Chapter 14: The First Touch

Elena knew she was making a mistake the moment she agreed to have dinner with Dante.

Not at a restaurant. Not at some public place where she could maintain the careful distance she'd been clinging to for the past two weeks. No, Dante had insisted on cooking for her at his penthouse, and like an idiot, she'd said yes.

Now she stood in the elevator of his building, watching the numbers climb higher and higher, and wondered if it was too late to fake a sudden illness. Her reflection stared back at her from the mirrored walls: simple black dress that she'd owned for three years, minimal makeup, hair pulled back in a neat bun. She looked like she was going to a business meeting, not a dinner date.

Except this wasn't a date. This was two colleagues sharing a meal to discuss the community center expansion. Nothing more.

Keep telling yourself that, a voice whispered in her head. Maybe eventually you'll believe it.

The elevator doors opened directly into Dante's penthouse, and Elena's breath caught despite herself. Floor to ceiling windows showcased Chicago's skyline, the city lights glittering like scattered diamonds against the darkness. The space was modern and minimalist, all clean lines and expensive furniture, but somehow it felt empty. Cold. Like a showroom rather than a home.

"You came."

Elena turned to find Dante emerging from what she assumed was the kitchen, and her carefully constructed composure wavered. He'd traded his usual suit for dark jeans and a black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Casual looked dangerous on him, made him seem less like the polished billionaire and more like... something else. Something she couldn't quite define.

"You sound surprised," she said, forcing her voice to remain steady.

"I thought you might reconsider." He moved closer, and she caught the scent of something cooking, garlic and wine and herbs. "You've been avoiding me for three days."

"I haven't been avoiding you. I've been busy."

"Liar." The word was soft, almost amused, and it sent an unwelcome shiver down her spine. "You rescheduled our last two meetings and stopped returning my calls after eight pm."

Because talking to you late at night feels too intimate, Elena thought but didn't say. Because your voice does things to me that it shouldn't. Because I'm terrified of how much I want to know you.

"I have boundaries," she said instead. "Work life balance and all that."

Dante studied her for a long moment, those dark eyes seeing far too much. Then he smiled, just a slight curve of his lips that somehow made her pulse quicken. "Come. Dinner's almost ready."

The kitchen was all gleaming marble and state-of-the-art appliances, and Dante moved through it with surprising ease. Elena perched on a barstool at the massive island, watching as he stirred something in a copper pot that smelled absolutely divine.

"You actually cook?" she asked, unable to hide her surprise.

"You assumed I had a private chef prepare everything and then pretend I made it?"

"The thought crossed my mind."

He laughed, and the sound was warm and genuine, so different from the controlled businessman she'd grown accustomed to. "My mother insisted I learn. She said a man who can't feed himself is at the mercy of the world."

It was the first time he'd mentioned his family, and Elena found herself leaning forward. "Your mother sounds wise."

Something flickered across Dante's face, there and gone so quickly she almost missed it. Pain. Deep and old and carefully hidden. "She was."

Was. Past tense.

Elena wanted to ask, wanted to push, but she recognized the walls slamming down in his expression. She knew that look. She wore it herself whenever someone asked about her brother.

"I'm making risotto," Dante said, changing the subject with practiced ease. "And before you ask, yes, I know it's pretentious. But it's one of the few things I'm actually good at."

"Somehow I doubt that's true."

"What? That I'm good at risotto or that there are only a few things I excel at?"

"The latter." Elena accepted the glass of wine he poured for her, their fingers brushing for just a second. The contact was electric, and she pulled back too quickly, nearly sloshing wine on the counter. "You seem like someone who's good at everything you attempt."

Dante's expression turned serious. "I'm good at building companies. I'm good at making money. I'm good at..." He paused, something dark and dangerous flashing in his eyes. "I'm good at protecting what's mine. But the things that actually matter? I've failed more often than I've succeeded."

The raw honesty in his voice caught her off guard. This wasn't the smooth billionaire who'd walked into her community center with a check and a charming smile. This was someone real, someone who hurt, someone who carried scars just like she did.

"I don't believe that," she said softly.

"You don't know me well enough to judge."

"Then tell me. Help me get to know you."

The words hung between them, heavy with implication. Dante set down his wooden spoon and turned to face her fully, bracing his hands on the counter. They were close now, close enough that she could see the fine lines around his eyes, the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the intensity burning in his gaze.

"What do you want to know, Elena?"

Everything, she thought. Why are you really helping the center? Why do you look at me like you're trying to solve a puzzle? Why can't I stop thinking about you even though every instinct tells me to run.

"Why me?" she asked instead. "There are hundreds of community centers in Chicago. Why did you choose mine?"

Dante was quiet for a long moment, and Elena could see him weighing his words, deciding how much truth to offer. "Because I saw you on the news that night, covered in that boy's blood, and you looked exactly like I felt when I lost my sister."

The confession hit her like a physical blow. "Dante..."

"She was nineteen," he continued, his voice rough. "Murdered by the same kind of animals that hurt Miguel. The police called it gang violence, filed it away as another statistic, and moved on. But I couldn't. I can't."

Elena understood, suddenly and completely. The intensity. The personal involvement. The way he'd thrown himself into helping her center with a focus that went beyond simple philanthropy.

This was about atonement. About saving the people he couldn't save before.

She stood up, moving around the island without thinking, drawn by the pain she saw etched into every line of his face. "How old were you?"

"Twenty-two. Fresh out of business school, convinced I was going to conquer the world." His laugh was bitter. "I was so focused on building my empire that I didn't see what was happening to her. Didn't notice she was in trouble until it was too late."

"It wasn't your fault."

"Wasn't it?" He looked at her, and the anguish in his eyes made her chest ache. "I had money. Resources. Power. And I couldn't protect the one person who mattered most."

Elena reached out without thinking, placing her hand over his on the counter. His skin was warm, his fingers strong, and she felt him tense at the contact. "You were a kid yourself, Dante. You can't carry that guilt forever."

"Can't I?" He turned his hand over, his palm pressing against hers, his fingers threading through hers with a gentleness that contradicted the storm in his eyes. "Sometimes guilt is all that keeps us moving forward."

The touch changed everything. What had started as comfort transformed into something else, something charged and dangerous and inevitable. Elena knew she should pull away, should maintain the professional distance that had been eroding since the moment they met. But she couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't think past the feel of his hand in hers and the way he was looking at her like she was the only real thing in his carefully constructed world.

"Elena." Her name was a question and a warning and a plea all at once.

"This is a bad idea," she whispered.

"Terrible," he agreed, but he was moving closer, his free hand coming up to cup her face with a tenderness that stole what little breath she had left.

"We should stop."

"We should."

But neither of them moved away. Instead, they stood there in his too-perfect kitchen with the risotto starting to burn on the stove and Chicago glittering beyond the windows, balanced on the edge of a choice that would change everything.

Dante's thumb brushed across her cheekbone, tracing the curve of her face like he was memorizing it. "Tell me to stop, Elena. Tell me this is just about the center, just business, and I'll let you go."

She should. God, she should. But the words wouldn't come, trapped behind the truth she'd been denying for weeks.

This was never just business.

"Dante, I—"

The shrill ring of his phone shattered the moment. Dante's entire body went rigid, his hand dropping from her face as he grabbed the phone from the counter. Elena saw the name on the screen: Marcus.

"I have to take this," Dante said, his voice suddenly cold, professional, all traces of vulnerability vanishing behind a mask she was beginning to recognize. "It's important."

He stepped away, answering the call in a low voice, and Elena stood there feeling like she'd just been doused with ice water. The shift was so complete, so immediate, that she wondered if she'd imagined the raw honesty of moments before.

She moved to the stove, turning off the burner before the risotto became completely inedible, and tried to collect herself. What was she doing? She'd almost kissed her donor, almost crossed a line that could jeopardize everything she'd built.

"I have to go."

Elena turned to find Dante grabbing his jacket, his phone already tucked away, his expression unreadable.

"What? Now? Dante, what's wrong?"

"Emergency at one of my overseas offices. I need to handle it personally." He was moving toward the elevator, and Elena followed, confusion and hurt warring in her chest.

"But dinner..."

"I'm sorry." He stopped at the elevator, his hand on the button, and for just a second, she saw the conflict in his eyes. "Elena, I—"

The elevator dinged, doors opening, and whatever he was going to say died unspoken.

"Go home," he said instead. "Lock your doors. And Elena? Stay away from the warehouses on Fifth Street. That area isn't safe after dark."

The specificity of the warning sent a chill down her spine. "Why would I go there?"

But he was already stepping into the elevator, already leaving, and the last thing she saw before the doors closed was the look on his face. Not regret or apology.

Fear.

Elena stood alone in the penthouse, her hand still tingling from his touch, and realized she'd just gotten a glimpse of something Dante had been hiding. Something dark and dangerous and completely at odds with the polished billionaire persona.

Who are you really, Dante Salvatore? she thought. And why do I get the feeling you're not the one I should be afraid of?