When I Saw Him, I Dropped My Mask

Chapter 2: His Hand in the Dark

"Welcome home, Ashley."

The words hung in the air, a silken noose tightening around my throat.

The surrounding Capos chuckled politely, raising their glasses, assuming the Don's words were nothing more than a gracious, if intensely delivered, mafia pleasantry. Only I knew it was a death sentence to the quiet, civilian life I had so desperately built.

Leo beamed beside me, his chest puffing out with unwarranted pride. He gripped my elbow and guided me toward the chairs a terrified servant had just pulled out. By some cruel twist of fate—or, more likely, Dante's explicit, unspoken command—we were seated at the very top of the long table. I was placed in the chair immediately to Dante's right, while Leo sat to my right.

Trapped. I was utterly trapped between my oblivious fiancé and the most dangerous man in the western hemisphere.

The clinking of crystal and silver resumed, filling the vast, opulent room. Course after course of decadent Italian cuisine was brought out by silent staff. Blood-rare Florentine steak, truffles, rivers of vintage Barolo. The air grew thick with the heavy scent of roasted meat, expensive perfume, and the sharp tang of impending violence that always accompanied a gathering of Cosa Nostra bosses.

I stared blindly at my plate, my appetite entirely obliterated.

To my right, Leo was already in his element, desperately attempting to insert himself into a conversation about the port authorities with a scarred Capo seated across from him. As he spoke, I noticed Leo's eyes drifting further down the table.

Sofia was there, draped in crimson silk, her dark hair tumbling over her bare shoulders. She caught Leo's gaze and offered a slow, deliberate smirk, trailing a manicured finger around the rim of her champagne flute. Leo's pupils dilated. He leaned forward, completely absorbed by his mistress and his own desperate ambition, turning his back slightly toward me.

He was leaving me completely exposed.

I took a shaky breath and reached for my water glass.

That was when I felt it.

The firm, unyielding leather of a bespoke dress shoe brushed against my bare ankle under the table.

I froze, the glass halfway to my lips. My heart performed a violent, panicked stutter. I instinctively pulled my leg back, tucking my feet securely beneath my own chair.

A second passed. I exhaled, telling myself it was an accident. A mere brush in close quarters.

But then the shoe invaded my space again, moving with deliberate, predatory precision. It slid up my calf, the smooth leather gliding against my skin with a shocking heat.

The man beside me didn't miss a beat in his conversation.

"The shipment from the Palermo docks arrives on Tuesday," Dante's voice washed over me, a dark, gravelly baritone that vibrated straight through my bones. "I want extra men on the perimeter. The Russians have been getting bold."

Under the heavy, floor-length tablecloth, his foot hooked around the back of my ankle, pinning my leg against the thick wooden pedestal of the table. I gritted my teeth, my fingers turning white as I gripped my napkin in my lap.

Then, with agonizing slowness, the toe of his shoe slid down to the heel of my silver stiletto. He applied a precise amount of pressure, expertly prying the shoe off my foot. It dropped soundlessly onto the plush Persian rug.

My breath hitched, a tiny, fractured sound that was swallowed by the ambient noise of the dining room.

I darted a panicked glance at Dante. He was leaning back in his throne-like chair, casually swirling the blood-red wine in his glass. His profile was carved from granite, utterly impassive. He looked like a king bored with his court.

But the air between us crackled with an invisible, suffocating electricity.

Stop, I wanted to scream. Leave me alone.

Instead, I sat in agonizing silence, trapped by the Omertà of the room. If I made a scene, if I drew attention to the Don's inappropriate behavior, Leo would be humiliated, or worse, killed for the perceived insult.

But Dante wasn't finished. The shoe retreated, only to be replaced by something that sent a massive jolt of adrenaline straight into my veins.

A hand.

Large, warm, and distinctly rough with callouses. His left hand, hidden entirely from the rest of the room beneath the cascading white linen of the tablecloth, clamped over my bare knee.

A violent shudder ripped through me. I squeezed my eyes shut for a fraction of a second, fighting the overwhelming flood of memories. I knew those hands. I knew the exact weight of them, how they could snap a man's neck with terrifying ease, and how they could map every inch of my body with devastating tenderness.

Five years hadn't dulled the memory; it had only sharpened the ache.

His thumb stroked the sensitive skin behind my knee, dragging a trail of liquid fire in its wake. I shifted desperately in my seat, trying to angle my body away from him.

It was a mistake.

Taking advantage of my movement, Dante's hand slid higher, slipping beneath the high slit of my black velvet dress.

His fingers gripped my thigh, possessive and bruising. It wasn't a gentle caress; it was a brand. A physical declaration of absolute ownership, right under the nose of my oblivious fiancé.

"Leo," Dante's voice cut through the chatter suddenly.

Leo practically jumped out of his skin, snapping his attention away from Sofia and turning a pale, terrified face toward his uncle. "Yes, Don Dante?"

Under the table, Dante's hand slid dangerously high, his thumb grazing the lace edge of my underwear. I bit down on the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted copper, my entire body rigid as a board.

"Tell me, nephew," Dante continued smoothly, his dark, obsidian eyes fixing on Leo with a look of terrifying blankness. "Do you take good care of your possessions?"

Leo swallowed hard, sweat beading on his upper lip. "I—I try to, Uncle. Yes."

"Good," Dante murmured, taking a slow sip of his wine. Beneath the table, his fingers pressed inward, a ruthlessly intimate touch that sent a jagged bolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure and sheer panic straight to my core. "Because this world is unforgiving. A man who cannot properly guard what belongs to him... does not deserve to keep it. Others will simply take it."

"I understand completely, Uncle," Leo babbled, missing the lethal double meaning entirely. He gave me a quick, nervous pat on the shoulder. "I protect what is mine."

The absolute absurdity of Leo's words, contrasted with the fact that the Don currently had his hand intimately buried between his fiancé's thighs, was enough to snap the last frayed thread of my composure.

Dante's finger stroked a wickedly sensitive nerve.

A soft, involuntary gasp tore from my lips. My hand spasmed, and my heavy silver fork slipped from my fingers, clattering loudly against the fine bone china of my plate.

The sharp noise rang out like a gunshot.

Silence fell over our immediate section of the table. Several Capos paused their conversations, their hard, calculating eyes turning toward me.

Leo glared at me, his face flushing with embarrassment and anger. "Ashley," he hissed under his breath. "What is wrong with you?"

I couldn't look at him. I couldn't look at any of them. I was trembling so violently I thought my bones might shatter.

Dante slowly retracted his hand from beneath the tablecloth. He placed it calmly on the table, resting his scarred knuckles on the white linen, looking at me with a gaze so dark, so hungry, it felt like being swallowed by the abyss.

I shoved my chair back, the wooden legs scraping harshly against the marble floor. I didn't care about the protocol anymore. I didn't care about Leo's reputation. I just had to escape the suffocating gravity of Dante's presence before I completely lost my mind.

"Excuse me," I forced the words out, my voice tight and breathless. "I... I need the powder room."

I didn't wait for permission. I turned on my remaining silver heel, abandoning the other shoe under the table, and practically fled. My velvet dress swept behind me as I rushed toward the heavy mahogany doors, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

My skin was burning, every nerve ending screaming in protest and desperate longing. The facade I had maintained for five years was cracking wide open, splintering under the weight of a single touch.

As the guards pulled the heavy doors open for me, I risked one final, terrified glance over my shoulder.

Leo was already apologizing profusely to the men around him, mopping his brow.

But Dante wasn't looking at Leo.

He had set his wine glass down on the table with quiet, terrifying finality. His dark, predatory eyes were locked onto my retreating figure, unblinking and entirely devoid of mercy.

The hunt had officially begun, and we both knew that in his territory, there was nowhere left to run. He was coming for me, and God help me, a sick, twisted part of my soul wanted to be caught.