Deadly Devotion

Chapter Twelve: Can't Let go

Three months passed.

Three months of silence. Of trying to rebuild a life from ashes.

I moved out of New York. Couldn't stand being in the same city as Dante, knowing he was out there somewhere, hating me.

I went to Philadelphia. Got a job at a small art gallery. Used my actual art history degree for once. Lived in a tiny apartment and tried to pretend I was starting over.

But every night, I dreamed about him.

His hands on my body. His voice saying my name. The way he looked at me when he said he loved me.

I'd wake up reaching for him. Finding empty space. Remembering all over again that he was gone.

I didn't date. Couldn't even imagine being with someone else. Dante had ruined me for anyone else.

My phone never rang with his number. No texts. No calls. Nothing.

He'd meant it when he told me to leave. When he said there was no path forward.

I tried to accept it. Tried to move on.

I was failing spectacularly.

Four months after everything fell apart, I got a call from an unknown number.

My heart stopped. For a second, I thought it might be him.

It wasn't.

"Mia Santos?" A male voice. Unfamiliar.

"Yes?"

"My name is Thomas Greene. I'm an attorney representing the DeLuca family. I need to speak with you about a legal matter. Can we meet?"

A lawyer. The DeLucas were coming after me legally.

"What kind of legal matter?"

"I'd prefer to discuss it in person. Are you available tomorrow? I can come to Philadelphia."

"Fine. Where?"

He named a coffee shop downtown. Two in the afternoon.

I agreed and hung up.

All night, I wondered what this was about. A lawsuit? Threats? Some kind of legal revenge for what I'd done?

The next day, I showed up early. Thomas Greene was already there. Mid fifties, expensive suit, the kind of lawyer rich criminals hired.

"Ms. Santos. Thank you for meeting with me."

We sat. He pulled out a folder.

"I'll get straight to the point. Dante DeLuca is buying a property. A gallery space in Manhattan. He needs a consultant to help set it up, curate the collection, handle acquisitions. He's offering you the job."

I stared at him. "What?"

"The salary is generous. Six figures. Full benefits. Creative control over the collection. It's an excellent opportunity."

"Why me?"

"Mr. DeLuca specifically requested you. He believes you're the most qualified person for the position."

"He knows what I did to him. Why would he want me anywhere near his business?"

"I'm not privy to his reasoning. I'm simply here to extend the offer." He slid papers across the table. "The contract is here. If you're interested, sign and return it to my office within a week."

"I need to think about it."

"Of course. But Ms. Santos, I should mention that Mr. DeLuca was very clear. This offer is only on the table for one week. After that, he'll move on to other candidates."

He left the contract and walked away.

I sat there staring at the papers.

Dante was offering me a job. After everything. After I'd betrayed him, lied to him, tried to destroy his family.

He was reaching out.

But why?

I spent three days agonizing over the decision.

On one hand, it was insane. Going back to New York. Working for Dante. Seeing him regularly. It would be torture.

On the other hand, it meant seeing him. Being near him. Having some connection, even a professional one.

I called Madison.

"He offered you a job?" she said, incredulous. "After everything?"

"Yes."

"And you're considering it?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Mia, this is either the best idea or the worst idea you've ever had. There's no middle ground."

"I know."

"Do you still love him?"

"Yes. God help me, yes."

"Then you have to go. You have to take this chance. See what it means. Why he's doing this."

"What if it's just to torture me? To have me close so he can punish me?"

"Then you'll find out. But at least you'll know. You'll get closure. One way or the other."

She was right.

I signed the contract. Sent it back.

Two days later, I got confirmation. Start date in two weeks. Office location in Manhattan. Contact person: Dante DeLuca.

I was really doing this.

Going back to New York. Back to him.

I had no idea if I was brave or just stupid.

Probably both.

My first day at the gallery, I arrived fifteen minutes early.

The space was beautiful. A converted warehouse in Chelsea. High ceilings, natural light, clean white walls. Perfect for displaying art.

And empty. Completely empty except for one person.

Dante stood in the center of the space, looking at his phone.

He looked up when I walked in.

We stared at each other across the empty gallery.

He looked different. Harder. Older. Like the last four months had aged him years.

"You came," he said.

"You offered me a job. I accepted."

"I wasn't sure you would."

"I wasn't sure either."

We stood in awkward silence. The space between us felt like miles.

"Why did you do this?" I asked finally. "Offer me this job. After everything."

"Because I need the best art consultant in New York. And that's you. Personal feelings aside."

"Personal feelings. Is that what we're calling it?"

"What would you call it?"

"Heartbreak. Betrayal. Love and hate so tangled together I can't tell them apart anymore."

His jaw tightened. "We're not doing this. This is business. Professional. Nothing more."

"Okay. Fine. Business. What do you need from me?"

"I'm opening this gallery in six months. I need you to curate a collection. Contemporary pieces. Emerging artists. Things that will make a statement. I have a budget of five million for acquisitions."

Five million dollars. To spend on art. This was a serious operation.

"I can do that."

"Good. Your office is upstairs. You'll have an assistant starting next week. Any resources you need, just ask."

"What's the catch?"

"There's no catch. Do your job. Do it well. That's all I'm asking."

"Dante, we should talk about what happened."

"No. We shouldn't. What happened is done. Over. We don't discuss it. We don't revisit it. We work together professionally and that's it."

"I can't just pretend none of it happened."

"You don't have a choice. Those are the terms. You want the job, those are the conditions." He walked toward the door. "Start tomorrow. Nine AM. Don't be late."

He left me standing in the empty gallery.

This was going to be impossible.

The first two weeks were torture.

We maintained perfect professionalism. Emails about acquisitions. Meetings about gallery layout. Discussions about opening night plans.

Never a personal word. Never an acknowledgment of what we'd been to each other.

It was killing me.

I could feel his eyes on me sometimes. When I was presenting collection options. When I was talking to contractors about wall placement.

But every time I'd look up, he'd look away.

We were two people pretending we'd never touched each other. Never loved each other. Never destroyed each other.

It was unbearable.

One evening, three weeks into the job, I was working late. Reviewing acquisition proposals at my desk.

I heard footsteps on the stairs. Looked up to see Dante in the doorway.

"You're here late," he said.

"Had work to finish."

"It's eight o'clock."

"I'm aware."

He stepped into my office. "You should go home. Get some rest."

"I'm fine."

"You look exhausted."

"Thanks. You really know how to compliment a woman."

A ghost of a smile crossed his face. Then it was gone.

"Mia..."

"Don't. Whatever you're about to say, don't. We're keeping this professional, remember?"

"I know. You're right." But he didn't leave. Just stood there looking at me.

The air between us felt charged. Dangerous.

"Why did you really hire me?" I asked quietly. "Don't give me the bullshit about needing the best consultant. Tell me the truth."

"You want the truth?"

"Yes."

"Because I can't stop thinking about you. Because four months wasn't enough time to get you out of my system. Because I'm apparently a masochist who thought having you near me would somehow make it better instead of worse."

The honesty was devastating.

"Dante..."

"But I was wrong. Having you here, seeing you every day, it's killing me. Because I want you. Still. Despite everything. Despite hating you for what you did. I still f*****g want you."

He crossed the room in three strides. Grabbed my face with both hands. Kissed me like he was drowning.

I kissed him back just as desperately. Four months of wanting, needing, missing him pouring into it.

He pulled me up from my chair, walked me backward until I hit the wall. His hands were everywhere. In my hair, on my waist, pulling at my clothes.

"Tell me to stop," he said against my mouth.

"Don't stop."

He groaned and lifted me. I wrapped my legs around his waist, my back against the wall.

"This is a mistake," he said, even as his hands worked open my blouse.

"I know."

"We shouldn't do this."

"I know."

"I still hate you."

"I know."

He kissed me again, harder this time. His tongue claiming my mouth while his hands found my breasts. He squeezed roughly, and I gasped.

"I've missed these t**s," he growled. "Missed your body. Missed the way you feel."

He pulled my bra down, his mouth finding my n****e. Sucking hard, almost painfully. Marking me.

I cried out, my hands fisting in his hair.

"Bedroom?" I managed to ask.

"Too far. Here. Now."

He carried me to my desk. Swept everything off it with one arm. Papers and pens scattered everywhere. He laid me down on the hard surface, his body covering mine.

His hands went to my skirt, pushing it up around my waist. He ripped my underwear. Actually ripped them off me.

"I'll buy you new ones," he said.

Then his fingers were on my p***y, finding me already soaking wet.

"f**k, you're drenched. You want this as much as I do."

"More. I want it more."

He pushed two fingers inside me, and I arched off the desk.

"God, Dante."

"That's right. Say my name. Let me hear it."

He worked his fingers inside me, his thumb circling my c**t. Building the pressure fast and hard.

"I'm going to make you come on my fingers. Then on my tongue. Then on my c**k. And you're going to take everything I give you. Understand?"

"Yes. Yes. Please."

He curled his fingers, hitting that spot inside that made me see stars. His thumb pressed harder on my c**t. The orgasm slammed into me without warning. I screamed his name, my p***y clenching around his fingers.

Before I could recover, he was on his knees. His mouth on my p***y, his tongue licking through my folds.

"Still taste the same," he muttered. "Still perfect."

He ate me like he was starving. His tongue everywhere, inside me, on my c**t, licking up every drop. His hands held my thighs spread wide, keeping me open and exposed.

I was still sensitive from the first orgasm. Every touch was almost too much. But he didn't stop. Didn't slow down. Just kept licking and sucking until I was writhing on the desk, begging.

"Please. Dante. I need you inside me."

"Not yet. Come on my tongue first."

He sealed his lips around my c**t and sucked hard. Two fingers pushed inside me, pumping fast. The combination sent me over the edge again. I came with a scream, my whole body shaking.

He stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Started undoing his belt.

"Turn over. On your stomach."

I did. Hands flat on the desk, bent over, completely exposed to him.

He ran his hands over my ass, squeezed hard.

"You know what I'm going to do to you?"

"Tell me."

"I'm going to f**k this p***y until you forget your own name. Until the only word you remember is mine. Until you're so full of me you can't think straight."

"Do it. Please."

He entered me in one hard thrust. We both groaned.

"f**k. Still so tight. Still perfect."

He didn't start slow. Just began pounding into me immediately. Hard, brutal thrusts that made the desk scrape across the floor.

I braced myself, taking everything he gave me. This wasn't gentle. Wasn't tender. This was anger and need and four months of wanting wrapped into raw, desperate f*****g.

"Touch yourself," he ordered. "Make yourself come on my cock."

I reached between my legs, found my c**t. So sensitive I could barely stand to touch it. But I did anyway, circling as he f****d me.

"That's it. Good girl. Come for me. Show me you're still mine."

"I'm yours. I've always been yours."

"Damn right you are."

He gripped my hips hard enough to bruise and drove into me. Over and over. The angle was perfect, hitting deep, making me feel every thick inch of him.

"I'm close," I gasped.

"Then come. Now."

My orgasm tore through me. I came screaming, my p***y clenching around his c**k. He followed immediately, shouting my name as he emptied himself inside me.

We collapsed together. Both breathing hard. Both shaking.

Reality crashed back in.

We'd just had s*x on my office desk. Raw, desperate, angry s*x.

And it had been incredible.

Dante pulled out slowly. I felt his c*m dripping down my thighs.

He stepped back, started fixing his clothes.

"That was a mistake," he said.

"I know."

"It can't happen again."

"I know."

"I still don't forgive you. This doesn't change anything."

"I know."

He looked at me. At my thoroughly f****d appearance. My swollen lips. My flushed skin.

"Clean yourself up. Go home. We'll pretend this never happened."

He left without another word.

I stood there in my destroyed office, c*m running down my legs, my body still trembling from orgasms.

We'd just crossed a line we couldn't uncross.

And I had no idea what happened next.