Chapter 25
1621 Words
The morning sun, filtered by sheer black drapes, cast muted, dark light across Dante’s bedroom. It was Sunday, and despite the chaos of the night before, ritual reigned.
Dante walked into his massive walk-in closet. The space was a perfect cube of masculine order—dark wood paneling, low amber strip lighting, and meticulous organization. Rows of suits and carefully organized shoes lined the walls.
He was preparing for Mass. He slid into a black dress shirt, the silk cool against his skin, followed by perfectly tailored black dress pants. He adjusted the final piece: a smooth black tie accented with subtle gold metallic details. He looked at his reflection—the picture of formidable, contained power, his striking features perfectly framed by his dark, messy hair.
He took a deep breath and walked out of the closet.
His custom dress shoes clicked on the hardwood floor as he walked with purpose down the hall, his destination the opposite side of the staircase: his sister’s wing.
He knocked on Isabella’s door. Silence. He knocked again, harder.
“f**k off!” came the muffled, angry reply.
Dante sighed, annoyed, and opened the door without waiting for permission.
Isabella was still buried in a mountain of silk and plush pillows, completely undressed and looking like a beautiful, vengeful storm.
Dante walked to the foot of her bed. “You need to get up. Church starts in thirty minutes.”
Isabella wiggled an arm out from beneath the silk cocoon and vaguely waved him away. Her voice was muffled and furious. "I don't give a f**k! Let me sleep, asshole."
Dante looked down at the edge of her bedding, his patience wearing thin. He grabbed the blanket cord.
"If you don't go, Mom's going to be pissed." With a single, sharp motion, he pulled the blanket and mountain of pillows off the bed.
Isabella let out a growl, sitting up, her eyes narrowed and furious. “So I don’t care!” she spat, grabbing the blanket and trying to cocoon herself back into it.
Dante moved to the side of the massive, circular platform bed. He knelt slightly, reached under the mattress, and without warning or any visible effort, he lifted the entire mattress with Isabella still on it and flipped it off the platform.
Isabella shrieked, hitting the carpeted floor with a heavy, humiliating thud, the silk sheets tangling around her legs.
“You f*****g d**k!” she yelled, pushing the pillows away.
Dante simply smirked, looking down at his disheveled twin. “Good, you’re awake. You now have twenty-five minutes to get ready.”
Isabella grabbed a pillow and hurled it at his retreating head as he walked out of her room, leaving the promise of parental wrath and the heavy scent of his dominance hanging in the air.
Dante, now immaculate in his black suit, was in the driver's seat of his Shelby GT500. Isabella, impeccably dressed but rushing her makeup, was in the passenger seat.
Dante pulled out of the driveway and immediately accelerated onto the winding streets. He drove fast, pushing the powerful engine, but it was the sharp, unnecessary turns that were intentional.
Isabella gasped, her hand flying to her face, a smear of lipstick crossing her cheek. She elbowed him hard in the side. “Can you slow the f**k down?! God, I’m trying to finish my makeup, dick.”
Dante, ignoring the pain, deliberately took a sharp turn again, throwing Isabella against the door. He gave her a cold smirk. “Well, if someone had gotten up when I told them to, we wouldn't have to speed. We’re going to be late.”
Isabella scoffed, rubbing the ruined lipstick from her face and frantically reapplying it.
They pulled up to the large, stone Catholic church, the engine’s roar a sharp, vulgar interruption in the peaceful Sunday morning. They were undeniably the last ones in.
Dante and Isabella quickly made their way down the aisle. Heads turned, but no one dared look for long.
They slipped into the front pew where their parents, Antonio and Rosa, were already seated, their backs ramrod straight.
Right as they sat down, the service began, the priest’s voice already echoing from the altar.
Antonio leaned in, a small smirk playing on his lips.
"How nice of you to join us," he whispered, his voice warm with amusement.
Dante took a deep breath, adjusting the cuffs of his silk shirt. "Sleeping b***h didn't want to get up," he whispered back.
Rosa, sitting between them, didn't turn her head. She simply narrowed her eyes at Dante, the look of silent disapproval a potent command in itself. Dante, though, ignored her stare.
Isabella, still furious about the ruined makeup and the car ride, pinched Dante in the rib. Dante immediately elbowed her hard in the shoulder.
Rosa didn't hesitate. She snapped her fingers—a quiet, sharp sound of finality.
Both siblings stopped instantly, their bodies freezing in absolute obedience. The authority of their mother was non-negotiable, even in church.
Antonio let out a deep, internal sigh of satisfaction, a small smile playing on his lips. “God, I love Sunday's," he muttered under his breath.
The main body of the mass began, but for the Rossi twins, the solemnity was merely an illusion. Isabella was rapidly scrolling and texting behind her prayer book, and Dante sat rigid, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, staring blankly at the pew in front of him.
He was wrestling with the cold, hard memory of the night—the sight of Letty's trusting body in his bed, the brutal control he had to exert to not take her, when he could have easily.
The priest’s voice shifted, the amplified words carrying a damning clarity through the heavy silence. He was reading from the Epistle of James:
“But each person is tempted when he is lured and enticed by his own desire. Then desire when it has conceived gives birth to sin, and sin when it is fully grown brings forth death.” (James 1:14-15)
Dante’s blank stare fractured. He gripped his biceps tighter, the words hitting him with the force of a physical blow. This wasn't abstract judgment; it was a clinical diagnosis of his soul.
Lured and enticed by his own desire.
That was the core of the problem. His entire life was built on desire—the desire for power, the desire for territory, the desire for conquest. His desire for Letty was raw and overwhelming, a constant thrumming ache beneath his skin.
Desire when it has conceived gives birth to sin.
The sin here was the violation—the act of taking what was given in trust. If he had taken her when she was drunk and vulnerable, he would have conceived the sin. That single act would have inevitably led to the "death" of her innocence, the "death" of his fragile control, and the "death" of the protective future he was building for her.
He lowered his head, feeling the cold weight of his past actions and the heat of his recent temptation.
His act of self-control in the cold shower wasn't honor; it was a desperate battle for survival, an attempt to stop the cycle before desire could conceive.
He was the "sinner" defined by the text, and Letty was the temptation that forced him to choose between his dominant nature and his own redemption. He opened his eyes, staring at the pew. The war within him was real, and it was a war he was determined to win for his little one.
The church service finally ended. The sound of shuffling shoes and whispered conversations replaced the solemn quiet. Antonio waited until his family reached the aisle before patting Dante hard on the back, a proud, powerful gesture.
“Great win, son,” Antonio said, his voice low but booming. “You handled that fool fast.”
Dante didn’t look at him, still slightly irritated by the morning’s revelations. “Thanks, Dad.”
Antonio squeezed his shoulder, his voice shifting to the affectionate tone reserved for family. “Come on, let’s go get some brunch at Tony’s. You love his sandwiches.”
Dante shook his head, the words coming out too quickly, too casual. “No, I can’t. I have to give Letty a ride to work.”
The shift in priority—rejecting family time for the new girl—was glaring. Antonio’s smile widened. He immediately knew who he meant.
“Ah, la piccola bellezza,” Antonio chuckled, he remembered from the restaurant. “The little beauty at the trattoria, yes?”
Dante took a deep breath and nodded.
Antonio tightened his grip, pulling Dante closer, the pride now mixed with shrewd amusement. “Mio bambino,” he murmured in Italian, “Is he in love?”
Dante pinched the bridge of his nose, groaning with frustration. “Dad.”
Antonio shrugged, still smiling. “What? She’s smart, she’s beautiful, and she’s a little shy, but that’s a good thing. Means she won’t go f**k other guys. I think she’s a keep. I like her.”
Dante shook his head, disgusted by the crude assessment yet unable to argue with the logic of his father's world. His father had just endorsed his choice, validating Letty’s position as a valuable asset.
Antonio patted him hard on the back, signaling the conversation was over. “Go, go. Go take piccola signora to work.” Antonio lowered his voice and winked. “Just a suggestion: get her some flowers. Women love flowers.”
Dante groaned, heading toward the parking lot. He rolled his eyes, but he couldn't stop the smirk forming across his lips as he slipped into his car.
- Writer
