Trapped somewhere I can’t follow.
Another sound escapes him. Worse than the first. A name, ripped from somewhere so deep it sounds like it’s being torn out against his will.
The sound settles into my chest like a splinter.
I’ve heard him have nightmares before. Through walls, on late nights at the compound when I was working for my father. The ragged screams that no one acknowledged come morning. The staff moving quieter the next day, giving him space, pretending they hadn’t heard their Don breaking apart in the dark.
I never thought I’d be this close to it.
His body jerks against the mattress. Fighting phantoms. His fists claw at the sheets.
Eighteen inches of rumpled cotton separate us. And that invisible line we’ve both pretended was sacred.
My palm moves before I can stop it.
Across the space between us. Across the line.
I flatten it over his heart.
He’s burning. His heartbeat slams into my skin hard enough to bruise. Beneath my touch, every muscle is locked so tight he might as well be carved from marble.
“Dante.” His name tears out of me. Urgent and unguarded. Nothing like the measured tones I’ve practiced my whole life. Nothing like the cautious daughter I was. The practical one. “Come back.”
His eyes fly open.
Wild. Violent in the moonlight. Pupils blown wide, seeing a threat that isn’t me.
For a single terrible heartbeat, this is the man who kills. The Don. The monster under the bed in the flesh.
I don’t move.
His focus searches the darkness. Lost and feral. Then it finds my face. The violence drains from his shoulders degree by degree. His jaw unlocks. The hard line of his expression goes slack, and his brows draw together the way a child’s would.
He blinks once. Twice. His pupils contract.
And then he’s just looking at me with nothing between us. No composure. No walls. Just him.
He’s here. He’s back.
“Breathe.” The word leaves me soft. Instinctive.
His chest expands under my palm. Once. Twice. Following my instruction like it’s the only anchor he has.
“You were dreaming.” A whisper.
“I know.” Sand over gravel. Wrecked.
My palm is still on his chest. His heart slowing beneath it. I should pull back. Retreat to my side. Pretend the line still exists.
I don’t.
He doesn’t push me away.
The seconds stretch. His breathing evening out. His focus on mine, unblinking, stripped bare.
His hand moves. Slow, like he’s fighting himself every inch. Like reaching for me is the hardest thing he’s ever done. His fingers close over mine. Press my palm harder against his chest. Hold me there like I’m the only thing keeping him anchored to the world.
Neither of us speaks.
