Chapter 7
Dante
Matteo’s irritating laughter echoes through the empty apartment Lucia calls home. If you can even call this a home. It has four walls, a mattress on the floor, and a kitchen that’s never held more than a cup of coffee and a single plate.
She lives here, sleeps here, and breathes in this air, yet there isn’t a single spark of her personality in the dimly lit studio apartment.
A pang of regret slices through my chest.
I hate seeing how she lives. Lucia, the woman with so much fire in her eyes that she destroyed my emotional armor with one sultry swing of her hips, has reduced herself to a bare-bones existence.
Her mattress is on the floor, for fuck’s sake. It’s wrong. It’s beneath her. And the worst part—the part that makes that ugly thing inside me coil tighter—is knowing she chose this.
During negotiations to purchasePepenero Privè, I reviewed staff earnings. Before I made staff turn away any customer who wanted to see Cici, Lucia was the club’s highest-paid dancer. Her wage alone, minus tips, should have her living in a luxury penthouse with views for miles, so why does she choose to live a disposable life?
She deserves better.
How can she not see that she deserves safety, comfort, and more than four walls behind a lock that was kicked in with one blow?
The ease of access to her space makes me feel primal and possessive. She should have more. I could give her more. But instead, she ran.
That memory burns hotter than I care to admit.
It isn’t solely anger singeing through my veins. It isn’t even frustration. It’s the sickening realization she’s surviving, not living.
And she’s doing it alone.
She was so fucking scared she couldn’t trust me to stay when I accidentally used the name I got from her dental records. That’s what curls my hands into fists. Not the emptiness of the apartment, but the emptiness she must feel living in it.
Matteo wheezes again, doubling over as he points at the hem of my trousers, which are a good four inches above my ankles.
“Shut the fuck up, Matteo.” I tug at my pants, praying they’ll magically stretch. “It isn’t my fault.”
“It absolutely is,” Nico says, because someone has to be the voice of reason in this circus. “You let her take your pants.”
“I didn’t let her,” I snap. “She stole them.”
Matteo loses it again. He slides down the wall until he’s sitting on the dusty floor, wiping tears from his eyes. “She took them because she thought it would slow you down. And look at you. She was right.”
I glare at him, but it does nothing to ease his chuckles. “You could’ve gotten me pants that fit.”
“I could have,” Matteo agrees, grinning like the devil himself. “But where’s the fun in that?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, fighting not to fracture Matteo’s. “If you had walked a little further down the corridor, I wouldn’t look like an idiot. Elio is a foot shorter than me, so why the fuck did you bring me his pants?”
Matteo shrugs, all innocent. “I didn’t want to wake Camille.”
“Bullshit.”
I don’t elaborate on my reply. He knows he’s full of shit. He doesn’t even bother pretending for more than a second. Matteo thrives onchaos. He’s the definition of the wild middle child—born to stir trouble, poke bears, and set fires just to see what burns.
And the worst part? He’s good at it.
“You live in a separate wing of the compound as Camille and me,” I remind him. “You could’ve grabbed a pair ofyourpants. You wear the same size as me, and you wouldn’t have disturbed Camille.”
He smirks. “I guess I could have, but again, where’s the fun in that?”
I don’t dignify that with a response. I mostly refuse because I can’t be fucked wasting my breath, but also because Camille is the one thing in this world I’d drop everything for without hesitation. If his loud stomps had awoken her, I wouldn’t be here, rummaging through Lucia’s minimal belongings.
