Chapter Four - Little killer

Dante Valenti was not easily shaken. But the moment he stepped out of the basement, shutting the heavy door behind him, something in him felt—off. Tight in his chest. Warm under his skin. Irritated in a way he couldn’t justify.

Pull yourself together.

She was a captive.

A Moretti.

A problem to extract information from.

Nothing more.

But the image of her kneeling there — slim body trembling, dark hair falling like silk across her cheeks, brown eyes too controlled behind those tears — clung to him like a hand around his throat.

Not fear.

Not sympathy.

Possession.

He hated that.

Dante moved through the hallway with clipped, deliberate strides, jaw tight. He grabbed what he needed from the storage room: a few implements of persuasion — nothing extreme, just tools that encouraged honesty.

Bindings.

A metal rod.

A small waterproof bag of ice.

A pair of leather gloves.

He wasn’t sure he’d need all of them.

But he liked to be prepared.

As he stepped into the main room, one of his guards — Hector — looked up from cleaning a gun. The man froze when he saw Dante’s expression.

“Boss? You, uh… you good? You look a little—”

Dante’s head snapped toward him, eyes cold as steel.

“Finish that sentence,” he said quietly, “and you’ll find out exactly how frazzled I am.”

Hector blanched, holding up both hands. “Nope. Nope, I’m good. Not saying a damn thing.”

“Smart.”

Dante brushed past him, voice a low warning. “Get back to work before I give you a real reason to ask questions.”

Hector nodded vigorously and went back to cleaning, suddenly very focused on not dying.

Dante descended the stairs again, boots echoing off the stone.

He shouldn’t be going back this fast.

He shouldn’t want to see her again.

Yet here he was.

He unlocked the basement door and pushed it open.

The sight that greeted him was irritatingly… compelling.

The blanket he’d given her lay crumpled on the ground.

And Aria Moretti — his little actress — was stretching for it.

Her wrists strained against the chain, muscles shaking, fingertips barely brushing the edge of the fabric. Her hair swung around her face as she reached desperately. The motion pulled her dress taut across her body, revealing the delicate line of her waist, the subtle definition in her arms.

She was trying.

Really trying.

To look helpless.

But she wasn’t helpless.

He could feel it in his bones.

Still… the sight of her struggling stirred something primal and unwelcome in him.

His voice cut through the room like a blade.

“Drop it.”

She froze instantly.

Slowly, she lowered her arms, breath coming in soft, uneven puffs — performing perfectly.

Dante stepped closer, setting the tools down on a nearby table with a deliberate clang. Her eyes flicked to them, panic widening her gaze.

Too quickly.

Too practiced.

“You really want that blanket?” he asked, voice edging toward mockery.

She swallowed hard. “I—I dropped it… I didn’t mean—”

“You tried to reach it,” Dante corrected smoothly. “That’s different.”

“I’m cold…” she whispered.

“And I said you could earn it.”

She flinched as if struck. Dante didn’t move toward her. Not yet. He wanted to watch her squirm — not from pain, but from anticipation.

He stood over her, calm and unreadable.

“We can do this,” he said quietly, “the easy way…”

He reached out and picked up the blanket, brushing dust from the fabric with slow precision.

“…or the hard way.”

Her eyes flicked from the blanket to the tools behind him.

Fear flickered across her expression — convincing, but still wrong.

“You choose,” Dante murmured.

“I… I’ll tell you anything,” she whispered.

“Will you?”

Dante crouched in front of her again, studying her trembling lips, the tight line of her jaw.

He lifted her chin with two fingers, tilting her face up toward his.

“Then stop lying.”

She gasped — but he saw it.

That tiny spark of anger she couldn’t smother fast enough.

Got you, little killer.

Her eyes shined with manufactured terror.

Her voice trembled just right.

Her breath hitched the way she wanted it to.

But her mask—

finally, beautifully—

cracked.

Just enough for Dante to see the truth beneath it.

He saw it in the way her jaw tightened for a fraction of a second.

The way irritation flashed in her eyes before she smothered it.

The way her body didn’t react like a helpless girl’s would.

She'd been acting.

Since the moment she woke up.

Since before he even touched her.

Dante leaned closer, so close she couldn’t look anywhere but at him.

“You want warmth?” he murmured. “Freedom? Food? You want me to believe your sweet little lies?”

Her lips parted. “I—I’m not lying—”

He laughed softly, a low, deadly sound. “Aria. Stop.”

She froze.

Dante reached out and traced a slow line from her cheek to her jaw, letting his thumb rest there—

possessive, intentional, claiming.

Her breathing changed. Not part of the act this time.

His voice dropped to a whisper forged from steel and sin.

“You came to kill me,” he said.

The blood drained from her face.

Dante’s smile deepened—slow, predatory, inevitable.

“You thought I wouldn’t notice? The timing. The composure. The way you breathe like someone trained to mimic fear.”

His thumb stroked her jaw. “Little killer.”

Her pulse finally spiked.

Real fear.

Real anger.

Real reaction.

Dante leaned in, lips grazing the shell of her ear as he finished softly, almost tenderly—

“But now…”

He pulled back just enough to look into her eyes.

“…you’re mine.”

The words hit the room like a verdict.

Aria’s breath shook—no longer part of her act. Her mask raged behind her eyes, twisting, splintering.

Dante stood slowly, lifting the blanket in his hand.

“And that,” he added with a dark smile, “is the only truth that matters now.”