting her sweetness. I teased her clit, my fingers sliding into her tight, wet heat. She moaned, her hips bucking against my mouth, her hands gripping the sheets. Her body was a symphony, and I was the conductor, guiding her toward the crescendo.
“Dante, please,” she begged, her voice desperate.
I smirked, pulling away, my cock throbbing with need. I shed my clothes, my eyes never leaving hers. Her gaze dropped to my dick, her lips parting in anticipation. I was hard, my length thick and veins pulsing with desire.
I positioned myself at her entrance, my tip teasing her wetness. “Ready for me?”
She nodded, her breath coming in short gasps.
I woke hard and furious, my cock aching, her scream still ringing in my ears from the reality of the penthouse above me.
I slammed my palm against the headboard, cracking the mahogany.
Unacceptable.
She was leverage. Pure and simple. Lorenzo had built his empire on calculated moves and strategic alliances. Now his daughter—his most valuable asset—was in my hands.
I'd demand the northern distribution routes. The ones he'd been expanding into for the past eighteen months, encroaching on territory I'd claimed first. He'd refuse, of course. Men like Lorenzo didn't negotiate from weakness.
But when his rivals learned he couldn't even protect his own daughter? When the Altieri name became synonymous with failure? He'd come crawling back, offering me whatever I wanted just to save face.
She was a tool. A means to break her father's empire. Nothing more.
Except I was already planning how to keep her.
I got out of bed and moved to the window, looking out at the city sprawling below me like a conquered kingdom. Somewhere in that maze of steel and shadow, Lorenzo Altieri was making calls, moving resources, searching for his daughter.
