3: STRINGS ATTACHED

The phone felt heavier than it should have, the cool glass warming against her palm as though it already knew the weight of her decision.

Amara’s pulse quickened. She could still back out, still toss it back at him with a cutting remark about arrogance and boundaries. That would be smart. That would be safe.

But Dante Vitale wasn’t a man you walked away from unscathed. She’d seen how the room bent to him, how even powerful men faltered under his stare. If she refused now, he wouldn’t forget it. And Amara couldn’t risk suspicion, not this early in her mission.

Her thumb hovered over the screen. She typed the digits slowly, each one echoing in her head like the strike of a clock. When the final number appeared, she handed the phone back, her expression schooled into calm indifference.

“There,” she said lightly. “Satisfied?”

Dante’s lips curved, a lazy, devastating smile. He glanced at the screen, then slipped the phone back into his pocket. “Not yet. But I will be.”

A shiver slid down her spine despite herself.

Before she could answer, the orchestra shifted into another sweeping melody, couples filling the floor once more. Dante stepped closer, his hand brushing her hip in a gesture that was more claim than invitation.

“Dance with me again.”

She arched a brow. “And if I say no?”

His smile sharpened. “Then I’ll ask again. And again. Until the word loses meaning.”

It wasn’t a threat, not exactly. But it was a glimpse of who he was, a man who didn’t understand refusal, only inevitability.

Amara forced a laugh, letting him guide her back onto the dance floor. The warmth of his hand seeped through the fabric of her dress, his body close enough that every movement pressed temptation against her will.

“You’re very sure of yourself,” she murmured as they moved in time with the music.

“Confidence isn’t a crime.” His gaze locked onto hers, unrelenting. “It’s survival.”

Their steps slid easily into rhythm, his lead smooth and commanding. Every turn brought her closer, every brush of his thigh against hers a reminder of how effortlessly he controlled the space between them.

“You’re trembling again,” he said softly, amusement flickering in his tone.

She met his eyes, steady this time. “Maybe it’s just the music.”

“Liar,” he whispered, his lips grazing her temple without quite touching. “But I like that about you. A liar who dances beautifully. A liar who looks at me like she already belongs to me.”

Her breath caught. “You’re imagining things.”

His hand slid lower, pressing her flush against him until denial was useless. “No, bella. I’m just patient enough to wait until you admit it.”

Heat coiled in her stomach, unwelcome and intoxicating all at once. This was the danger they’d warned her about, not his empire, not his guns, but him. The way he dismantled her with a single look, a single word.

The song ended, but Dante didn’t let go. He held her there a beat longer, forcing her to feel the weight of his body, the pull of his gravity. Only when applause rippled through the room did he release her, though his hand lingered on her wrist.

“Tomorrow night,” he said simply.

Amara blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You’ll have dinner with me. Eight o’clock. I’ll send a car.”

She opened her mouth, ready to protest, but his gaze stopped her cold. Dark, unyielding, threaded with a promise that refusal wouldn’t be the end of it.

Her mind scrambled for a way out, some excuse that would satisfy without provoking. “And if I already have plans?”

He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear, his breath hot against her skin. “Cancel them.”

A tremor slipped through her before she could stop it.

Dante drew back, his smile slow and certain. “Good girl.”

The words struck like a brand. She hated the way they made her stomach flip, hated the flush creeping across her cheeks. He didn’t miss it, of course. His eyes gleamed, satisfaction rolling off him like smoke.

And then his phone buzzed.

For the first time, his attention shifted. He glanced at the screen, his expression hardening in a way that sent a chill through her. Without a word, he slipped the phone away and straightened, his hand finally falling from her.

“I have business to attend to.” His voice was sharper now, colder. “But we’re not finished, Amara.”

The sound of her name on his lips made her heart stutter.

He leaned in one last time, his mouth close enough to graze her cheek. “Eight o’clock. Don’t make me come looking for you.”

And with that, he was gone, disappearing into the crowd like smoke into air, leaving her standing breathless and furious at herself for feeling hollow in his absence.

Her handler’s voice crackled in her ear. What the hell was that, Amara? You were supposed to gather intel, not hand him your number.

She turned toward the balcony, desperate for fresh air. Her chest rose and fell, anger and heat colliding beneath her ribs. “I’m in control,” she whispered.

But the echo of Dante’s last words lingered, curling through her like a chain she’d already let him fasten.

Don’t make me come looking for you.