Chapter 5
794 Words
The Viper’s Kiss
Chapter Five — Coiled Shadows
Dante Moretti never believed in coincidence.
Not in his world. Not with his empire hanging by threads of blood and betrayal.
The rain still hissed along the rooftop as he watched the city breathe beneath him—skyscrapers cutting through fog, headlights streaking like arteries of light. His reflection in the penthouse window stared back—sharp jaw, eyes shadowed with suspicion, the weight of a fractured dynasty pressing into his shoulders.
“Her name isn’t on any database,” Matteo’s voice cut through the quiet, pacing behind him.
Dante didn’t turn. His best friend—his consigliere—knew better than to sugarcoat facts.
“No record of an Aria Santoro born in Milan,” Matteo continued. “No birth certificates, no business licenses outside the forged ones. She’s clean because she’s built to be clean.”
Dante exhaled slowly, fingers brushing the condensation along the glass. “She lied.”
“Obviously.” Matteo crossed the room, dark curls damp from the rain, tailored suit rumpled. “But the question is—what does she want? You bring strangers this close when you already have enemies circling?”
Dante’s jaw flexed. The leak inside his empire was real. The old bloodlines hated him for dismantling their traditions. His father’s death left fractures—alliances teetering, old money sharpening knives.
And now Aria Santoro appeared, all mystery and defiance wrapped in silk.
“I want her watched,” Dante ordered, finally turning. His dark eyes glittered, voice quiet and lethal. “If she’s a threat, we end it.”
Matteo’s brow lifted slightly. “You sure you’ll be objective? The way you looked at her—”
Dante’s glare cut him off.
Desire was irrelevant.
Aria was a puzzle piece dropped onto his board, and puzzles could either complete the picture… or collapse it.
But the undeniable pull between them—the charged heat, the way her lies slid off her tongue with practiced ease—it gnawed at him, familiar and dangerous.
Like history repeating itself.
He wouldn’t be blindsided again.
A knock interrupted the room’s tension.
“Come,” Dante called, sliding his cuffs back into place.
The door opened to reveal Bianca Rosetti.
Every inch of her dripped calculated seduction—crimson silk clinging to curves, blonde hair immaculate, sharp eyes gleaming with entitlement.
“Matteo,” she acknowledged coolly, dismissing him with a glance.
Matteo gave Dante a look that screamed, Handle your mess, before slipping out.
Bianca stalked toward Dante, heels silent on marble.
“You humiliated me,” she accused, voice syrupy but sharp beneath the surface.
Dante poured himself a whiskey, ignoring her theatrics.
“You parade that stray through my club,” Bianca continued, circling him like a vulture, “invite her upstairs, feed her your attention—and expect me to smile?”
“She’s a curiosity,” Dante said simply, sipping the drink. “Nothing more.”
Bianca’s eyes narrowed, the mask of control cracking slightly.
“Costa’s death leaves my family vulnerable. You promised protection. Alliance.” Her voice dipped, coiling like a snake. “You promised me.”
Dante’s jaw tensed. Promises in their world were rarely about love—they were leverage, mergers disguised as matrimony.
But Costa’s death shifted everything.
His old alliances were shaky. Bianca’s desperation reeked of weakness. And in this storm of betrayal, Dante couldn’t afford sentiment—especially not hers.
“You want power,” he stated flatly. “Not me.”
Bianca’s lips curled. “Power is easier to control than a man like you.”
Her fingers grazed his chest, possessive, but Dante caught her wrist, grip steel beneath his tailored calm.
“I control my empire, Bianca,” he warned. “No one else.”
For a breath, tension crackled—her eyes flashing with defiance, desire, calculation.
But she stepped back, smoothing her dress, mask sliding back into place.
“Then control your distractions,” she purred, disappearing into the hall.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Dante drained the whiskey, throat burning.
Aria Santoro wasn’t just a distraction.
She was a spark, and his empire was soaked in gasoline.
His phone buzzed—a text from his security chief.
Surveillance placed. Santoro’s under watch. Your orders?
Dante typed his response, eyes dark with resolve.
Watch her. Report everything. But don’t interfere. Yet.
He needed to see how deep her lies ran.
If she was leverage, he’d use her.
If she was the leak? He’d end her.
And if his instincts—the sharp, gut-deep pull—proved right?
Aria Santoro wasn’t just here to play games.
She was here to burn him down.
And Dante Moretti never lost.
Not without a fight.
- Writer
