Irresistible Distance

Chapter 4: Don't Shoot

Her hands went up first. Before her brain had fully caught up, both arms were raised to shoulder height, palms flat and open, the universal, wordless language of please don’t shoot me. She didn’t speak; her voice had apparently decided at this was an excellent moment to stop functioning entirely.

She stepped out of the shadows. The warm, low amber light of the penthouse fell across her silk nightgown, her bare feet, and her embarrassed expression.

Dante stood in the kitchen archway. His gun was leveled, readied on the space she had just emerged from with the focused, glacial stillness of a man who didn't point weapons at things he wasn’t fully prepared to destroy. He was shirtless, his dark hair disheveled from Isabella’s fingers, the waistband of his trousers riding low on his hips. It was an absurd, surreal contrast his completely undressed, chaotic state paired with his absolute, fierce authority.

His eyes found her face.

The gun dropped immediately and not with any surprising sigh of relief. It simply dropped to his side, held as casually as a pen he had finished using. He looked at her with the contained irritation of someone whose evening had just been interrupted by a minor inconvenience.

A beat of silence followed. Then, Isabella appeared behind him, leaning against the doorframe. Her blouse was loosened, her hair a messy, intentional tangle. She looked at Valentina with eyes that were dark, amused, and performing a quick, ruthless assessment the kind of look a woman gives when she has decided exactly where a rival ranks.

One perfectly shaped brow arched. “Oh,” she said, her voice dripping with silk and venom. “It’s the virgin and contract wife.”

Valentina lowered her hands, her jaw tightening. Dante didn’t glance at Isabella. His gaze remained locked on Valentina steady, thorough, and unreadable, as if he were filing away information about her.

“What are you doing down here?” he asked.

“I…” Valentina had constructed her lie in the four seconds between the vase shattering and her revealing herself. She delivered it with as much composure as she could scrape together. “I came down for water.”

“Water,” he repeated.

“Yes.”

His gaze dropped to her empty hands, then back to her face. He said nothing, yet he communicated his complete awareness of the lie more effectively than words ever could.

“I’ll just…” She turned toward the kitchen to leave.

“And the water,” his voice stopped her like a physical hand on her shoulder. “You’re not getting it?”

“Oh. Right.”

She crossed the kitchen. It was only fifteen feet to the refrigerator, but it felt like a mile with Isabella’s eyes tracking her from the counter and Dante’s gaze following her from the doorway. She walked with the stiff, careful stride of someone trying to appear unbothered, though she suspected she wasn't fooling anyone.

She grabbed a bottle of water, closed the fridge, and turned to leave.

“Stop.”

She froze, her back to them. She heard the soft sound of a barstool shifting as Dante settled against the island.

“Stay.”

Valentina turned slowly. “Excuse me?”

Dante was leaning against the marble, his arms loosely crossed, looking like a man with all the time in the world and no intention of rushing. “I want you to watch.”

The words hung in the air. Isabella let out a refined, amused sound.

Valentina felt a flash of heat, then a sudden, chilling calm. She looked Dante in the eye. “And if I don’t want to?”

Something moved at the corner of his mouth a shadow of a smile. He reached out and picked up his discarded shirt without looking at it. “Then go upstairs.”

“What?”

“I don’t require an audience,” he said, his voice bored. He pushed off the island and took a slow step toward her, closing the distance until she had to force herself not to retreat. “But if you stay, you stay until I say you can go.”

He was close enough now that she could see the gold flecks in his dark irises. Behind him, Isabella slid off the counter, wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing herself against his back. She kept her eyes locked on Valentina the entire time, her lips grazing Dante’s neck.

“She’ll leave,” Isabella whispered, loud enough to be heard. “She’s not built for this world.”

Valentina looked at the water bottle in her hand, then at the archway, then finally met Isabella’s gaze. She stood up, her posture shifting. The fear was still there, but something harder had taken its place.

“You think you’re so secure in your place,” Valentina said, her voice steadying. She took a step toward them, her hand lifting to clearly display the gold band on her finger.

“You call me a contract? A piece on a board?” Valentina looked at Isabella with cold, narrowed eyes. “Maybe. But at the end of the day, you’re just his w***e, and that is all you will ever be. If you were anything more, he wouldn't have needed to marry me.”

Isabella’s smile faltered, her expression darkening as Valentina stepped closer.

“Look at this,” Valentina continued, holding her ring up under the kitchen lights. “I am his legally wedded wife. You? You’re just a mistress. A cheap, temporary distraction. When the real world comes knocking, he goes home to his wife, and you go back to the shadows where you belong.”

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the sound of Dante’s sharp, dangerous intake of breath as he stared at Valentina not with annoyance, but with a new, dark intensity that sent a shiver down her spine.

“Sit down, Valentina,” he said quietly.

She pulled out a barstool and sat. She folded her hands in front of her, keeping her expression neutral, refusing to look away.

Isabella turned her back to Valentina, occupying Dante’s full attention. She moved her hands slowly up his chest, whispering something private that made Dante’s gaze drop to her. When he pulled Isabella into him, the movement was effortless and familiar.

Isabella made a low, fluid sound in her throat a performance calibrated perfectly to reach Valentina.

Valentina sat still, focusing on her own breathing. In through the nose. Out the same way. She refused to give Isabella the satisfaction of a reaction. She refused to name the inconvenient, sharp thing moving through her chest.

Suddenly, Dante’s eyes snapped open.

They found hers with immediate desire. He looked at her over Isabella’s shoulder, holding her gaze with a weight that made the air feel thin. His jaw was tight; his eyes were dark, intent, and communicating something she didn't yet have the words for.

He didn't look away.

She should have looked away. Every instinct screamed at her to find a distraction. But she didn’t. The eye contact stretched between them a silent, physical current.

It was too much.

Valentina stood up, the chair scraping sharply against the marble. She grabbed her water bottle and bolted.

“I’m going to bed,” she said. Her voice was cut, too fast, and betrayed her.

She didn't look back. She marched toward the stairs, her heart hammering.

“Valentina.”

His voice followed her raw, knowing, and heavy with desire. She stopped but didn't turn.

“Sleep well,” he said.

Two simple words, delivered with a quiet certainty that made them the most infuriating thing she had heard all night.

She climbed the stairs, locked herself in the bedroom, and lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling. She listened to the silence of the house and told herself, with great firmness and very little success, that her pulse was racing because of the broken vase and the gun.

Not because of the way he had looked at her.

Not because of the way he had said her name.

Not because of any of it.