In Love With The Mafia Kings Son

Chapter 28

Dante walked up to the foot of his massive, king-sized bed, the plush carpet muffling his footsteps. His gaze was fixed on the figure lying beneath the silk sheets. He couldn't see her face yet, but the effortless curve of her hip, the delicate line of her spine, spoke of a breathtaking, inherent beauty.

She was laid out, waiting for him, her caramel skin glowing against the dark sheets. She wore only a sliver of black lace underwear and a matching bra, tantalizing and fragile.

He knelt down on the bed, the mattress shifting under his immense weight. He leaned forward, his dark hair falling over his brow, and began to kiss a slow, deliberate trail up her body. His lips brushed the soft skin just above her knee, moving with agonizing slowness up her thigh, over the gentle curve of her hip, to the flat plane of her stomach, lingering there before ascending to the swollen peak of her breast.

He stopped, his breath catching. He looked up, his eyes finally meeting hers through the curtain of his hair.

It was Nicolette.

She was effortlessly beautiful, utterly natural, with no trace of makeup—only the soft blush of her skin and the wide, liquid depths of her dark eyes. They were filled with an intoxicating mix of anticipation, nervous surrender, and burning desire.

Dante bit his lip, a low growl rumbling in his chest. "Don't be nervous, little one," he whispered, his voice thick with a promise. "I'll take good care of you."

He resumed his ascent, kissing up her collarbone, trailing slowly to her neck, claiming her with every touch. "You're mine, and mine alone," he breathed against her skin. His large hand began to map the soft curves of her body, tracing the line of her hip. "No other man is to touch you or look at you." He gently caressed her breast, her n****e hardening under his touch. "You belong to me."

Nicolette moaned, a soft, breathy sound that fueled Dante's primal desire, erasing any lingering doubt.

He kissed his way up to her lips, claiming them with a passionate, devouring intensity. He pulled back slightly, nipping gently at her bottom lip, his eyes locked with hers.

Letty looked up at him, her gaze filled with pure need. Her voice was husky, a raw plea. "Why?"

Dante's body was pressed firmly against hers, every muscle screaming with want. He gazed at her, a slow, possessive smirk spreading across his face.

"Because," he whispered, his eyes blazing, "I'm in love with you."

The words, so foreign yet so absolute, reverberated in Dante's head. His eyes snapped open.

He was lying on his back, alone in his bed, the silk sheets tangled around his waist. The room was dark, silent, and empty. It had been a dream.

A dream he had never experienced before. A dream where he had not only claimed a specific woman—Nicolette—with such overwhelming desire, but had also voiced a truth he had never dared to articulate.

Love.

Confusion, raw and potent, flooded him. He had never had a s*x dream about a specific person. He had never admitted "love" to anyone, not even to himself.

The sheer intensity of the dream, the physical longing that still ached in his body, and the startling clarity of his own declaration left him utterly bewildered and deeply unsettled.

Dante lay in his massive bed, staring at the dark, geometric ceiling. The aftershock of the dream—the possessive heat, the explicit words—left him rigid and confused. Love. The word was a foreign curse in his private vocabulary.

He began the familiar process of internal justification. It was just a dream. He hadn't had s*x in weeks, not since a quick, messy hookup with Chloe. That was the longest stretch he'd gone without release. The dream, he reasoned, wasn't about Letty; it was about s****l deprivation. His body was simply craving its usual dominance, and Letty was the most recent, most vivid focus of his control.

"I just need to have s*x," he muttered to the silent room. "I'll be fine."

But who would he have s*x with?

It definitely couldn't be Chloe. He was actively trying to distance himself from her and her volatile obsession; sleeping with her now would only fuel the fire aimed at Letty.

His thoughts landed on Lisa. It had been a while since they had fooled around. Lisa was a safe bet. He liked Lisa, as a friend, she was funny, she knew the rules, and most importantly, she didn't get obsessed like the others. Lisa has been in his life since they were seven years old. Lisa was actually his first kiss and his first time having s*x. She held a special, platonic place in his heart.

He pulled out his phone, quickly sending a text to Lisa about hooking up tonight.

He climbed out of bed. He dressed in his school uniform with meticulous care: plaid dress pants, black shirt, and the plaid tie. He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt and the knot of his tie, looking at his reflection.

He took one last look at himself in the mirror, trying to solidify the image of the dominant, untouchable Mafia Heir. The realization was stark: he was not the one to chase girls; it was always the other way around. But now, that rule had evaporated.

He had gotten a taste of Letty—her shyness, her submission, and her terrifying intelligence. He had promised her "more."

Lisa was a temporary, meaningless diversion. Letty was now his only chase.

---

The following morning—Monday—arrived with the heavy weight of expectation. Letty was downstairs, meticulously dressed in her uniform, trying to appear normal, but her blood was humming with the memory of the kiss and the intensity of her dreams.

She didn't have to wait. The black Shelby GT500 was already at the curb.

Dante stepped out, immaculate in his uniform, his hair still slightly damp from the shower he'd taken to suppress the vivid arousal the dream had left him with. His eyes, deep and searching, met hers, confirming the shift between them.

He opened the door for her. "Good morning, little one."

Letty slid into the passenger seat. The heat radiating from the seat and the familiar scent of sweet tobacco and spice were immediate reminders of their intimacy. She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, terrified her face would give away the shame and arousal she felt simply by being near him.

Dante settled in and pulled smoothly onto the road. The silence was profoundly different from their previous tense drives. Now, it was charged, heavy with the knowledge of his kiss and his unprecedented, whispered declaration.

Dante, ignoring his own rigid internal battle, let the silence stretch. He kept one hand firmly on the console, his gaze on the road, but he used watched Letty out the corner of his eye.

He saw the rapid pulse in her throat and the tiny, involuntary tremor in her hands clutching her backpack strap. He saw the deep, conscious blush that stained her cheeks, a direct physical reaction to his presence and his touch. He knew the simple act of sitting next to him was torture for her, and that knowledge was a potent fuel for his possessiveness.

He didn't need small talk. Instead, he simply allowed his gaze—heavy, possessive, and lingering—to assert his claim. The absence of conversation emphasized the fact that their relationship was no longer built on words, but on commands and shared, physical sensation.

Letty found herself stealing glances at him. He was quiet, focused, but the air around him crackled with a demanding intensity that she now recognized as desire. The kiss had confirmed that the violence in him was reserved for his enemies; the tenderness was reserved for her.

The long drive to Westwood was a masterclass in unspoken dominance, leaving Letty completely breathless and ready to surrender to the next command.