4: DINNER WITH THE DEVIL

Amara spent nearly an hour in front of the mirror, something she rarely allowed herself the luxury of. But this wasn’t vanity. It was strategy.

Her handler’s warning played in her head like a litany: He’s dangerous. He’ll devour you if you let him.

All the more reason to fight fire with fire.

She smoothed her hands over the silk slip dress clinging to her body like a second skin. Deep emerald green, cut low enough to reveal the soft curve of her cleavage, with thin straps that left her shoulders bare. A slit on one side climbed high enough to flash toned thigh with every calculated step. Her hair, normally in tight curls, had been tamed into glossy, cascading waves that framed her face and brushed her collarbones.

Her skin gleamed, kissed with bronze from body oil that smelled faintly of vanilla and jasmine. Subtle, feminine, the kind of scent that lingered in the air like a secret. Gold hoops caught the light when she turned her head, and a delicate chain rested just above the swell of her breasts.

Look desirable. Look untouchable. Make him want, but don’t let him have.

She pressed her lips together, already coated in a sheen of berry gloss, and whispered to her reflection, “You’re not here to fall. You’re here to conquer.”

By the time the sleek black car arrived, she was steel wrapped in silk.

The elevator to Dante Vitale’s penthouse opened like the gates to another world. The space was all dark elegance and understated wealth. Floor-to-ceiling glass framed the glittering cityscape, while muted golden lights cast a warm glow over black marble floors.

And then he appeared.

Dante was waiting near the bar, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his shirt black and tailored to every sculpted line of his body. He didn’t just wear expensive clothes; he commanded them. The faint glint of a watch hugged his wrist, and his dark hair, always styled in reckless perfection, was swept back as though his fingers had been there moments before.

The scent of him hit her when he stepped forward: something rich, heady, impossible to ignore. Spiced sandalwood, leather, a hint of smoke, masculine and devastating.

She told herself not to notice the breadth of his chest beneath the fabric. Not to notice how his eyes, molten amber in the dim light, swept over her body slowly, deliberately, like he was memorizing every detail.

“You came,” Dante said, his voice low, velvet threaded with steel.

Amara forced a smile, letting her hips sway ever so slightly as she walked toward him. “I said I would. Surprised?”

“Not surprised.” His lips curved. “Grateful.”

The way he said it, like a confession, like he’d been waiting for this, sent an uninvited shiver down her spine. She ignored it, reaching for the wine glass he offered. Their fingers brushed, sparking heat that lingered even after she pulled away.

“To honesty,” he said.

She tilted her head. “Honesty doesn’t seem like your strong suit.”

His gaze lingered on the deep neckline of her dress before snapping back to her eyes. “Only because most people can’t handle it.”

Dinner was set for two near the glass wall, the table bathed in the flicker of candlelight. He pulled out her chair with old-world courtesy, his fingers grazing the bare skin of her shoulder as she sat. The touch burned, even though it lasted only a second.

She smoothed her dress over her thighs and crossed her legs, deliberately slow. His gaze followed the motion, and a flicker of triumph danced through her chest. Distract him. Disarm him.

“You could have taken me to a restaurant,” she said, reaching for her glass.

“I don’t share.” He sat across from her, his movements unhurried, his focus unwavering. “Not food. Not business. Not women.”

The words landed with the weight of a promise.

Her fork cut neatly into the steak, though her pulse wasn’t nearly as steady. “And which category do I fall into?”

His eyes darkened as they lingered on her lips. “Ask me that again when you’re ready to hear the truth.”

Her heart thudded traitorously against her ribs. She forced herself to lean back in her chair, swirling the wine in her glass. “That’s a clever dodge.”

“Not a dodge.” His smile was slow, dangerous. “A warning.”

The meal unfolded like a duel. Her questions came disguised as casual chatter, where he liked to travel, who he trusted in his circle, what his business demanded of him. He answered with the ease of a man who’d spent years navigating traps, his words deliberate, evasive without ever sounding like it.

But it wasn’t his answers that unsettled her. It was the way he looked at her as though she weren’t the interrogator at all, but the prize.

At one point, he leaned across the table to brush a stray curl from her cheek. His fingers lingered at the line of her jaw, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

“You hide behind your questions, bella,” he murmured, voice dipping lower. “But one day, I’ll have you bare your truths for me.”

Her breath hitched. “And what makes you think I’ll give you that?”

He smiled, eyes glinting. “Because your body already betrays you.”

Her fork stilled midair. She hated that he was right. Hated that her skin tingled everywhere he touched, that her thighs pressed together beneath the table.

Damn him.

When dessert came, a molten chocolate cake rich enough to make the air heavier, he scooped a bite onto his fork and held it out to her.

“Try it.”

It was absurdly intimate, but refusing felt like retreat. She leaned forward, her lips brushing the silver as she took the bite. The decadent taste filled her mouth. His gaze never left her lips, dark and hungry.

“Good girl,” he murmured, barely audible.

The words struck her like a brand, heat searing through her veins.

Amara swallowed hard, setting her fork down with more force than necessary. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

“I don’t need to be sure.” He leaned back, the candlelight carving sharp shadows across his jawline. “I decide. And then I take.”

When she stood, it was half to escape and half to test him. He followed immediately, moving closer than she expected, his body heat searing through the thin silk of her dress.

One hand braced on the wall beside her, the other brushed down her arm, his fingers sliding lower until they tangled with hers. Not trapping. Not forcing. Just holding, with the quiet authority of a man who believed the choice was already made.

“Do you know what I see when I look at you?” His voice was soft, his lips close enough that she felt the whisper of his breath against her ear.

She swallowed. “Enlighten me.”

“I see a woman who pretends to be unshaken.” His fingers traced the inside of her wrist, right where her pulse thundered wildly. “And I see how she trembles when I touch her.”

Her chest rose sharply, betraying her.

“You’re imagining things,” she whispered.

“Am I?” His lips ghosted against her temple, never quite a kiss. “Your heartbeat disagrees.”

She hated how her body leaned toward him, how every nerve screamed for what she swore she didn’t want.

For one dizzying moment, she thought he would close the distance, press his mouth to hers and strip her of all her defenses. And God help her, she would have let him.

But then his phone buzzed, sharp and jarring.

Dante’s expression shifted, a shadow falling across his perfect features. He checked the screen, then slid the phone into his pocket, his gaze snapping back to her.

“We’re not finished, Amara.”

She forced a smirk, though her body trembled. “That sounds like a threat.”

“No.” His voice was pure promise, his smile slow and devastating. “It’s inevitability.”

He stepped back at last, giving her space that felt too cold, too empty.

The elevator doors closed behind her before she could summon another retort.

Inside, Amara exhaled shakily, pressing a hand to her racing heart. She should feel victorious for holding the line. Instead, she felt hunted.

And worse, part of her already wanted to be caught.