The dance

Chapter 6: The Dance

Vittorio danced the way he did everything else: smoothly, smiling, and with just enough charm to make you forget to be careful.

"You look frightened, bella," he murmured, turning her through the crowd. "Relax. I don't bite."

"Let me go, please."

"In a moment." His thumb stroked her waist. "Let me give you some free advice first. Dante picks his women the way he picks his weapons. Carefully, and only to use them."

"I'm not his woman."

"No?" Vittorio's smile sharpened. "Then you should ask him about Elena."

Isla's step stumbled. "Who's Elena?"

"The last girl who wore that ring on her finger." He leaned closer. "She's buried in the garden he takes you to, under the roses. Did he show you the roses?"

The room tilted. Isla's mouth went dry. My mother planted these, Dante had said. Not a word about anyone else.

"You're lying."

"Am I?" Vittorio spun her out and back. "Ask him. Watch his face."

A hand closed around her wrist, hard and sudden.

"That's enough."

Dante stood beside them, breathing fast, his tuxedo jacket torn at one shoulder and a thin scratch across his cheekbone. His eyes were on Vittorio, and Isla had never seen eyes so cold.

"Cousin." Vittorio raised both hands, laughing. "We were only dancing."

"Walk away. Now."

For a long moment, they stared at each other. Then Vittorio bowed mockingly to Isla and melted into the crowd.

Dante did not let go of her wrist. He did not say a word. He only turned, still gripping her, and drew her into his arms as the orchestra began a slow waltz.

"What are you doing?" she whispered.

"Dancing with my fiancée." His voice was low, strained. "Everyone is watching."

"You're bleeding."

"It's nothing."

She slid her hand to his shoulder and felt his whole body tense, then, slowly, soften. His palm settled at the small of her back and pulled her an inch closer. Then another inch.

Neither of them spoke. The music wrapped around them, and the glittering room faded into blur. She could feel his heartbeat through the silk of her dress, rapid and uneven. She could feel him trying to stay controlled, and failing.

"Did you catch him?" she asked at last.

"No." His jaw tightened. "He had a car waiting."

"Dante..."

"Don't ask me about Elena," he said quietly. "Not here. Not yet."

Her heart twisted. He had known exactly what Vittorio said. He had probably read it in her face from across the room.

"I wasn't going to ask," she lied.

"Yes, you were." For the first time all evening, a ghost of a smile touched his mouth. "You're a terrible liar, Isla Vance. It's one of the things I..."

He stopped.

"One of the things you what?"

The song ended. Dante did not release her. His eyes dropped to her lips and stayed there a heartbeat too long, and Isla forgot how to breathe.

"Come," he said roughly. "I need air."

The terrace was empty and silver with moonlight. Dante led her to the stone balustrade and stood there with his back to her, both hands braced on the cold railing.

"I'm not a good man," he said.

"I know."

"You should hate me."

"I know that too."

"Then why," he asked, so quietly she nearly missed it, "do you keep looking at me like that?"

Isla's pulse thundered. "Like what?"

He turned. The moon caught the sharp lines of his face, the scratch on his cheek, the dark hunger and loneliness in his eyes that he had hidden so well until now.

"Like I'm someone worth saving."

She stepped toward him. She didn't decide to. Her feet simply moved, and then she was standing so close she could feel the heat of him. She lifted one hand and touched the scratch on his cheek, very lightly.

He closed his eyes.

"Isla," he breathed. It sounded like a warning and a plea at once.

"Tell me to leave," she whispered, "and I will."

A long silence. His hand rose, slowly, as if he were afraid she would vanish, and cupped the side of her face. His thumb brushed her cheekbone. She felt the faint tremor in his fingers.

"I can't," Dante said hoarsely. "God help me, I can't."

He leaned down. His forehead rested against hers. Their breath mingled. A single inch separated their lips.

Crack.

Glass exploded behind them.

Dante moved before she even understood: he wrenched her down and flung himself over her as a second bullet struck the stone where her head had been. Chaos erupted inside the ballroom, screams and overturned chairs and shouting men.

"Stay down!" he snarled, his arm locked around her. "Stay down, stay with me!"

She couldn't have moved if she wanted to. His heart pounded against her back. His breath was ragged at her ear.

And through the ringing in her ears, Isla heard something that made her go cold.

Dante was whispering, over and over, so low it was barely audible:

Not again. Not her too. Not again.