Chapter 19 – Possession
1269 Words
Ross’s voice still echoed in his ear when Dante ended the call.
“Dean Carter approached her.”
Six words. Enough to shatter the thin line between restraint and fury.
He stared at the skyline until his reflection blurred into the glass. The city looked small from here—manageable, predictable. People moved in patterns he controlled. But one man stepping out of line, one ex from a past he didn’t authorize—that was chaos.
And Dante Morelli didn’t tolerate chaos.
He picked up the phone again. “I want surveillance on Carter. Full coverage. I don’t care if he breathes in the wrong direction—I want to know.”
Ross hesitated on the line. “You sure you want to go that far? He’s not exactly—”
“Do it,” Dante said, his voice cutting like wire. “And Ross—keep it quiet.”
He hung up and leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly through his nose. The office was silent except for the low hum of the city beneath him. He reached for his glass of scotch, took one measured sip, and forced his thoughts into order.
He had made one mistake in his life: believing he could separate business from emotion. Selena had proven him wrong.
Now that mistake had a name. Dean Carter.
⸻
The intercom buzzed softly.
“Mr. Morelli,” his assistant said. “Miss Monroe is waiting outside. Should I send her in?”
He didn’t answer immediately. His pulse kicked once, hard.
“Send her in.”
The door opened, and she stepped inside, cautious, composed. Her eyes flicked to the glass in his hand before meeting his.
“You wanted to see me?”
He gestured to the chair across from him. “Sit.”
She did, posture perfect, chin lifted just enough to look brave. He admired her for that—her quiet defiance, her refusal to shrink from him even now.
“I heard you met with Dean Carter yesterday.”
Her breath caught. “So you know.”
“Of course I know.” His tone was calm, too calm. “Tell me why.”
“I didn’t plan it,” she said quickly. “He just showed up. I left.”
“And he said nothing?”
She hesitated. He saw it—the tiny flicker of doubt that betrayed her.
“What did he tell you?”
“Nothing worth repeating,” she said, though her voice wasn’t steady enough to sell the lie.
Dante stood, circled behind her chair, and rested his hands lightly on the backrest. The air between them shifted; his presence felt larger, heavier.
“He told you something,” he said quietly. “And you believed it.”
Her shoulders tightened. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
He moved closer, until his reflection in the window merged with hers. “Dean Carter is a liar. A thief. And he’s playing a game that could get you hurt.”
“Why?” she asked, turning slightly toward him. “Because of you?”
His silence was answer enough.
“Then tell me the truth, Dante,” she said, voice trembling with equal parts anger and fear. “Because right now, I don’t know who I’m supposed to be afraid of—him or you.”
The question was a direct hit. He didn't answer with words. He moved, sliding his hands from the back of the chair to her shoulders, his grip immediately firm, demanding stillness. He leaned down, his voice dropping to a low, rough growl that barely cleared his throat.
“You want to know what you should be afraid of?” His mouth hovered inches from hers, every word a threat and a promise. “You should be afraid of what I will do to the next man who puts his hands on you. You should be afraid of how completely I intend to possess every thought you have until there is no room left for doubt, or for him.”
He didn't give her time to process it. His mouth captured hers, a harsh, punishing claim that was fueled by anger and absolute, terrifying desire. It wasn't tender; it was a brutal assertion of ownership, a silencing of her fear and her defiance. He deepened the kiss, his tongue demanding entry, tasting the faint salt of her fear and the sweet rush of her surrender. His hand left her shoulder, sliding down to cup the back of her neck, pulling her head back for better access, forcing her fully against him until the heat of his body—tight, demanding, and hard—was undeniable.
She tried to resist for a fraction of a second—a muffled sound against his mouth—but the sheer force of his need overwhelmed her, and her hands came up to clutch the front of his shirt. He was crushing her, claiming her, forcing her to remember the intimacy of the night before, right here in the cold light of his office. He broke the kiss, breathing raggedly against her swollen lips.
“You belong here,” he rasped, his eyes burning into hers. “With me. And I’ll burn the city down to prove it.”
He met her gaze, his expression unreadable. “You should be afraid of both.”
She rose from the chair, shaking her head. “That’s not fair.”
“Fair has nothing to do with it.”
“I trusted you.”
“I told you not to.”
Her eyes glistened, but she held her ground. “You don’t get to decide who I trust.”
He admired her even as it infuriated him. “Then be careful who earns it.”
For a long, breathless moment, neither of them moved. The city lights pulsed against the glass, the only sound the faint ticking of the clock behind them.
Finally, she spoke—soft, but sharp enough to cut through his restraint. “You can protect me all you want, Dante. But you can’t control me.”
Then she turned and walked out, the door closing with a click that echoed louder than any slam.
⸻
Dante stood there for a long time, staring at the empty space she’d left behind. The scotch burned down his throat as he swallowed the sound of his own heartbeat.
He wanted to go after her.
He wanted to lock the door.
He wanted to destroy every man who’d ever said her name.
But more than that—he wanted to believe she’d stay, even when the truth came out.
He set the glass down with deliberate calm and picked up his phone again.
“Ross,” he said, voice steady now. “Find everything you can on Dean Carter. Family, finances, partners, everything.”
“Already started,” Ross replied. “You might want to see who’s funding him.”
“Who?”
A pause. “Our old friend. The one you outbid in Singapore.”
Dante’s eyes went cold. “So this isn’t about money.”
“No,” Ross said quietly. “It’s about revenge.”
⸻
He ended the call and turned back to the window, the skyline bleeding into shadow. In the reflection, his face looked calm. Controlled.
But his hands—tight around the glass—told a different story.
If they wanted a war, they’d chosen the wrong man to start it with. He would destroy them all. And then he would go claim what was his.
- Writer
