Chapter 2

𝘼𝙇𝙀𝙍𝘼

The moving door welcomes a dark ominous presence. I swallow, watching as some men file out the building. Two men in suits walk out first, but it's not them I focus on. It's the man walking right after them.

He appears like a shadow, long, sharp, and impossible to ignore.

Dante Moretti.

I can't believe my luck. This bastard. He's right here in person, not a lifeless figure on my phone. This is my only opportunity.

I try to move towards him, but my feet refuse to cooperate. I look back at him again, and I find myself falling into some sort of hypnosis where all I see is Dante fucking Moretti.

He moves in silent way, reminiscent of a lion, each step cutting the wind like a knife would on glass. His movements seems to stop everything else. The air, the sidewalk, even my thoughts.

He moves like owns the space around him. It’s as if the clouds above thicken with him. The light dims. The temperature drops. I feel it, not just in the air, but in my bones too.

The two men follow behind him, are suited and sculpted like extras in a mafia film. But they don’t matter. None of them do.

Because all I can see is him.

Black-on-black suit tailored like it was sewn onto his body. Sharp Italian lapels, glistening black buttons. No tie. Just a few undone buttons at the collar of a silk dress shirt, revealing the hint of olive-toned skin and the edge of a tattoo I can’t quite make out.

His jawline could slice diamonds. It’s dusted with the kind of beard that looks intentional, not lazy. The edges are clean as well.

His hair is midnight, dark and tousled like some lover ran her hands through it, but he doesn’t strike me as the type to let anyone close enough for that.

Maybe he is, I don't know the man. Who knows, some lover actually ran her slender fingers through his hair right up at his office. Maybe that's why they didn't let me in, using 'setting an appointment' as an excuse. Explains the no tie as well and the few undone buttons.

I frown. He has no shame. Disgusting.

But I keep looking at him anyway, oblivious to my own shamelessness on balant display.

His face is ridiculous. Like it was hand drawn and sculpted by God himself. His brows are thick, his nose straight. Everything is tied together with full lips with the kind of Cupid’s bow that makes you stare longer than you should.

But it’s his eyes completely hook me. Unlike the pictures, they are alive in a dead kind of way. Not just blue, but, ice blue. The color of winter storms. They flash in the sunlight and I'm reminded of diamonds.

There’s something terrifying about him.

He’s not just attractive. He’s not even hot.

He’s… unreal. Out-of-this-world beautiful in a way that shouldn’t be possible, it's like he shouldn’t exist in the same reality I do.

He carries an air of possessiveness. It feels like he owns this very place, I feel like an NPC in his world.

I’m background blur. Side character energy. He’s the main story. The one people follow, envy, hate, love.

He doesn’t see me.

Of course he doesn’t.

He walks right past, eyes focused ahead, a Greek statue in motion. The men around him are talking, probably updating him on something, but he doesn’t respond.

He’s about to reach the car, a sleek black vehicle that just appeared in my vision like some conjured escape route.

And that’s when I snap.

Three years of anger. Three years of shame. Of watching my father unravel, of nights without sleep, of knowing the man responsible never once looked back.

And he just walks past me?

No.

Without rationalizing my next move, I step forward.

“Mr Moretti!” My voice cracks. I sound like a chipmunk. I cringe, but it doesn't deter me. I've come too far to back out now.

He doesn’t stop.

The men around him do.

Like wolves sensing movement. One of them steps in front of me.

“Ma’am, you need to back away.”

“I just want to talk to him!” I say quickly, breathless. “He knows who I am!”

The other guard blocks me, more aggressive this time. “Step back, miss.”

But I don’t.

He’s right in front of me. This might be the only opportunity I have to ever see him in person again. There's no way I'm letting it pass.

"Mr Dante!" I call again, fighting through these big men, holding me.

Dante doesn't respond. He continues to ignore me.

I clench my fists. My cheeks burn with shame.

I find a small loop under the men in front of me, and I make my way past.

He’s about to enter the car. The door is open.

The sidewalk sways under my feet.

And then—

“You fucking cold-hearted thief! Answer me!"

I barely recognize my voice.

But that's what finally stops him.

His back stiffens.

Then, slowly, he turns.

And I meet those eyes. Those cold, dead eyes.

And, to my dismay, they burn.

He raises a single hand, fingers flicking almost lazily.

The guards step aside.

The city fades.

My heart hammers so loudly I think the whole block can hear it.

My legs want to run. My mouth suddenly forgets words. All that bravery and anger that edged me on seconds ago disappear, leaving me stranded like a fish out of water.

He walks toward me.

Each step he takes shrinks me.

Until he’s standing so close, that I can smell him, the leather, expensive cologne, all of him.

He’s so much taller than I remember. Maybe he always was. Or maybe I just forgot what it felt like to be beneath someone like this, crushed by the weight of presence. It's been so long anyway.

He doesn’t say anything.

Just looks down at me like I’m an insect.

Something sour.

An unsavory disturbance to his perfect world.

And then his eyes narrow.

I could be mistaken but I see a flicker of something in there, recognition? amusement? disgust?

I can’t tell.

Suddenly, he breaks the eye contact and looks over my head.

I blink, finally snapping out of whatever hold that was, I look up at him, notice his eyes are unfocused, I follow his eyes and I'm about to turn behind, when I feel his thumb and index finger firmly hold my chin in place.

Then, he tilts my face upward, it's so sudden, I don't even have time to process what's happening.

He leans in, I feel his breath hot in my left ear, it causes me to shiver.

In a rich, deep, smooth like velvet and slightly Italian accented voice, he says, “Stay calm.”

And before I can ask what he means—

Before I can react, or move, or breathe—

His lips crash into mine.

There’s no warning or hesitation. There's no buildup.

Just the sudden, shocking force of it.

His mouth is on mine.

His hand is still on my chin, tilting me up like I’m a doll in his grip. His lips are hard and possessive.

The noise around us disappears. So does the sidewalk, the city and the chaos.

All I hear is the blood rushing in my ears. All I feel is the heat of his mouth stealing my air.

I don’t move.

I can’t.

My body freezes. My eyes stay wide open.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.

And yet, it is.

Right here, on the street, with people watching.

Dante Moretti is kissing me.