The Tension Breaks

The promise of a storm hung heavy in the air outside.

As we left the restaurant, the tension from Montoya's words was still hanging between us like a loaded gun, and I could smell it in the air. With his hands in his pockets, Dante walked silently next to me. Even though I could not read his expression, I knew he was still going over everything in his head.

For what duration have you two been having sex?

I had brushed it off. Both of us had.

However, the question's weight continued to cling to the area between us like a simmering, low heat that neither of us had managed to put out.

I told myself it was just in my head.

I assured myself that I was in charge.

I made a lot of promises to myself.

Then the shots began to fly.

Ambush

It happened very quickly.

We were heading toward Dante's car across the parking lot one moment. Then the night was split by the piercing crack of gunfire.

"Go down!" Dante growled and gave me a hard shove. A bullet flew by my ear and lodged itself in the car door where I had been standing before I struck the pavement.

Fuck.

As chaos broke out, I rolled and took my gun out of its holster. Two more shots came from the left, and one from the rear. Dante was already brandishing his weapon, his movements deadly and accurate. There was no panic here. It was instinct.

Three males. masks of black. semi-auto vehicles.

I shot once, sniping the closest one's shoulder. He faltered but remained upright.

Dante slipped between shadows, moving quickly. In his element, a predator.

Another shot rang out, and Dante's clean shot to the chest eliminated the second man. The third hesitated just long enough for me to shoot him in the knee, killing him. He screamed and fell, gripping the wound.

There was silence.

The air was heavy with the metallic smell of blood.

With a sigh, Dante turned his gun's safety back on. His eyes met mine.

Adrenaline was still pumping through our veins, and we were both breathing heavily. His dark eyes looked over me, looking for injuries.

To see if I was still upright.

"You good?" he said softly.

I nodded while swallowing. "Yes."

Dante's eyes were alert as he cocked his head. Then he moved closer—too close—before I could respond.

The world became smaller. To the warmth of his body against mine, I narrated.

His firm, grounding fingers curled around the front of my jacket. Something else, not a threat, not a grip.

Something hazardous.

The pulse of survival hammering against my skin, the rush of the battle, was still there. Dante was observing me as if he had noticed something.

As if he knew.

His thumb made a barely perceptible movement against the fabric. I ought to have taken a step back. ought to have interrupted the moment.

I didn't.

With a slow exhale, Dante's grip tightened and then relaxed.

He turned to face the car and muttered, "Come on." "We must relocate."

My body was still wired from more than just the fight, so I stood motionless for another half-second.

Then I went along with it.

The Safehouse: The Problem of Proximity

Dante never returned to the penthouse.

Rather, he took me to a safehouse outside the city, which I had never been to before. The interior was simple and uncluttered, with no extraneous details or personal touches.

He lived as though he were free to go at any time.

I saw him roll his shoulders and toss his gun onto the counter. There was still tension in his body. Neither had mine.

I broke the silence and said, "Montoya set us up."

Dante took a while to respond. Instead, he filled a glass with amber liquid, swirled it around, and took a slow sip.

"No," he said at last. "I would be dead if Montoya wanted me dead."

With a sharp exhale, I combed through my hair. "Then who?"

Dante leaned against the counter and turned to face me. His face was shadowed by the low lighting in the room. Here, the ink on his arms appeared darker.

He whispered, "That is what we have to find out."

Silence for another beat.

Dante's eyes then shifted to my shirt.

I looked down. Blood. Not mine. The white fabric was streaked with crimson from the fight's splatter.

"Remove it," Dante commanded.

My heart pounded.

My throat became suddenly dry as I looked up. "What?"

With a sigh, Dante pushed off the counter and came over to me. Close once more. Too near.

"Your shirt," he uttered, his voice now lowered. "Remove it."

My heartbeat picked up the way it did for no apparent reason.

Not at all.

However, it did.

Nevertheless, I made myself scoff and speak in a casual tone. "Valenci, you could have simply asked if you wanted me to take off my clothes."

Dante grinned, but it was not reflected in his eyes.

Before I could react, his fingers curled around my shirt collar as he reached forward.

I stiffened. Not because I was scared. due to a more serious factor.

Something I should not have felt.

He moved methodically and slowly, as if he were weighing the gravity of the situation. He unbuttoned the first two buttons, his knuckles brushing my throat.

I ought to have prevented him. I ought to have relocated.

I didn't.

The space seemed more intimate. warmer.

He pulled the blood-stained cloth over my shoulders with steady hands, his touch just barely touching my skin but sufficient.

Enough to ignite something.

The shirt fell to the ground.

Neither of us made a move.

Slowly, Dante's dark eyes swept over me, evaluating.

not merely observing. Looking.

His fingers brushed against my exposed collarbone for a single, snappy moment.

It did not matter. It was all of it.

Finally, he took a step back.

Our relationship remained heated. It only became more firmly established.

Dante's voice was calm and unaffected as he poured another drink. "Luca, get some rest. Tomorrow, we have work to do.

I forced myself to breathe and let out a slow exhale.

I muttered, "Yeah," in a rougher voice than I intended. "Tomorrow."

Dante passed me and vanished into the adjacent room.

And I wondered how in the world I had lost control of this game as I stood there looking at the area where he had just been.