Vengeance is for the Mafia's Boss Bride

Unholy alliance

Chapter 5: Unholy Alliance

“Who’s trying to kill us?” I ask Dante, my voice steady despite the bandage on my arm, the graze from last night’s bullets still stinging. We’re in his study, the mansion’s windows boarded after the attack, the air heavy with tension.

His shoulder’s in a sling, but he’s pacing, tossing me a burner phone. “Read,” he says, his tone sharp, slicing through the tension, but his eyes linger on me, dark and unreadable, stirring something I fight to ignore.

I scroll through hacked texts—coded, cryptic, someone close, a Ricci or Salvatore, betraying us.

My stomach twists, Luca’s name flashing in my mind, then Elena’s. No, it can't be. Lucas wouldn't dare. “One of ours,” I say, meeting his gaze, my pulse quickening under his scrutiny. He nods, leaning against his desk, too close, his cologne—cedar and smoke—hitting me like a drug.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low, “and they’re not done.” I toss the phone back, crossing my arms to hide the shiver his nearness sparks.

“So we just wait for another bullet?”

His lips twitch, a half-smirk that makes my blood heat, even as it irritates me. “We hunt them, Alessandra. Together.”

The way he says my name, slow and deliberate, sends a jolt through me, and I step back, needing a good distance.

“Did you say together?” I scoff, voice sharp to mask the way my heart races. “I don’t trust you, Salvatore.”

He closes the gap, his frame towering, eyes burning with something that’s not just anger—hunger, maybe, or challenge. “Trust’s a luxury we can't afford right now,” he says, his voice a low growl that vibrates in my chest. “But you need me, and I’m not letting you die on my watch.” His words, fierce and possessive, make my breath catch, and I hate how much I want to believe him.

“If you’re playing me,” I say, lifting my chin, “I’ll carve your heart out.”

His smirk widens, eyes glinting like he’s picturing it. “I’d love to see you try, principessa.”

The next morning, he drags me to the mansion’s basement gym—concrete walls, targets, a rack of gleaming weapons.

“You need to learn how to fight,” he says, handing me a pistol, his fingers brushing mine, warm and deliberate, sending a spark up my arm. I pull back, gripping the gun, its weight grounding me against the pull of him.

“What? You think I'm that helpless?” I snap, raising an eyebrow.

He steps closer, his voice a low rumble. “I think you’re a liability, but you can prove me wrong.”

The challenge sits in his eyes ignites something in me, and I aim at the target, my first shot clipping the edge. He snorts, moving behind me, his chest grazing my back as he adjusts my stance, his hands firm on my hips.

“Focus,” he murmurs, his breath hot on my neck, his touch searing through my thin tank top. My skin hums, my focus splintering, but I fire again—dead center. I close my eyes, willing my n*****s to behave.

“Helpless, huh?” I say, turning, our faces inches apart, his eyes dark with something that makes my heart stutter.

“Not bad,” he says, voice rough, his gaze dropping to my lips, lingering too long.

We train for hours—guns, knives, sparring. I’m bruised, sweating, but I match him, dodging a grab, landing a kick to his thigh. He catches my wrist mid-strike, pinning me to the mat, his body heavy over mine, his breath ragged. “You’re quick, I'll give you that,” he says, his voice low, his grip tight, his eyes searching mine with an intensity that steals my air.

My pulse pounds, his weight pressing me down, his scent overwhelming, and for a moment, I don’t want to move. “Get off,” I say, but it’s weak, my nails digging into his arm, not pushing, just holding. He leans closer, his lips a whisper from mine, and my body betrays me, arching slightly.

“Make me,” he says, a dare, his voice a caress. I try to shove hi off, instead his hands finds the hem of my shirt, and before I could read the dark look in his eyes, he rips it off, leaving me in just a flimsy bralette. I look up at him, my eyes mirroring his. We stare at eachother for sometime, not knowing what to say, and when I couldn't take the silence anymore, I pull him down to my lips, smashing mine against his with dangerous intensity.

He doesn't waste any second reaping the bralette off me, his hands latching onto my already hardened n****e. My legs buck under him, feeling my wetness pool in my inner thighs. He continues to torture me with his hand, our lips fighting for control.

Soon I feel his hands slip into my leggings, icing deep first into my warm centre. I moan into his lip, as I feel him enter.

"Dante...what are you doing?"

"I want to hear you moan. Don't hide your sound from me, Alessandra." He says into my mouth as he continues to thrust inside me, his fingers finding my G-spot so quick, I didn't know when my eyes closed and I orgasmed all over his thick fingers.

"Oh my..." I breathed, as I fell back on the floor, my eyes cold.

"Get up and clean your mess," he says before standing up, living me breathless. I mutter a soft 'f*ck you.' before I hear the gym door slam shut.

It's been three days since Dante f*cked me with his finger over his gym floor, and he's been doing everything in his power to avoid me. I don't mind, I am too embarrassed to face him myself. I couldn't believe how I must have looked, writhing like a s*x crazed animal underneath him.

“Did you sleep well?” he asks, grabbing an orange, his eyes raking over me, sparking the heat I shove down.

“Of course, like a caged animal,” I say, pushing my plate away. “You?” I find myself asking.

He peels the orange, smirking, his fingers deft, drawing my gaze despite myself. “Like a man who knows what he wants,” he says, his voice low, his eyes locked on mine, making my breath hitch.

I stand, leaning across the table, voice sharp to mask the flutter in my chest. “You can keep wanting, Salvatore, but you’ll never get it. I'm not yours...I will never surrender myself to you."

He steps closer, caging me against the table, his body inches from mine, his scent making me dizzy. “Oh, you have,” he says, his voice a dark promise, his gaze dropping to my lips, making my skin burn.

A guard coughs, and I slip away, my heart pounding, cursing the way he unravels me.

That night, I catch Dante slipping into a side room. I follow, silent, and see him with Sofia, his sister, helping her with an inhaler. She’s pale, her thin frame trembling with every cough that rattles off of her.

“Breathe,” he says, voice soft, brushing her hair back, kissing her forehead. “I’ve got you.”

She clings to his hand, nodding. I’m about to leave when he spots me, his face hardening. “What do you want?” he snaps, standing.

I look at Sofia before I step inside, my voice low. “Just checking on her.”

Sofia stares back at me, her eyes tired but warm. She gives me a tired smile. “I’m okay,” she says, coughing again. Dante’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t push me out.

In the hall, I grab his arm, his muscle tensing under my touch, sending a spark through me. I quickly drop my hand down.

“What’s wrong with her?” I ask, searching his face.

His voice is clipped. “Lung disease. And they need costly meds.” He pauses, eyes meeting mine, raw and unguarded. “Our alliance pays for it."

The confession hits me, softening the edges of the man I’ve cast as a monster. He's still a monster but something warms in me when I see the look in his eyes.

“I didn’t know,” I say, my voice softer, my hand lingering near his. His gaze holds mine, heavy with something unspoken, and for a moment, I see him—a brother, not just a killer.

“Now you do,” he says, turning away, but the air between us hums, charged with a connection I can’t deny.

We corner a Salvatore enforcer, Tony, in a warehouse, his face slick with sweat under harsh lights. “I didn’t do anything,” he stammers, hands up as Dante looms, gun drawn.

I step forward, my voice cold. “You leaked info on the attack. Who are you working for?” Tony’s eyes dart, but Dante grabs his collar, slamming him against a crate. “Talk, or I start cutting,” he growls.

I touch Dante’s arm, feeling the heat of him, my voice calm. “Let me.” I turn to Tony, leaning close. “Names, now, or you’re done.” Tony hesitates for a moment, but then I draw out a picture he recognizes immediately. He finally cracks, babbling about a coded message, swearing he’s alone.

“Liar,” I say, and Dante nods, his shoulder brushing mine, a silent approval that sends a thrill through me. “He lives,” he says, voice low. “For now.”

In his study, we pore over Tony’s phone, our heads close, the air thick. “I’m sure he’s covering for someone,” I say, scrolling texts, aware of Dante’s breath on my neck, his arm brushing mine, setting my skin alight.

“Yeah,” he says, voice rough, his fingers grazing mine as he takes the phone, the contact brief but electric.

“But who?” I turn, our faces inches apart, his eyes dark, pulling me in despite every warning screaming in my head.

“We’ll find them,” I say, my voice steady, but my heart’s racing, caught in the gravity of him. He nods, stepping back, his guard up, but I see it—the flicker in his eyes, the same want I’m fighting.

Days pass, our alliance fragile but holding. I’m in my room, the mansion silent, when my burner buzzes—an anonymous text.

Footage loads: Dante handing a vial to Dad’s chef, the day of the poisoning. My blood immediately turns to ice, the betrayal cutting deep, shattering the fragile pull I felt.

I’m staring at the screen, hands shaking, when the door opens. Dante’s there, gun in hand, his face unreadable. “We need to talk,” he says, stepping closer, his voice low, dangerous.