Chapter 7 Warnings
965 Words
Sera’s POV
I didn’t sleep.
Not really. I tossed, turned, punched my pillow, counted backwards from a hundred like a kid, and still, every time I closed my eyes, he was there.
Dante Moretti.
The way he stepped out of the shadows outside the music building was like he’d been waiting just for me. The way his voice wrapped around my name like silk hiding a knife. The way he looked at me was like I was already his.
I should hate him. I do hate him.
So why does my skin still tingle where his hand caught mine in the library?
The morning sun glares off Valencia University’s brick buildings as I shuffle across campus, clutching my coffee like a lifeline. My reflection in the window of the music hall is a mess, with dark circles under my eyes, hair half-tamed in a braid, and clothes rumpled from oversleeping.
If I could erase yesterday, I would.
But I can’t. And something tells me Dante Moretti won’t let me.
“Girl, you look like death.”
I blink and find Marisol sliding into step beside me. She’s my closest friend here, another scholarship kid, another outsider. Where I keep my head down, Marisol paints hers neon. Today it’s streaks of electric pink running through her curls, paired with ripped jeans and combat boots. She thrives on standing out.
I envy her for it.
“Thanks,” I mutter, sipping my coffee.
She raises a brow. “So, who’s haunting your dreams? And don’t say midterms. You don’t look stressed. You look… wrecked.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “It’s nothing.”
Her eyes widen. Then she gasps, clutching my arm. “Oh my God. It’s him, isn’t it?”
I stiffen. “Who?”
“Don’t play dumb with me. Dante freaking Moretti. I saw him sitting at your table in the library last night. Half the campus saw. You looked like you wanted to throw your pen at his head.”
My stomach knots. “I should have.”
“Why was he even talking to you?” She stops dead in the middle of the quad, forcing me to stop too. “Wait. Don’t tell me. He wants something, doesn’t he? That’s the only reason Dante Moretti talks to anyone who isn’t already in his bed or on his team.”
I glance around nervously, but no one’s close enough to overhear. Still, my voice drops. “He wants me to tutor him.”
Marisol’s jaw drops. Then she laughs so loud that a couple walking past glare at us. “You’re kidding. You. Tutor him.”
“It’s not funny.”
“Oh, it’s hilarious.” She clutches her side. “The mafia prince can throw a ball ninety-five miles an hour but can’t pass Intro to Music Theory? Jesus, this school writes its own soap operas.”
I glare, but the corner of my mouth twitches despite myself.
Her laughter dies as fast as it started. She studies me, her expression sobering. “You didn’t say yes, did you?”
“No.”
“Good.” She exhales, relieved. “Because, Sera… Dante isn’t a joke. People talk. You know what his family is, right?”
Everyone knows, whispers in the cafeteria. Rumours were traded in the dorms. His last name is sharp enough to slice through Valencia’s polished walls.
I nod. “Mafia.”
“Not just mafia. Moretti.” Her voice drops lower. “That family doesn’t play games. You help him once, you’ll never get rid of him.”
Her words echo the warning already carved into my gut.
But still, my heart betrays me with its quickened pace. Because some dangerous part of me remembers the heat in his eyes, the way he said I excited him, the way his presence lit me up like no one ever has.
“I can handle it,” I whisper.
Marisol’s brows shoot up. “Handle him? Babe, no one handles Dante Moretti. He handles you. That’s what scares me.”
We split off for class, but her warning trails after me like a shadow. I sink into my usual back-row seat, pretending to focus on the professor’s droning voice. My notebook lies open, blank.
All I can think about is him.
The way the entire room shifts when he walks in, how guys give him space without being told, how girls’ eyes follow him like he’s gravity. He doesn’t even have to try.
And me? I’m the i***t who told him no.
My pulse spikes when I catch his profile from across the room. Strong jaw, loose hoodie, careless confidence. He doesn’t look at me. Not once. But I can feel it. That tension is humming under my skin like static.
He’s giving me space, for now.
And that terrifies me more than when he’s in my face.
By evening, I’m back in the dorm, sprawled across my bed with my laptop open. Homework blurs on the screen, unread. Marisol is humming in the shower, steam fogging the edges of the bathroom mirror.
I close my eyes, but instead of silence, I hear him.
“You’ll wish you’d said yes sooner.”
My thighs press together without permission, shame flooding me at the way my body reacts to his voice in memory alone.
God, what’s wrong with me? He’s dangerous. He’s arrogant. He’s mafia.
He’s everything I should run from.
And yet, the thought of him makes me feel alive in a way nothing else does.
I bury my face in the pillow, groaning into the fabric. “Get out of my head, Moretti.”
But even as I say it, I know it’s useless.
Because Dante isn’t leaving.
And worse, I’m not sure I want him to.
- Writer
