Kissing Dante had become one of Amara’s favorite things. It wasn’t boring at all like her ten-year-old self had thought. No. Kissing him was heaven. Kissing him was sin. It was everything in between, and she was addicted.
Some days, they’d go for a walk in the woods and he’d press her up against a tree, slanting his lips over hers. Some days, he’d pick her up from her appointments and they’d pull into the same dirt road, making out for hours in his car. Some days, she’d sneak over to his house, feeling his mouth dance with hers in perfect rhythm.
They kissed a lot, but Dante never, not once took it further. His hands stayed above her waist, his lips above her neck, and even though she felt him get hard every time, she never, not once, felt unsafe with him.
They also did a lot of non-kissing things. Some mornings, Amara got up at the crack of dawn and climbed up to his studio, watching him work on his sculptures while listening to books with him. Audiobooks weren’t really her thing, but she enjoyed the time she spent listening to them with him. While his tastes were wide, Amara loved romance. One time, she had him play a romantic novel and the narrator reading the steamy parts left them both pretty hot and bothered. That part had been like listening to classy erotica.
On Sundays, Dante had also taken to teaching her dance to help with her sense of balance. He would bring her to his studio and spend two hours playing music and leading her around the room, holding her upright when her knees shook, catching her if she fell, to the point she would literally close her eyes and trust him blindly, and he would always keep her safe.
Her self-esteem got a bit better but it was still on shaky ground.
“I don’t know why you’d spend time with me, Dante,” she’d told him one day. “I’m young and damaged and nobody. I have scars and a broken voice and my head isn’t right. You’re the heir to the Outfit and have your pick of people. Sometimes, I feel like you’ll open your eyes and see you have better choices and I’ll be left alone.” To that, Dante had dragged her close and kissed her hard, reassuring her that she was it for him.
Things were getting better all around. Vin was recovered and initiated into the soldier ranks. Her mother had less of a workload because the Maroni’s had finally hired another housekeeper to split. Nerea was growing on her, with her devil-may-care attitude and kind smiles to Amara. Amara had actually begun to really like her, and respect her for being a lone woman in an Outfit of men.
Just yesterday, her half-sister had come to her with a beautiful pair of boots.
“What’s this for?” Amara had asked, smiling at the gift.
Nerea had shrugged with a small grin. “I’ve never had a sister so let me spoil you, okay?”
Yeah, she was growing on her, alright.
The only people Amara had gone out of her way to avoid had been Mr. Maroni and his cousin, Leo.
This was why when the messenger came calling her to Mr. Maroni’s office, it punched her in the chest.
It was her birthday, and Mr. Maroni had called her to the mansion.
Amara gulped as the messenger, a maid at the main house, left after giving her the message. She doubted he wanted her presence to wish her a happy adulthood day. In all the time she had lived on the compound, something like this – a messenger coming from the mansion to call someone from the staff quarters – had never happened.
Palms clammy, Amara felt the beginnings of an anxiety attack, a pit opening in her stomach, and breathed out slowly, counting backward in her head as Dr. Das had told her. Straightening her dress, Amara wrapped a scarf around her neck and put on boots, before following the maid up the hill.
“Did he say why he wanted to see me?” Amara asked, unable to contain her nerves.
The maid looked back at her before continuing. “No. He just asked me to call you.”
“By my name?” Amara asked, and had her voice been normal, it would have escalated to a high pitch.
“Yeah,” the maid left her at the entrance. “He’s in his study.”
Amara knew the room since she’d been in the mansion helping her mother many times. Taking a deep breath in, Amara headed into the mansion, turning right from the huge foyer, each step she took closer to the study sinking her stomach to her knees.
The wooden door seemed foreboding as she stood before it, gathering the courage to knock.
“Come in,” came the heavy voice as she rapped twice on the door.
Pushing it open, Amara looked at the intimidating man sitting behind a huge desk, and older version of Dante, his dark eyes coming to her. His face slashed in a brief smile that Amara didn’t like, not one bit.
“Ah, Amara,” he said as though he’d known her all his life. “Have a seat. And please close the door behind you.”
With a sweaty palm, Amara closed the door, and quietly sat down in the chair before the desk.
Mr. Maroni ran a thick hand through his prominent salt-and-pepper beard, and watching him closely, Amara could see where Dante got some of his features from. His mother must have been a beauty too.
“How are you doing?” he asked pleasantly. Too pleasantly.
“I’m fine, Mr. Maroni,” Amara spoke as evenly as she could, pinching the inside of her wrist to keep her nerves at bay.
“Very good,” he nodded. “Your mother tells me you’ll get your graduation degree this month?”
Amara nodded but stayed silent.
“Have you thought about what you’d like to pursue as a career?” he asked, leaning his elbows on his desk, the picture of sincerity. God, he was good.
“Psychology,” Amara informed him, her voice thankfully steady.
“Any specialization?”
Amara hesitated for a second before responding. “Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, specializing in trauma.”
“Ah,” he smiled, his white teeth gleaming against his beard. “Turning your experience into something positive. Very inspiring for a girl your age. I actually called you here because I feel responsible for what happened years ago. You live on my property and it was very wrong.”
God, he almost convinced her of that bullshit.
Amara simply stared at him, waiting for him to continue. Her silence made people uncomfortable, but Lorenzo Maroni simply measured her with those sharp eyes.
Standing up, he went to the wet bar at the corner. “The University of Shadow Port has an excellent Department of Psychology. They also have an accelerated program that allows students to finish credits and get their degrees in two years instead of four. Hard work, but plausible,” he said, pouring himself some whiskey from the crystal decanter, before turning to her. “I have an offer for you, Amara. I’ll pay for your entire education at one of the best universities in the country. In return, you simply stay there after your graduation and cut all ties with my son.”
Amara blinked at the man, her heart starting to pound – not at the offer but the fact that he wanted her out of Dante’s life.
She swallowed, fear infiltrating her system, making her breathing choppy as she slowly stood up. “With all due respect, Mr. Maroni,” she rasped out quietly, “I’ll decline.”
She turned to leave the room when his voice stopped her in her tracks. “Or your mother dies, Amara.”
She spun around on the spot, looking at him in shock.
He gazed back at her calmly. “This is for your own good, girl. My son might fancy you for now but in a month, a year, a few years at the max? He won’t. He’ll fuck you and he’ll be done. And one day, he will marry someone who fits him and take over the entire Outfit.” His voice almost gentled as every word hit her chest like a bullet. “I’m giving you a chance to choose a future for yourself, make a life for yourself, a clean slate.”
“And if I don’t make the choice you want,” Amara huffed in disbelieving laughter, “you kill my mother.”
“Yes,” he stated, with no remorse. “Take the weekend to think about it. I’ll book your tickets for the night of your graduation. You’ll have an apartment, a car, everything you need waiting for you. Except for your mother, who will stay here as insurance.”
Amara felt her eyes burn.
“Oh, and don’t think of telling my son,” Mr. Maroni continued, taking a sip of his drink, his face a mask of kindness. “You know his brother? He’s in a mental home. Dante loves him. You tell Dante and his brother will disappear and that, my dear, will be on you.”
Amara had thought she’d seen the worst of humanity when they had taken her. Looking at Lorenzo Maroni, she realized she hadn’t. True evil was like air pollution, inhaled without thought, seeping into the lungs, rotting from the inside out. It was invisible. Insidious. Sadistic. And Lorenzo Maroni was true evil.
Amara pushed her tongue to the roof of her mouth to keep her tears contained. Leaving the room, she walked out of the mansion into the bright day, her entire life changed in the span of a few minutes.
Amara looked at her mother across the kitchen island, gripping her hands. Her mother’s eyes reflected the same pain and rage she felt inside her bones.
“We can leave, Mumu,” her mother squeezed her hands. “Start somewhere fresh. We have enough savings.”
Amara shook her head, wiping her tear across her cheek. “The threat is for your life, Ma. It won’t matter where we go.”
A tear slid down her mother’s aging face. “You love him.”
Amara felt her own eyes water. “Yes,” she whispered softly, a secret just shared between the two of them.
“You always loved him,” her mother stated.
“Not like this,” Amara looked down at their joined hands, hers softer, younger, her mother’s rougher, more wrinkled. “He always had a bit of my heart, but I’m not that girl anymore. My heart isn’t the same anymore. This new heart, it doesn’t just love him, Ma. It beats for him.” Tears streamed down her face. “He came into this new heart to help me rebuild it, day after day, and he just never left.”
Her mother came around the counter to her side, wrapping Amara in her arms, cocooning her in that feeling of safety that always came with her, pressing kisses to her head. Amara broke down, knowing she had no choice. Her mother’s life, his brother’s life, they were precious. She couldn’t be selfish.
“You need to tell him, Mumu,” her mother spoke into her hair.
Amara pulled back. “I can’t risk his brother’s life.”
The older woman cupped her face, looking down at her firmly. “Dante is not a boy, Amara,” her mother said, using her given name, conveying her seriousness. “He’s been playing this game for a long time. He knows his father better than you do. Tell him the truth, tell him everything, and let him handle it.”
Amara bit her lip, so, so tempted. “But his brother-”
“Trust him,” her mother interrupted her. “He has been here for you, for years. That boy loves you. Don’t deny him the chance to handle this.”
Maybe her mother was right. Maybe he could do something about it.
Nodding, she hiccupped, deciding to talk to him about it soon.
Vin came to her soon after sunset, his body tall and strong and nothing like his old chubby self, holding a package in his hands.
“Have you been crying?” he asked, his eyes knowing her too well.
“I’m aging now,” Amara rolled her eyes, taking the package from him. “What’s this?”
Vin smiled, shaking his head. “Just get dressed. I have orders to get you out in 30 minutes.”
Amara frowned at that, taking the package to her room, tearing it open. It was a dress, a gorgeous dress. Quickly stripping down to her underwear, Amara slipped into the dress, looking at her reflection in the full-length mirror. The dress was forest color, shimmering in greens if she turned one way and metallic if she twisted another. It had a high neck and full sleeves, coming down to her wrists, the hem falling down to her ankles, with one slit on the right that came mid-thigh.
Taking a deep breath, she tied her hair in a high ponytail that would show off the shape of her neck without showing off the skin and swiped a little red lipstick over her mouth.
She couldn’t see a single of her scars in the dress. Just like that, she looked like a genetically blessed woman with slightly heavy breasts and ass that was balanced out by her height. She looked beautiful. And for one night, she could pretend.
Sliding her feet into flats that didn’t really go with the entire outfit, she exited the room to see her mother and Vin look up. Vin grinned, giving her a little whistle that boosted her shaky confidence. Her mother tried to smile, her eyes still pained from what she’d told her.
No. Tonight she would pretend.
Giving her ma a little kiss on her cheek, Amara smiled and let Vin escort her up to the waiting car.
“Thanks for the dress,” she told him as they neared the car.
Vin chuckled. “Not my gift.”
Amara frowned. “What do you mean?”
He just chuckled and got in the car. Amara buckled herself in as they drove out of the property towards the city. “Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise.”
Accepting that he wouldn’t say anything else, Amara let herself enjoy the ride, watching the lights of the city as they twinkled closer and closer. The possibility of having to leave that place, of losing the city she had come to love had Amara drinking in the sights even more.
Not tonight.
Vin drove to a deserted street, towards an empty multi-story building near Dr. Das’s house, stopping the car right outside the entrance.
“He’s waiting for you.”
Amara looked at her friend, her heart starting to pound as it dawned on her.
Dante.
“He asked you to drive me here?” she asked, her voice low, slightly rough.
He nodded. “For your safety. Go up to the top floor. Happy birthday, ‘Mara.”
Amara leaned across the console to hug him tightly, her chest heavy. “I love you, Vinnie.”
Vin pat her back. “Love you too, ‘Mara. Though if you tell anyone I got mushy, we’re gonna have a problem.”
She choked on a laugh and jumped out of the car. Inhaling deeply, she entered the dark building, spotting the elevator on the right, and took it to the top floor, her stomach in knots. No music came on and Amara exhaled.
“Relax,” she told herself softly. “It’s just Dante.”
After moments, the elevator dinged and the door parted to reveal a huge, open, dimly lit space. Amara took a step inside, looking around the single, huge room, seeing beautiful sculptures displayed around the room. She spotted different variations – from mythology-inspired sculptures to custom art she had never seen before.
As her eyes took in everything in the room, she felt him at her back.
Amara stilled, the new-found instinct inside flooding panic into her system with a presence at her back, flashbacks lingering on the fringes of her mind, waiting for her to open the floodgates.
She locked it shut tight, exhaling, urging her mind to feel safe. Dante was behind her. Dante, not anyone else. Her Dante, who would never hurt her. She trusted him.
But it wouldn’t leave, that feeling of being invaded. He didn’t know, or he’d never do it. And she couldn’t tell him, not without wanting to curl up into that ball of shame, even though she knew logically it wasn’t her fault. Sadly, emotion didn’t leave space for logic.
Swallowing, she simply stepped away from him, seemingly casual as she walked to one of the art pieces, a grey bowl with veins of gold running beautifully through it.
“That’s the ancient art of kintsugi,” his voice, that warm, husky, masculine voice of sinful chocolate and twisted sheets can from her side. “It’s the art of putting cracked or broken pieces of pottery together, repairing them with gold, and making a stronger, more stunning piece than the one before.”
Amara stared at the bowl, seeing the splendor of it. What she had thought artful veins of gold were, in fact, cracks where the bowl had broken. It was highlighting the cracks instead of hiding them.
“What place is this?” she asked him softly. She wasn’t entirely comfortable using her voice with him yet, but over the last few months, she had begun talking to him.
“It’s an art gallery. I’m going to buy it one day,” he replied in a tone that matched hers, his hot presence at her side. Feeling nothing behind her back had her relaxing a fraction more.
“And why are we here?” she moved her eyes from the bowl to look at him, surprised to see him dressed in a tux, holding a medium-sized box in his hands.
He looked down at her, the look in his eyes making her heart begin to pound for a different reason. The light from the outside fell on one side of his face, and her palms itched to trace the line of his jaw, to feel if it was as smooth as it looked or rough against her skin.
Surprising the hell out of her, he went down on one knee beside her.
What the hell was he doing?
Amara bit her lip as he opened the box, his eyes on hers, and revealed a pair of beautiful golden stilettos. They were gorgeous, with an ankle strap that crossed over the top, the thin heel a solid three inches.
She gulped. “It’s beautiful… but… I can’t wear heels,” she lilted through the words, explaining it to him.
“Trust me,” his eyes stayed on hers, fierce yet somehow soft.
Wiping her palms on the dress, she nodded.
He took the shoes out, placing the box to the side, and held her right ankle. Amara felt a current shoot up from the spot to her core, tingling her body in a way she had only felt with him before. He placed her foot on this knee, the slit of her dress gaping open, exposing her entire leg to him.
Amara saw his eyes rove over the exposed skin, before coming to hers, the heat in them knocking her breath out of her lungs.
“Ask me to kiss you,” he told her, his voice rough, grating over her skin in the most delicious friction.
Her toes curled on his thigh in reaction, her throat dry. God, she loved him and right then, she wanted him to take his fill, to touch, to devour. Every sexual fantasy she’d harbored for him in secret came to the fore of her mind. She didn’t know where he would kiss her if she asked, kneeling as he was, but she wanted it. She wanted him.
“Kiss me,” she whispered in the space between them, her heart racing.
His fingers tightened around her ankle fractionally, his eyes breaking their gaze to trace the line of her leg, stopping at the single, small scar from the knife in the middle of her thigh. He leaned forward, his mouth pressing to the spot, and Amara felt her head tip back, her breath coming out in a rush as all the blood in her body rushed to the spot to greet his lips. She tightened her grip on his shoulder, feeling his tongue softly lick the little scar. Her heart stuttered, the action causing wetness to pool between her legs, the significance of it causing her eyes to burn.
He pulled back, squeezing her ankle to get her eyes on his, his gaze so hot, so hungry it created a riot erupt her insides, his face so, so close to her mound she knew could scent her arousal.
“Ask me to kiss you,” he uttered again, his Adam’s apple bobbing over his collar, his jaw clenching once. She knew what he was asking. She knew exactly where his mouth would go if she asked him again, and though she should stop this madness, she couldn’t. Her body, while still hers, followed his commands.
She swallowed, feeling the heaviness in her breasts, her nipples standing to attention even though his eyes never wavered to them. Gliding her hands over his broad shoulders, feeling the muscles covered with his jacket under her palms, Amara slid her fingers into his hair for the first time, thrilling at being able to touch him like this.
“Kiss me, Dante.”
His eyes blazed as he put his left hand on the small of her back, steadying her, and tugged her ankle up, placing her knee over his shoulder. Amara felt herself lean back against the wall, her heart pounding as he widened her legs enough for the slit of her dress to gape. She felt him move, placing a soft kiss on the inside of her thigh, right where her thigh met her pussy, and for a second, she felt apprehension crawl over her skin.
Her palms began to sweat in what she identified as one of the first signs of her anxiety attack.
No.
Not now. Please, not right now.
Her chest got tight, her heartbeats spiking for another reason altogether. Her breaths started to come faster. Black crawled the edges of her vision, tar dripping into her lungs, weighing them down too heavily she couldn’t breathe.
Dr. Das’s voice entered her head.
Sex is natural, Amara. Your introduction to it was traumatic, so of course, that impacted you. You can enjoy sex but communicate with your partner. Let them know what’s working and not working.
What if he never wanted to do this again?
She closed her eyes, blinking rapidly.
“No,” she wasn’t even aware of the word leaving her as blackness swept over her vision.
He stopped immediately, his eyes coming to her. He took in her face, and whatever he saw there must have affected him because his gaze softened. He pressed a soft kiss to the side of her knee before putting her leg down.
Dante took off her flat, his fingers stroking over the arch of her feet, going to the underside, tracing the scars she had there, before slipping the shoe on her and placing her foot back on the ground.
Sense of balance shaken, for more than one reason, Amara held his shoulders for support as he did the same with the other foot, putting her flats in the box to the side.
Amara stood still beside the wall, her knees slightly shaking at the elevated height, as he straightened. Damn if the fact that he still towered over her didn’t have her lady bits tingling. She didn’t understand what had just happened. She wanted this man. She wanted to do naughty, wicked things to him and have him do naughty, wicked things to her. Her panic didn’t make sense. But then, it rarely did.
“I’m sorry,” Amara whispered, feeling her stomach twist, hating that she didn’t know if her refusal would make this her last opportunity to experience something like this with him.
She should have known not to underestimate the man Dante Maroni had become.
“You have nothing to be sorry about, Amara,” he took a hold of her fingers and tugged her towards the center of the room on her tottering heels, supporting her weight, tapping something on his phone before pocketing it. “That’s not how this works.”
The opening trails of a song filled the room as he pulled her in, pressing her flush against his body, one hand holding hers, the other on the small of her back, in a familiar way he held her when they danced.
“How does this work?” she swallowed, asking his shoulder.
“It works with you stopping me when you need to, and me stopping. Or you telling me to keep going, and me going on. Simple as that.”
“And if I keep stopping you?” she voiced the one fear she had.
“Then I stop. No questions.”
Amara pressed her nose into his shoulder, inhaling that woodsy fire scent of his that she loved, feeling heady, feeling beautiful, feeling loved.
He began to sway them softly at first, and she tightened her hold on his shoulder to keep her balance.
“Let go, Amara,” he lined his lips with her ear, speaking the words against her lobe, his mouth brushing her skin, sending a shiver down her spine.
“Let go of everything inside your head,” he continued speaking, guiding her forward, then back. “Feel. Just close your eyes and feel. The music. This moment. Me.”
Amara felt her eyes flutter close, her heart racing. “What if I get hurt?” she whispered into his jacket.
He pulled back so she could see him, his eyes solemn, soft, sincere on hers. His face dipped closer and he pressed a soft kiss to her mouth.
“Then, I’ll kiss your scars.”
And just like that, the little of her heart she’d been holding onto was his.
That night, they danced. That night, they talked.
He told her how he wanted to buy the gallery one day in honor of his mother. She told him of her dream, of helping people heal. He told her about the pink-haired girl he’d had to kill. She told him she’d seen him bury the body. He told her about his brother and his love for building things. She told him about Nerea and how she was slowly accepting her.
He didn’t kiss her below the neck again. She didn’t ask him to.
That night was perfect.
And then, the morning came.
Amara waited in the woods, outside the shack where she had seen him years ago.
She was going to tell him about his father’s offer and let him handle it, as her mother had said.
She saw him walk out of the path, dressed in perfectly ironed grey pants and a black button-up, his sleeves folded over his forearms, his eyes on the shack behind her. Something dark passed in them before he looked at her, his face more stoic than she was used to.
“What happened?”
The hope inside her fluttered a little, but she pushed it down. “Your father made me an offer yesterday.”
She saw him frown before nodding at her to go on. She did, recounting the whole meeting, the offer, the threat, everything. With each word, something dark fell over his face. With each word, the vein on the side of his neck throbbed. With each word, his beautiful dark eyes got more and more closed.
He shoved his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the shack behind her, silent once she was done.
Realization dawned on her. It was the same place he’d had to kill Roni. Shit.
A strong wind moved through the trees, pushing her hair around, chilling her arms. The clouds remained overhead, casting everything around her in a gloomy glow. Amara pulled at her scarf out of nervous habit, before stopping herself, the silence making her antsy.
Dante clenched his jaw, before finally spearing her with a look she had never seen from him.
And she knew.
He was going to break her heart. After all the promises, after everything, he was going to be the one to break her.
“It’s a good offer,” he said simply, and Amara felt something in her chest splinter.
She took a deep breath, looking down at the ground, her hands fisting at her sides.
“Even if I could risk my brother, which I can’t, my father’s right,” he told her, his words chipping small, little pieces inside her, “I’m young right now. One day, I’ll have to take over and marry someone more suitable for my status. That’s not a future for you. You can have a better life away from this place, Amara.”
How many times did people break before they stopped mending? The pain in her heart enveloped her body. He wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t know herself. But god, it hurt. And while Amara wasn’t a stranger to pain, this one was another kind entirely, the kind that made her want to drop to her knees and howl at the unfairness of this, the kind that made her want to slap him across the face for daring to make her hope.
She stayed standing, hands fisted at her sides, keeping her eyes glued to the ground, the thin layer of snow, and the plants that were suffocating under it.
“I’m sorry, but I think we both lost sight of that,” his voice was harsh as he continued, but she didn’t look up. She couldn’t look up. Now right now. “We’re not a love story. We’re a tragedy in the making. There’s no happy ending for us. I feel that you have a better future ahead of you, and you should take it.”
Each word hit the nail harder, not into her coffin but into her flesh, leaving it bleeding and raw and open.
Darkness frayed around the edges of her vision, her jaw hurting from keeping it closed tight. Amara closed her eyes, pushing her tongue to the roof of her mouth, willing the little trick to work.
Don’t let him see. Don’t let him see. Don’t break.
She should have known. She should have known they were too good to be true. Hadn’t she said to herself that girls like her didn’t end with guys like him? She should have never let herself believe the madness he had weaved into her soul.
“You should leave,” he told her.
She was going to. She was going to leave and never see him again.
Keeping her face to the ground, Amara walked away from the clearing without a word, wondering if there would ever be an end to the pain, realizing that there wasn’t much difference between true evil and true love. They snuck up on the vulnerable, gripped them by the throat, and left a realm of ruin behind.
