I'M HIS ALONE

CHAPTER 11

ACT TWO: THE TEMPTATION

THE DINNER

The days that followed Bella's tentative acceptance of Dante's courtship were filled with a strange, electric tension. They were no longer simply captor and captive, but they weren't quite lovers either. They existed in a liminal space charged with possibility, where every glance held meaning and every touch lingered longer than necessary.

Dante threw himself into winning her over with the same intensity he applied to everything else. Each morning, she woke to find fresh flowers on her nightstand—roses one day, peonies the next, exotic orchids that must have cost a fortune. He had meals prepared according to her preferences, remembered every detail she mentioned in passing, and filled the library with art history texts he had sourced from dealers around the world.

But it was the evenings that undid her.

Every night, they had dinner together, and each dinner was more elaborate than the last. Dante would dress in suits that probably cost more than her tuition, pour wine that aged longer than she had been alive, and engage her in conversations that ranged from philosophy to art to the most intimate details of their lives. He was seducing her, Bella knew—systematically, thoroughly, with a patience that was as terrifying as it was flattering.

Tonight's dinner was served in the conservatory, a glass-walled room filled with tropical plants and the soft music of a hidden string quartet. Candles floated in glass bowls on the table, casting flickering shadows across Dante's sharp features as he watched her eat.

"Tell me about your mother," he said, the question catching her off guard.

Bella set down her fork, her appetite suddenly gone. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything. What she looked like, how she smelled, what she loved." Dante's voice was soft, his expression open. "I want to know what made her special to you."

Bella was quiet for a moment, remembering. "She was beautiful. Not in a conventional way—she had laugh lines around her eyes and gray in her hair that she never tried to hide. But she was... luminous. When she smiled, the whole room felt warmer." She paused, a small smile touching her lips. "She loved gardening. Our apartment had this tiny balcony, and she filled it with plants—tomatoes, herbs, flowers. She said growing things reminded her that life always finds a way."

"She sounds remarkable."

"She was." Bella's throat tightened. "When she got sick—cancer, stage four by the time they found it—she never complained. Not once. She just... kept going. Kept smiling. Kept telling Dad and me that everything would be okay." She blinked back tears. "She died holding my hand. Her last words were 'I love you, my brave girl.'"

Dante reached across the table, taking her hand in his. "You are brave, Bella. The bravest person I've ever met."

"I'm not brave. I'm just... surviving."

"That's what bravery is, little one. Survival in the face of impossible odds." His thumb traced circles on her palm, sending shivers up her arm. "Your mother would be proud of you."

Bella looked at him, this dangerous man who had stolen her away, and saw something she hadn't expected—genuine empathy, real compassion, a capacity for tenderness that contradicted everything she knew about him.

"What about your parents?" she asked. "You never talk about them."

Dante's expression shifted, becoming guarded. "There's not much to say. They were good people. Strong, loyal, devoted to the family. My father was Don before me—a fair man, respected by everyone. My mother was the heart of our home. She made the best lasagna in New York, and she had this laugh..." He trailed off, his jaw tightening. "When they were killed, something broke in me. Something I don't think can ever be fixed."

"How did they die?"

"Ambush. A rival family—the Morettis—wanted our territory. They set a trap, gunned my parents down outside a restaurant in Little Italy." Dante's voice was flat, controlled, but Bella could see the pain in his eyes, the way his grip on her hand tightened. "I was twenty. Sofia was fifteen. Marco was just a baby. And suddenly, I was the head of the family. The Don. The one everyone looked to for answers I didn't have."

"I'm sorry," Bella whispered. "I'm so sorry, Dante."

"Don't be. It was a long time ago." But his voice said otherwise. "I got revenge, of course. The Morettis don't exist anymore. I made sure of that. But revenge doesn't bring people back. It doesn't fill the hole they leave behind."

The string quartet played on, a mournful melody that matched the mood. Bella felt something shift between them—a deepening, a connection forged in shared loss and mutual understanding. She had lost her mother. He had lost his parents. They were both carrying grief like stones in their hearts.

"Dante," she said softly, "why did you really take me? Not the debt, not the obsession. The real reason."

He was silent for a long moment, his eyes searching hers. Then he spoke, his voice raw and honest.

"Because when I saw you, I felt something I hadn't felt in years. Hope. The hope that maybe, just maybe, there was something in this world worth being soft for. Worth protecting instead of conquering." He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "You remind me of her, you know. My mother. She was strong too. Fierce. She didn't take anyone's bullshit, least of all my father's." A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "She would have liked you."

Bella felt her heart crack open, just a little. "Would she have approved of you kidnapping me?"

Dante laughed, the sound genuine and warm. "No. She would have smacked me upside the head and told me to court you properly. Flowers, dinners, meeting your father like a gentleman." He paused, his expression turning serious. "She would have been right, too. I should have done this differently. Should have met you the right way, won you the right way. But Bella—" His eyes burned into hers. "The moment I saw you, I knew I couldn't risk losing you to someone else. To time, to circumstance, to the million things that could have kept us apart. I had to have you. I have to have you."

"That's obsession, Dante. Not love."

"Maybe they're the same thing." He stood, rounding the table to stand beside her chair. "Maybe love is just obsession with better PR."

Bella looked up at him, this beautiful, broken man who wanted her with a ferocity that frightened and fascinated her in equal measure. She should have pushed him away. Should have maintained her distance, her anger, her sense of moral superiority.

Instead, she stood, and before she could second-guess herself, she kissed him.

It was different from the kiss in his study—softer, slower, more tentative. A question rather than a demand. Bella's hands came up to rest on his chest, feeling his heart race beneath her palms, and Dante responded with a reverence that made her knees weak. He kissed her like she was sacred, like she was fragile, like she was the most precious thing he had ever touched.

"Bella," he breathed against her lips. "Tell me to stop. Please, if you're going to stop me, do it now. Because if you don't, I don't think I can."

She didn't stop him. She pulled him closer.

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