I'M HIS ALONE

CHAPTER 10

THE FIRST CRACK

The kiss changed everything.

Bella lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling, her fingers tracing her still-tingling lips. She could still feel Dante's mouth on hers, his hands on her body, the raw hunger in his touch. She had never been kissed like that before—never with such intensity, such possession, such desperate need. Her ex-boyfriend, the engineering student, had been gentle and sweet and thoroughly forgettable. Dante was... not forgettable. Not gentle. Not sweet.

He was a storm, and she was caught in the center of it, spinning out of control.

She hated him for what he had done. For taking her, for disrupting her life, for making her feel things she didn't want to feel. But she couldn't deny the connection between them anymore. It was real, whatever it was—chemical, spiritual, psychological. When he looked at her, she felt seen in a way she never had before. When he touched her, her body responded with a will of its own. When he spoke her name, she felt it in her bones.

Was this Stockholm syndrome? Probably. Did that make it any less real? She didn't know.

Morning came with gray light and a persistent knock on her door. Bella opened it to find Sofia, holding a breakfast tray and wearing a knowing smile.

"I heard about last night," Sofia said, setting the tray on Bella's vanity.

Bella's face flushed. "What do you mean?"

"The kiss, silly. The whole house heard about it. Dante kissed you in his study, and apparently it was so explosive that papers went flying and he walked around the rest of the evening looking like he'd been hit by a truck." Sofia grinned. "Marco's taking bets on how long before you two—"

"Sofia!" Bella's face was burning now.

"What? It's true. My brother has never been like this over anyone. Ever. I've seen supermodels throw themselves at him, actresses, socialites, women who would literally kill to be in his bed. And he never cared. He was always cold, distant, focused on business." Sofia sat on Bella's bed, her expression turning serious. "But you? He looks at you like you're the answer to every question he's ever had. Like you're magic and oxygen and the only thing that matters in the world."

Bella sat down beside her, picking at a croissant she didn't feel like eating. "He's obsessed with me, Sofia. That's not the same as love."

"Isn't it?" Sofia tilted her head. "In our world, obsession is just another word for devotion. Dante doesn't do anything halfway. When he commits, he commits completely. His loyalty, his protection, his love—when he gives it, he gives all of it. And he's giving it to you, Bella. Whether you want it or not."

"That's the problem. I didn't choose this."

"No," Sofia agreed. "You didn't. But maybe... maybe you can choose what happens next."

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of Sofia's words hanging between them.

"I want to show you something," Sofia said finally. "Something that might help you understand my brother better."

She led Bella through the mansion, down hallways Bella hadn't explored, to a wing she hadn't been permitted to enter. They stopped at a door that looked like all the others, but when Sofia opened it, Bella stepped into a room that took her breath away.

It was a nursery. Or it had been, once. The walls were painted a soft blue, decorated with murals of clouds and stars and sailing ships. A wooden crib stood in one corner, draped in dust. Shelves held stuffed animals and picture books, their colors faded with time. A rocking chair sat by the window, and on a small table beside it was a framed photograph.

Bella picked it up. It showed a young Dante—maybe twenty years old—holding a baby with a look of such fierce tenderness that it made her chest ache. He was smiling, really smiling, not the cold, calculated expression she was used to but something genuine and young and full of hope.

"This was his room," Sofia said quietly. "Dante's nursery. Our parents kept it exactly as it was after he grew up, and when they... when they died, Dante couldn't bring himself to change it. He said it was the only place in the house that still felt like them."

"And the baby?" Bella asked, her voice soft.

Sofia smiled sadly. "That was Marco. Dante was twenty when Marco was born—our parents' surprise baby. Dante used to take care of him all the time. He was more of a father to Marco than our own father was." She paused, her eyes distant. "When our parents were killed, Dante was the one who told us. He was twenty, Bella. Just a boy, really. But he held us both and promised that everything would be okay. That he would take care of us. That he would never let anyone hurt us again."

Bella looked around the room, seeing it with new eyes. The faded crib, the dusty toys, the rocking chair where a grieving boy had sat with his infant brother and made promises he was too young to keep. This was where Dante Romano had become the man he was—not in the boardrooms or the back rooms, not in the violence and the power, but in this quiet room filled with memories of a family he had lost too soon.

"He became the Don because he had to," Sofia continued. "Not because he wanted to. Because there was no one else, and because he would do anything—anything—to protect the people he loved. That's who my brother is, Bella. Not the monster. Not the criminal. The boy who sat in this room and swore to keep his family safe, no matter what it cost him."

Bella felt tears prick her eyes. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I want you to see him the way I do." Sofia took her hand, squeezing gently. "Because I think you could be good for him, Bella. I think you could heal parts of him that even I can't reach. And because—" She paused, her voice dropping. "Because I think he could be good for you too, if you let him."

They left the nursery, closing the door on the ghosts of the past. But the image stayed with Bella—the young Dante in the photograph, holding his baby brother with such love and determination. It chipped away at the wall she had built around her heart, revealing the soft, vulnerable center she had been trying so hard to protect.

She found Dante in the garden, sitting on a stone bench near a fountain, his head bowed, his shoulders slumped with a weariness that seemed to age him by decades. He looked up when she approached, and for a moment, she saw the boy in the photograph—the grief, the responsibility, the desperate need to be strong for everyone else.

"Bella," he said, standing. "I was just—"

"I saw the nursery," she interrupted. "Sofia showed me."

Dante went still, his expression shuttering. "She shouldn't have—"

"I'm glad she did." Bella stepped closer, close enough to touch him. "I saw the photograph. You and Marco. You were just a kid, and you were already taking care of everyone."

"Someone had to."

"You didn't have to be the one, Dante. You could have walked away. Let someone else take responsibility."

He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "And leave my baby brother to be raised by strangers? Leave my sister to be claimed by some other family as a pawn in their games? No. I couldn't do that. I would rather have died."

"You became a criminal to protect them."

"I became what I had to become." Dante's eyes met hers, dark and tormented. "I did terrible things, Bella. Things that haunt me. But every time I thought about stopping, about getting out, I looked at Sofia and Marco and I knew—I knew—that the moment I showed weakness, the vultures would descend. So I built walls. I built an empire. I became the most feared man in New York, because fear was the only thing that kept my family safe."

Bella reached out, her hand resting on his chest, feeling his heart beat beneath her palm. "And now?"

"And now I'm tired," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Tired of the violence, the paranoia, the constant need to be stronger and harder and more ruthless than everyone else. I look at you, Bella, and I see... peace. I see a life that isn't ruled by blood and money. I see something worth being better for."

"Dante—"

"I know you don't love me. I know you probably never will. But please—" He caught her hand, bringing it to his lips, pressing a kiss to her palm. "Please, just let me try. Let me show you that I can be more than the man who took you. Let me show you that somewhere under all this darkness, there's someone worth saving."

Bella looked at him—the crime lord, the kidnapper, the broken boy who had shouldered too much too young—and felt the final wall around her heart crumble into dust.

"Okay," she whispered. "Show me."

Dante's eyes widened, hope blooming in their gray depths like the first light of dawn. "Bella—"

"But I'm not promising anything," she added quickly. "I'm not saying I forgive you, or that I want to be with you, or that any of this is okay. I'm just saying... I'm willing to see. To try. To give you the chance you've been asking for."

It wasn't much. It wasn't forgiveness, or acceptance, or love. But it was a crack in the door, a sliver of light in the darkness, a promise of possibility.

And for Dante Romano, who had spent his entire life taking what he wanted by force, it was the most precious gift anyone had ever given him.

He pulled her into his arms, holding her like she was fragile and precious and infinitely dear. And for the first time since she had arrived at the Romano estate, Bella let herself relax into his embrace, let herself feel the safety and warmth of his body, let herself wonder if maybe—just maybe—there was more to this man than the monster she had first believed him to be.

The first crack had formed in her defenses. And as Dante held her in the garden, surrounded by flowers and fountains and the first golden light of morning, Bella realized that she was no longer sure she wanted to repair it.

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