A Dark Dance

Chapter 6

#Viola's POV

I chose not to inform anyone about the apartment; instead, I carefully gathered only the essentials, packed them up, and quietly loaded everything into my car while the house was empty. Taking this discreet action was crucial to ensuring a smooth and uninterrupted departure without my father or siblings trying to stop me.

Since meeting Dante, my father has persistently tried to corner me, pressuring me to chase after him—for my sake, the baby's, and ultimately, the family's benefit. This infuriated me. Here I was, not even twenty-one, pregnant with a stranger's child, and working hard for my future. Meanwhile, my family acted as if they could afford their luxuries, even though creditors were constantly threatening them. My siblings were no better than my father. Claudio kept messaging me, warning that being a single mother would damage both my future and my child's upbringing. Then I overheard my father suggesting to Beatrice that she pursue Dante regardless of my feelings, saying, and I quote, "if nothing else, perhaps you can have an arrangement with him." For a moment, Beatrice seemed like she might consider it.

It didn't matter to me. She could do as she pleased.

No, that's not true. I genuinely did care. There was something about the thought of her being with Dante that made my anger flare up intensely. That feeling only served to frustrate me even more.

And Dante? Well, I hadn't heard anything from him yet. I wasn't sure if that was a good sign or a bad one, but after the trouble he'd caused with my job, I suspected he was still around somewhere. Watching. Waiting.

I placed the last of my belongings in the trunk of my car and locked it before going back inside the house. Since the family was out, I went to the kitchen to make myself a sandwich and then prepared to settle in for the night. Tomorrow, after work, I planned to go to the apartment—my refuge.

As expected, the loaf of bread I had bought recently was gone, and with a curse, I noticed my deli meats and cheeses were almost finished. Unbelievable. I slammed the refrigerator door, grabbed some crackers and an almost empty jar of peanut butter, and headed to my room.

It was nearly nine o'clock when I finally heard footsteps echoing down the hallway. They came to a halt right outside my door, where I was lying on my bed engrossed in a book. A gentle knock followed, and I let out a weary sigh. "What is it?" I asked, my voice calm but tinged with obvious irritation. The door creaked open, and I felt my breath hitch in my throat.

It was Dante.

#Dante's POV

I was certain that nobody else was inside the house, as Marco had assured me that everyone would be out for the evening. He had also mentioned that he had seen Viola loading items into the trunk of her car—not hurriedly, but with a steady and resolute purpose.

I had driven over with the plan to speak with her once more, just the two of us. No family around, no added pressure or expectations.

But when I pushed open the door to her room, saw her sitting on her bed wearing only an oversized shirt and her hair in a messy bun, something in my gut twisted. She looked just as sexy as she had at the club. Viola was the type of woman whose natural beauty shone through so brightly that she didn’t require makeup to enhance her appearance. She was naturally intoxicating. Effortlessly elegant and majestic, radiating beauty and grace without any apparent effort. My gaze traveled up her body, from her crossed legs, to her thighs. I could just make out the purple underwear she wore under the large black shirt. Even through the fabric of the oversized bedwear, I could make out her curves, her breasts free of a bra.

I wanted my hands on her. Wanted my mouth on her. To claim her, to mark her.

"Tesoro," I began to say, but true to form, she swiftly interrupted me before I could continue.

Her eyes burned anger after the initial shock flickered out of them. "What the hell are you doing in my house?" Then, she started cursing in Italian and I swear, that only made me hotter for her.

"Bella, please, I only wanted to have a conversation," I said softly as I entered the room, then shut the door behind me with a decisive click.

Viola scoffed, her fingers tightening around the spine of her book. She didn’t bother to hide the way her jaw clenched, nor the way her body tensed—as if bracing herself for a storm she’d grown too familiar with. The air between us thickened, charged with both annoyance and an undercurrent of something far more dangerous.

“I don’t care what you want,” she shot back, her voice low but unwavering. “You don’t just walk in here, Dante, like you own my home.”

A flash of vulnerability crossed her face, but she recovered instantly, masking it with an icy glare. She set her book aside, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, as if ready to bolt or confront me head-on. There was always a push and pull with her, a dance between defiance and longing, between resistance and surrender. Even in the club that night, as willing as she’d been, there was something there, defiance maybe.

For a moment, I simply stood there, fighting the urge to close the distance between us. Every nerve in me screamed to reach out, to bridge the fractured space and take her into my arm.

“I needed to see you,” I said, softer this time, trying to find a crack in her armor. God, she was fierce and so damn unafraid. “Just for five minutes, Viola. Hear me out. Please.”

Her eyes narrowed, her breath coming a little quicker, the silence stretching—sharp, brittle, and heavy with everything left unsaid.