HER REVENGE

chapter 17

Alina POV

The pasta was almost done when I heard the click of the front door.

Not rushed knocking, it was a smooth, deliberate way Dante always entered a room,like he owned the air before he even stepped through it.

I didn’t turn right away, I just kept stirred the sauce, letting the scent of basil and garlic bloom between us.

“Smells like you decided not to starve tonight,” he said from behind me.

I could hear the faint clink of something being set on the counter,glass, maybe,and then the low zip of his jacket being shrugged off. A moment later, the warmth of his presence was at my back, his hands braced on either side of me against the counter.

I smirked at the bubbling pan. “Wine?”

He set a bottle next to the stove, close enough for my elbow to almost brush it. “Chianti. Figured it could keep up with whatever mood you’re in.”

“You make it sound like I’m unstable,” I said, tilting the spoon so the sauce dripped in a lazy ribbon back into the pan.

“You are unstable,” he murmured, but it wasn’t criticism. If anything, it was faintly amused. “That’s half the problem.”

I turned just enough to meet his eyes over my shoulder. They were still shadowed from whatever meeting he’d come from, but softer now,dangerous in a different way.

“And the other half?” I asked.

“The other half,” he said, leaning in until his breath stirred the loose strands of my hair, “is that I keep letting you get away with it.”

I raised a brow. “Letting?”

His mouth curved, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he reached past me, snagged a cherry tomato from the cutting board, and bit into it. The juice caught on his lower lip, and I had to look away before he noticed I was watching.

The pasta was ready. I drained it, tossed it in with the sauce, and let the steam curl between us. Dante poured the wine without asking if I wanted any,he knew I did.

We ate at the kitchen island, elbows brushing occasionally, the conversation looping between small talk and the unspoken thing we were both circling. I could feel his eyes on me every time I twirled the pasta around my fork, every time I let a silence stretch too long.

Halfway through my glass, I finally set it down and looked at him directly.

“So,” I said, “how much of what I told you earlier are you going to pretend to ignore?”

His gaze didn’t flinch. “Depends. How much of it are you planning to make me part of?”

I gave him a slow smile. “More than you’re comfortable with.”

“That’s a low bar,” he said dryly, sipping his wine.

“I think you’ll manage,” I replied, swirling my glass lazily. “You always do.”

He studied me for a long moment, then set his fork down. “Tell me everything.”

It wasn’t a request. It was the kind of command that usually made people scramble. I just took another sip and leaned back.

“I already told you the important part. Barry has a problem, and I have a solution.”

His fingers tapped once against the counter. “What’s her name?”

I pretended to think. “Elizabeth.”

“And you trust her?”

I tilted my head. “I don’t trust anyone. But I believe her.”

He gave a faint, almost imperceptible nod,Dante’s version of acknowledging I’d made a point. “And you think inserting yourself into this is a good idea because…?”

“Because I’m bored,” I said lightly, though we both knew that wasn’t the only reason. “And because watching Barry choke on his own arrogance sounds like my kind of entertainment.”

His jaw tightened just enough to tell me he was thinking about the risk, about whatever strings might pull tight around us if this went wrong. But he didn’t say no.

Instead, he reached for his wine again, took a slow sip, and said, “If you’re doing this, you’re not doing it alone.”

I raised a brow. “Is that your way of volunteering?”

“It’s my way of making sure you don’t burn the whole city down in the process.”

I smirked. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Dante didn’t smile, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—wariness and intrigue, tangled together. “Promise me one thing.”

“Not my style.”

“Promise me anyway,” he said, voice dipping lower.

I twirled the stem of my glass between my fingers. “Fine. What?”

“That if you feel the ground shifting under you, you’ll tell me before you fall.”

I met his gaze for a long, steady beat. “I don’t fall.”

He didn’t argue. He just reached out, sliding his hand over mine on the counter. His palm was warm, grounding. For a second, I let it anchor me.

Then I pulled back, smiling like I hadn’t just felt something twist low in my chest. “Finish your pasta, husband. We’ve got work to do.”

********

We cleared the plates together, he helped me in rinsing, while I stack in the dishwasher. It was so domestic it almost felt absurd, given the conversation we’d just had.

But that was the thing about Dante. He could pivot from discussing strategy over blood and revenge to loading cutlery without missing a beat.

When the kitchen was clean, he leaned against the counter, arms folded. “Tomorrow. I want to meet her.”

I blinked. “Elizabeth?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because if I’m going to put my neck near the noose you’re tying, I want to see the other hand holding the rope.”

I grinned. “You’re poetic when you’re paranoid.”

“Don’t mistake caution for paranoia,” he said evenly. “They’re not the same.”

I just shrugged, grabbing the wine bottle and topping off both our glasses. “She’ll like you,” I said.

“I don’t care if she likes me.”

“Oh, she will,” I said with a sly smile. “It’s inevitable.”

By the time we moved to the couch, the sky outside had gone fully dark. The city hummed below, headlights sliding across the ceiling in lazy arcs. Dante had loosened his tie, the top button of his shirt undone, his posture deceptively relaxed.

I curled one leg under me, cradling my glass. “You know,” I said, “you’re taking this a lot better than I thought you would.”

He gave me a look over the rim of his glass. “You thought I’d tell you to drop it.”

“You usually do.”

“And you usually don’t.”

I grinned. “So you’ve learned.”

“I’ve learned you’ll do what you want,” he corrected. “I’ve also learned it’s better if I’m in the room when you do it.”

“That sounds like trust,” I teased.

“That sounds like damage control,” he replied, but there was a faint tug at the corner of his mouth.

We stayed like that for a while, just drinking, letting the conversation drift. But underneath it all, I could feel the shape of tomorrow forming. Meeting Elizabeth with Dante there would change the dynamic. It always did when he stepped into my games. He had a way of making people either confess or crumble.

And Barry?

Barry wouldn’t crumble. Not yet. But when he finally did, I wanted front-row seats.