Chapter 7: A Stolen Dance

The gala was a glittering cage.

Crystal chandeliers dripped light over a sea of black tuxedos and jewel-toned gowns, the air thick with expensive perfume and the hollow laughter of people who had never known a real problem. I stood at Dante’s side, my hand resting in the crook of his arm, my smile a frozen mask.

He’d dressed me himself. Well, *had me dressed*. A blood-red gown that clung to every curve, slit to the thigh, backless. A collar of diamonds that felt more like a leash. Every step I took, the fabric whispered against my skin like a warning.

“Smile, *tesoro*,” Dante murmured, his lips brushing my ear as he guided me through the crowd. “You look like you’re attending a funeral.”

“I’d rather be,” I said, my voice low.

His laugh was a dark, velvet thing. “That can be arranged.”

He said it so casually. So easily. And the worst part—the part that made my stomach twist—was that I believed him. I’d seen what he did to the man who’d tried to take his territory last week. I’d seen the blood on his hands when he came home, the way he’d washed it away like it was nothing.

But I’d also seen him collapse. I’d seen the poison take him down, and I’d held the paper with Vincenzo’s number in my trembling fingers. I hadn’t called. Not yet. But the weight of it sat in my pocket like a stone.

“You’re thinking about him,” Dante said, his voice a razor’s edge.

I blinked. “What?”

“Vincenzo. You’re thinking about him.” His grip on my hand tightened, just shy of painful. “I can see it in your eyes. That little flicker of hope.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He stopped walking, turning to face me fully. The crowd parted around us, a river flowing around a stone. His eyes were coal-black, burning with an intensity that made my breath catch.

“You think I didn’t see you take the paper?” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “You think I didn’t know?”

The air left my lungs. “Dante, I—”

“Don’t.” He lifted a hand, tracing the line of my jaw with a feather-light touch. “Don’t lie to me, Liora. It’s the one thing I won’t forgive.”

My heart hammered against my ribs. The music shifted, a slow, sultry waltz filling the ballroom. Dante’s hand slid from my jaw to my waist, pulling me flush against him.

“Dance with me,” he said. It wasn’t a request.

“I don’t want to dance.”

“I know.” He smiled, and it was all teeth. “That’s why I’m asking.”

His hand pressed against the small of my back, and I had no choice but to move with him. The world spun in a blur of silk and champagne, but all I could see was him. All I could feel was the heat of his body, the steady thrum of his heartbeat against mine.

“You’re a terrible dancer,” I said, my voice breathless.

“I’m a terrible everything,” he replied, his lips brushing my temple. “But you knew that when you married me.”

“I didn’t marry you. I was bought.”

The words hung between us, sharp and jagged. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t stop moving. If anything, he pulled me closer, until there was no space left between us.

“You were bought,” he agreed, his voice low and rough. “But that doesn’t mean you have to be a prisoner.”

I laughed, a bitter, broken sound. “What would you call it, then?”

“A partnership.” His eyes met mine, and for a moment—just a moment—I saw something flicker there. Something almost human. “You think I wanted this? Any of this?” He gestured vaguely at the glittering crowd. “I was born into this world, Liora. I didn’t choose it. But I chose *you*.”

“You chose me because I was cheaper than a hitman.”

“I chose you because you were the only one who looked at me like a man instead of a monster.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. I stumbled, and he caught me, his arms wrapping around me as the song swelled. For a moment, we were just two people in a sea of strangers, tangled in a dance that meant nothing and everything.

“Dante,” I started, but he shook his head.

“Don’t.” His voice was barely a whisper. “Don’t say anything. Just—let me have this.”

And I did. God help me, I let him hold me. I let myself melt into his arms, the scent of his cologne filling my senses, the warmth of his body chasing away the chill of the night. For one stolen moment, I forgot about the blood on his hands. I forgot the paper in my pocket. I forgot everything except the way his heart beat against mine, fast and fierce and achingly alive.

But the moment didn’t last.

The music stopped. The crowd applauded. And Dante’s grip on my waist loosened, his expression shuttering back into that cold, calculating mask.

“Go to the ladies’ room,” he said, his voice flat. “Fix your lipstick. I have business to attend to.”

He turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd without a backward glance. And I stood there, surrounded by strangers, my heart pounding in my chest.

I walked toward the restroom, my heels clicking against the marble floor. But I didn’t go in. I turned down a side corridor instead, my hand slipping into my pocket.

The paper was still there. Vincenzo’s number.

My fingers closed around it.

And then I saw him.

Dante stood at the end of the hallway, his back to me, a phone pressed to his ear. His voice was low, but in the silence of the empty corridor, I could hear every word.

“Find him,” he said. “Find Vincenzo, and bring him to me. Alive.”

My blood turned to ice.

“I want to do it myself.”