Novel & Cerita In The Hand Of Dante Book

came flooding back in one wave, no longer jokes or mere anxiety but a stark list in my mind. A chill spread through me, not from temperature, but from a system shutting down non-essential thoughts, focusing solely on the image replaying behind my eyes: his hand, her hand, the door. Oliver's laughter rang out from somewhere behind me. The sun felt warm, and the dinosaurs glowed bright green. I set down the cake plate and followed them. *** DANTE I had less than a second to react when her hand wrapped around mine. She appeared from somewhere in the party, close enough that I hadn’t noticed her arrival, yet distant from everyone else, making the moment intentionally private. Her grip was light

Dante leaned in breath warm on my neck. This time was hushed almost desperate. No words. Just touch. Rocco’s gloved hand slid under my jacket palm flat against my chest, feeling my heartbeat. Dante’s fingers threaded through mine squeezing once, hard. They didn’t strip me just opened enough: zippers drawn, fabric pushed aside.

Alessandro in charcoal grey, with his mother's silver cufflinks and the composed expression that cracked slightly at the edges when their eyes met. Dante walked the length of the aisle conscious of every step, aware of Marco on his left looking uncharacteristically soft, aware of Lucia in the second pew pressing a handkerchief to her mouth. He stopped beside Alessandro. "You're early," Alessandro said quietly. "You're nervous." "I'm not nervous." "Your left hand is shaking." Alessandro looked down. Looked back up. "I'm slightly nervous." Dante took his left hand and held it, and the shaking stopped.

Smoke and alcohol filled most of the atmosphere and it had me choked. I gulped and walked deeper into the room. Dante was already relaxed on the center couch, legs spread wide like he owned not just this room but the entire world. He reached for something on the table—a silver cigarette case that caught the light when he opened it. But I noticed something. A slight detail that didn't fit with the rest of his controlled perfection. His hands shook as he lit the cigarette. Just barely. Just enough that the flame wavered before catching. Then it was gone, hidden behind the smooth way he brought the cigarette to his lips and inhaled.

“Will you be sad because of what he said?” “A little,” I said. “But not because he was right.” Nico answered at once. “He wasn’t right about anything.” A knock came before Matteo could take the booklet to Dante. Dante stood outside with his black shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms. His gaze moved over Pearl on the pillow, the cake on the nightstand, and the booklet in Matteo’s hand. “May I come in?” Livia hugged my knees. I patted her back. “Yes.”

He didn’t try to hide it. Suddenly, loud animalistic howls and hoots pierced the air. It sent shivers down my spine. My heart thudded. My fingers went cold. This feeling—I would have to get used to. These creatures—I would have to get used to. This man—I would have to get used to. Dante held out his hand and helped me down from the carriage. And before me stood a long, massive crowd of terrifying wolves. Home.

"What the hell is this doing on the porch?" Dante’s voice cut through the steam of the kitchen. He stood in the doorway, the morning light catching the jagged scar on his jaw. In his left hand, he held a small wooden crate, barely larger than a cigar box. It was tied with a cord of rough hemp. No postage. No return address. Just a heavy, wax seal stamped with the interlocking 'A' that made the air in the room turn to ice.

I couldn’t move, my hands still bound, my heart racing. “What are you doing?” I asked, my voice trembling despite myself. “You think you can take me like this? Just because I’m here, trapped?” Dante didn’t answer. His eyes gleamed with something dangerous, something dark. He trailed his fingers down my face, grazing my skin gently before they moved to my neck, his touch burning through my clothes. My breath hitched as his hand moved lower, cupping the swell of my breast. The heat that shot through me was enough to make me gasp. I tried to pull away, but the cuffs held me fast.

Blood. Dante turned his own hand over. Without hesitation, he dragged the blade across his palm, not deep but enough to draw crimson. He pressed his bleeding hand to hers, their blood mingling. Rose’s stomach lurched. The priest lifted his arms as if in triumph. The crowd clapped, some whistled, others muttered dark blessings. Rose felt dizzy, her fingers trembling under Dante’s. She wanted to pull away, but he didn’t let her. His grip tightened like iron around bone.

My hands trembled as I opened the folder. Tucked inside was a faded photograph. The church, fifteen years ago. A picture of me and a little girl... but the face wasn't Sophia's. It was Isabella. The words on the back twisted in my gut like a knife: The one who really saved you was never Sophia. The memory hit me like a freight train. The rain, the fear, her small hand in mine. It was Isabella. It was always Isabella. "No... no, it can't be..." I collapsed onto the blood-stained floor.