Chapter 20: A Man Who Doesn’t Let Go
1345 Words
The night felt heavier than usual, thick with an unspoken electricity that lingered in the air long after Sophie left Dante’s office. He watched the door close behind her, jaw clenched, fingers pressed against the polished wood of his desk.
She had walked away from him — again — with that quiet defiance that drove him insane in ways he never expected. She wasn’t loud, she wasn’t dramatic, she didn’t tremble under pressure like other people did around him. She simply… endured. Stood tall. Fought back with her silence.
It made him both furious and fascinated.
It made him want to break the world open just to understand her.
Marco stepped into the office without knocking — the only man alive allowed to do that.
“She’s settling into her room,” he said.
Dante didn’t turn. “Did she say anything?”
“She… asked if you were angry.”
Dante’s fist tightened. “And what did you tell her?”
“That you’re always angry.”
Dante shot him a glare so sharp it could’ve cut through bone.
Marco lifted his hands in surrender. “Am I wrong?”
Dante didn’t answer — because the truth was, he had been angry long before Sophie entered his life. Angry at his father, at his past, at the enemies he had inherited, at the life he never asked for. But this new anger was different. Sharper. Personal.
He didn’t hate Sophie.
He hated the way she made him feel.
Marco’s voice became more serious.
“She’s stronger than she looks.”
“I know.”
“And she’s hiding something big.”
“I know that too.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
Dante lowered his gaze to the city lights outside.
“I’m going to find out everything,” he said quietly. “Even the things she swore never to speak of.”
But deep inside, he already feared one thing—
Whatever he found, it would pull him deeper into her world.
Deeper into a past even she couldn’t escape.
⸻
Sophie sat on the edge of her bed, exhaling slowly. The house was silent, but the silence in this mansion wasn’t peaceful — it was the kind that wrapped around her throat and squeezed.
Dante’s world was too loud in the wrong ways and too silent in the dangerous ways.
She touched the faint bruise on her wrist — not from Dante, but from one of the masked men who grabbed her last week before Dante tore through their hideout like a demon set loose.
She still remembered it vividly: the sound of his gunshots, the merciless way he moved, the coldness in his stare.
A man who killed without blinking — but when he saw her, that same gaze cracked just slightly.
That crack scared her more than the violence.
Because she didn’t know what it meant.
A soft knock pulled her from her thoughts.
“Sophie?” Marco’s voice.
“Come in.”
He slipped inside, holding a tray with a glass of warm lemon water and a small plate of fruit.
“Dante said to bring this.”
She raised a brow. “Dante? Or you?”
“Both,” Marco admitted. “But mostly me. He’d rather swallow a grenade than admit he cares.”
Sophie couldn’t help the small smile.
“Thank you.”
Marco leaned against the wall. “Are you alright?”
“I should be.” She paused. “But I’m not used to being protected.”
“Protected,” Marco repeated with a smirk. “That’s a generous word. Dante doesn’t protect — he claims.”
“And do you think he’s claiming me?” Sophie asked softly.
Marco’s face shifted into something more serious.
“Sophie… Dante doesn’t claim anything lightly. But when he does? He doesn’t let go. Not even if it destroys him.”
Sophie’s heartbeat quickened.
“What if I don’t want to be claimed?”
Marco sighed. “Then you’re in trouble.”
The weight of his words lingered as he left.
Sophie lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
She didn’t know how to feel about Dante’s pull.
It wasn’t love — not yet.
But it was something dark and magnetic, something she felt in her bones every time he looked at her like she was both a danger and a cure.
And the worst part?
A small, traitorous part of her liked it.
⸻
Downstairs, Dante changed into his combat clothes — black, simple, fitted, dangerous. He strapped his gun holster to his shoulder while his mind stayed on Sophie’s eyes, Sophie’s voice, Sophie’s quiet strength.
Tonight, he was going hunting.
The men who kidnapped her hadn’t acted alone.
Someone out there wanted Sophie.
Someone who knew her past.
Dante didn’t question why it mattered so damn much — he only knew he felt a rage unlike anything before.
A rage rooted in fear.
A fear he didn’t want to name.
He stepped into the corridor.
“Marco. With me.”
Marco raised a brow. “Where?”
Dante loaded a bullet into his gun with a snap.
“To find the bastards who touched what’s mine.”
Marco smirked. “You’re admitting it?”
“I’m stating a fact.”
“And Sophie?”
“She doesn’t need to know where I’m going.”
“But she’ll know you’re doing something reckless.”
Dante slipped a knife into his belt.
“She already thinks I’m a monster,” he said. “Might as well act like one.”
Then, as he walked toward the garage, he added under his breath:
“A monster who doesn’t lose what he cares about.”
⸻
Sophie couldn’t sleep. Hours passed, the mansion still quiet but humming with an unease she couldn’t explain. Something felt… wrong. She rose, wrapped a thin shawl around her shoulders, and wandered toward the hallway.
A shadow moved downstairs — tall, powerful, moving with predatory purpose.
Her breath caught.
“Dante?”
He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, turning slowly. His dark shirt hugged every line of muscle, and the faint moonlight caught the sharp edges of his face. His eyes dragged over her like he was memorizing every detail.
“You should be sleeping,” he said.
“You’re leaving.”
“Yes.”
She stepped down one stair. “Where?”
He didn’t answer.
“Dante… please.”
He hated that word from anyone — but not from her.
Finally, he said quietly, “I’m going after the men who hurt you.”
Sophie froze.
“You don’t have to—”
“I do,” he snapped. “Not for your sake. For mine.”
She swallowed hard. He moved toward her until he stood just two steps below, their faces level, his breath brushing her skin.
“I don’t let people lay hands on what belongs under my protection,” he murmured. “Not while I breathe.”
Her voice trembled a little.
“And what am I under your protection, Dante? A responsibility?”
His jaw tightened.
“A necessity.”
Their eyes held — anger, fear, longing, denial swirling between them like fire and gasoline.
Then Dante exhaled and stepped back.
“Go to bed, Sophie,” he said, voice rough. “When I return, you’ll be safe.”
“Dante—”
But he was already gone.
And for the first time, Sophie realized something terrifying:
She wasn’t scared of Dante.
She was scared of what he was willing to do for her.
⸻
Hours later, the night split open with the sound of gunfire, blood, and Dante’s fury carving through a warehouse on the outskirts of the city. Screams echoed. Bodies hit the floor. He moved like a shadow, like a curse, like a man who had one reason left to breathe.
And every kill held one truth:
He would burn the world to keep Sophie safe.
Even if it meant dragging her deeper into his darkness.
- Writer
