Chapter 8
1628 Words
Letty finished her pasta, cleaned the two plates in the silence her father had left behind, and retreated to her room. The usual comfort of her books and homework felt distant, useless tonight. The simple fact of the address—Isabella Rossi’s house—was a terrifying, monumental truth that overshadowed everything.
She was going to the Mafia King’s compound.
Letty lay on her small bed, staring at the coffee-colored ceiling, her mind a frantic war zone. She cycled between the cold, visceral dread and a shameful, intoxicating excitement.
Dread: This was exactly the kind of exposure her father had warned against. This was the territory of the people who might have ordered her mother’s murder. She was walking into the lion’s den, forced to perform for the predator’s sister.
Excitement: The truth was harder to swallow. The fear was thick and metallic, but beneath it, a desperate, unfamiliar heat pulsed through her. It was the anticipation of Dante. The memory of his enormous hand closing around her waist, the deep resonance of his voice, and the chilling finality of his claim—My little one—was a reckless, sensual promise her body could not ignore. She was terrified of him, yet her compliance felt almost voluntary when he was near.
The emotional reality was a brutal conflict: her mind, anchored by trauma, demanded invisibility and safety; her body, newly awakened by Dante's dominance, craved the intensity and the danger.
She finally dragged herself out of bed. If she had to go, she would be prepared.
Letty carefully laid out her practice clothes: standard black athletic wear, nothing designer, nothing that could draw further scrutiny from Isabella. Then she meticulously ironed her school uniform for Monday, the act of precise order calming her frayed nerves.
She checked the time: 10:45 PM. Her phone remained silent.
There was no text from Dante, no confirmation. Just the implied command and the expectation that he would arrive at 8:30 AM. That simple, arrogant assumption of her availability was another layer of his proprietary control.
Letty climbed back into bed, pulling the blanket tight, but the image of Dante's intense, chocolate eyes and the intoxicating scent of sweet tobacco and spice filled the darkness. She was no longer just running from her past; she was hurtling toward a dangerous future, and to her profound surprise, a small, reckless part of her couldn't wait.
The dread was the last thing Letty felt before sleep claimed her, but the anxiety was quickly overridden by the subconscious chaos of her attraction.
She was no longer in her tiny apartment room; she was somewhere vast, dimly lit, and consuming. The sheets beneath her were cool silk, but the air was thick with the scent of sweet tobacco and spice.
Above her, Dante was an overwhelming shadow, a monolith of muscle and dominance. He was naked, his immense frame—the 6'3" height and 187 pounds of honed strength—casting her small body in shadow.
His gaze, a demanding, proprietary focus, burned down at her.
Letty was utterly exposed, trapped, and completely compliant.
Dante didn't ask; he commanded. His voice, low and gravelly, seemed to vibrate through the very air, resonating deep within her core.
"You're beautiful when you're afraid, little one," he growled, the possessiveness in his voice absolute. "But you belong to me now. Look at me. Obey."
The fear was instantly consumed by a wild, electrifying thrill. She didn't have a choice; her body quivered with anticipation and excitement, eager to fulfill the commands her mind would never consciously allow.
He trailed a large, warm hand down her body, slow and deliberate, a masterful tease that left her skin aching. When his touch grew rougher, demanding, it wasn't pain; it was the sharp clarity of control. He claimed her with a certainty that erased all past trauma, replacing it with a singular, immediate purpose: him.
He moved to her ear, his breath warm. "I want to hear it," he whispered, the command pushing her closer to the edge. "Tell me what you need, and tell me who owns it."
The need was a burning, desperate ache, and the words were suddenly easy to speak. Letty cried out, confessing the forbidden desires she didn't know she possessed, the sound swallowed by the darkness and the heavy pressure of his demanding presence.
Dante grinned, a purely s****l, predatory smile. He drove into her with unhurried, dominant strength, his larger-than-average size a relentless, consuming force that demanded her complete attention. He moved with a devastating stamina, controlling every agonizing pulse of pleasure, forcing her to the brink and holding her there, teasing her with his power, until her compliance was total and her surrender absolute.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
The shrill, insistent noise of her alarm clock ripped Letty violently from the fantasy. She gasped, bolting upright in bed, the remnants of the dream dissolving into the harsh morning light.
She was disoriented, breathless, and soaked in heat.
A moment later, the stunning, undeniable reality of the dream hit her. She felt the dampness immediately—her sheets, underwear, and pajama pants were wet.
She had c*m in her sleep. The sheer physical force of the fantasy had overwhelmed her subconscious defenses.
“f**k,” she whispered under her breath, the single word laced with shame, anger, and a startling remnant of the thrill.
It was 7:30 AM. Dante would be here in an hour.
Letty threw the damp sheets off the bed, her mind working with frantic speed. She gathered the evidence of her surrender and thrust it into a laundry basket before practically leaping into the shower. The cold water did little to erase the powerful phantom ache of his touch, but she scrubbed her skin until it was pink, trying desperately to wash away the shame and the treacherous, terrifying craving.
She was going to the Rossi compound, and her body had just delivered the final, most humiliating betrayal.
Letty scrambled out of the shower, her skin tingling from the scrubbing, but the phantom ache of the dream lingered. She had wasted precious time dealing with the damp linens. It was 8:15.
She quickly dressed in simple black athletic wear—leggings and a loose top—and pulled her long, dark hair up into a messy bun, not bothering to blow dry it.
The damp strands were the least of her worries.
She ran down the stairs. The apartment was quiet, her father, thankfully, already gone to wage his war.
She grabbed her gym bag, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm of panic and anticipation.
Right as she stepped out the front door, precisely at 8:30, Dante's sleek black Shelby GT500 rolled to a silent stop at the curb.
Dante stepped out, moving with the heavy, disciplined grace of his immense frame. He wore dark jeans and a simple black T-shirt that stretched across his powerful chest, emphasizing his muscle and size. He didn't wait; he walked around the hood of the car to open the passenger door for her.
The moment Letty saw him, all her efforts to cleanse her mind were brutally undone.
She had a blinding, visceral flash of the s*x dream—the crushing weight of his body, the sound of his gravelly voice commanding her submission, the relentless, dominant force of him. A hot, deep wave of need and want instantly flooded her, making her cheeks burn and her legs feel weak.
Dante was standing right in front of her. His chocolate eyes held a familiar, predatory intensity.
Letty snapped out of the terrifying lapse. Her voice was a terrified, high-pitched squeak that she barely recognized. “Th-thank you.” She didn't trust herself to say anything else and slid quickly into the seat.
Dante gave her a slow, satisfied smirk—a look that seemed to acknowledge the raw tension in the air. He gently closed the door, the sound a soft, intimate seal, and walked around to the driver's side.
Dante settled his massive frame into the driver's seat, the car immediately feeling small. He didn't start the engine right away.
Letty, desperate for a safe distraction, began to subtly examine him. She tracked the defined line of his jaw, the faint dusting of light stubble, the thick, corded muscles visible beneath the black cotton. Every inch of him was intimidatingly perfect—the epitome of dominance and physical strength.
In turn, Dante was examining her, and not subtly. His eyes traveled over the lines of her small, athletic body, lingering on the damp strands of hair at her neck.
His mind worked with a detached, clinical assessment, which was his default setting for women. He had been with a rotation of the world's most beautiful, confident, and sexually aggressive women—girls whose bodies were arguably sexier and more overtly flawless than Letty's. Yet, they faded into the background.
There was something entirely different about Nicolette. It wasn't just the contradiction of her timid behavior against the fiery intelligence he had glimpsed. It was the palpable, involuntary way her body betrayed her fear, the deep flush on her cheeks, and the way her pulse quickened under his gaze.
This wasn't a casual conquest; this was a genuine pique of interest and curiosity that felt alien to him.
He found himself wanting to unpack her layers, to understand the trauma that created the submissive mask, and to break through to the sharp mind beneath. It was a first, dark need to know, not just to conquer.
Dante finally turned the key, the powerful engine roaring to life. The cloud of sweet tobacco and spice cologne enveloped Letty, and the drive to the Rossi compound began.
- Writer
