The entire restaurant went silent the moment I touched the enormous black dog sitting beside table twelve.

The following forty-eight hours were a blur of heightened security.

More armed guards arrived at the estate. Patrol dogs were stationed along the perimeter fence, and bulletproof glass was installed on the ground-floor windows of the east wing. Dante had locked himself in his study for an entire day, coordinating logistics, moving assets, and preparing for the inevitable retaliation from the Falcone syndicate.

Yet, despite the looming danger, an electric current had sparked between us that could no longer be ignored.

It happened late on a Thursday evening.

The rain had returned, tapping a steady, rhythmic cadence against the roof. Orion had led me to the private gym on the lower level of the estate—a vast, mirrored space equipped with heavy bags, sparring mats, and free weights.

I had expected the room to be empty, but as I pushed the double doors open, the rhythmic, thunderous sound of leather meeting leather echoed off the walls.

Dante was shirtless, wearing only dark athletic pants and hand wraps. Sweat glistened over the ridged muscles of his broad shoulders, his chiseled abdomen, and the dark ink sprawling across his back. He was pummeling a hundred-pound heavy bag with brutal, punishing combinations—left hook, right cross, a devastating uppercut that made the steel chains groan above him.

Orion trotted over, sitting casually beside the mat and watching his master with calm familiarity.

I should have turned around and walked away. I should have given him his privacy. But my feet remained rooted to the floor. Watching him move was like watching an apex predator in its natural element—raw, lethal, and undeniably magnificent.

Dante delivered one final, bone-cracking hook, catching the swaying bag with both arms to steady it. He dropped his head, his chest heaving, sweat dripping from his chin onto the mat.

Without turning around, he spoke. "Are you going to stand by the door all night, Olivia?"

I startled slightly, clutching my water bottle. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

Dante grabbed a gray towel from a bench, wiping his brow and neck before turning to face me. The intensity of his gaze made my throat go dry. There was no armor here—no Italian wool, no signet rings, no weapons. Just Dante Moretti, stripped down to raw muscle, bone, and scars.

And he had many.

Across his left ribs ran a jagged, silvery scar about six inches long—clearly from a blade. Beneath his collarbone was the neat, circular pucker of an old bullet wound.

"Julian gave me that one," Dante said quietly, noticing where my eyes had wandered. He pointed to the knife scar along his ribs.

I blinked, looking up at his face. "Your brother stabbed you?"

Dante let out a low, breathy chuckle, leaning his hip against the heavy bag. "We were teenagers. Sparring in our father’s basement in Brooklyn. Julian was faster than me, but I was stronger. He slipped with an old combat knife. He cried for three days thinking he’d killed me. I told our father I tripped over a fence."

A soft, sad smile touched the corners of Dante’s lips—the most genuine, untainted expression I had ever seen on his face.

"He sounded like an amazing brother," I said softly, stepping closer onto the rubber mat.

"He was the best of us," Dante replied, his voice dropping into a somber register. "Julian had a soul that wasn't built for this life. He wanted to build schools. He wanted to paint. He loved poetry, classical music, and rescuing stray dogs from the docks. My father forced him into the business, and I... I couldn't protect him when it mattered most."

"You took on an entire army to avenge him," I pointed out, taking another step until I was standing only two feet away from him. Orion watched us quietly, resting his head on his paws. "Marco told me what you did in Brooklyn. You survived two bullets, Dante. You carried his dog through hell. You didn't fail him."

Dante stared down at me, his gray eyes swirling with an unbearable storm of grief, guilt, and something profoundly intimate.

"Every day I wake up, Olivia, I feel like a ghost inhabiting a dead man’s world," Dante whispered, his voice cracking slightly. "I thought my heart died in that alley with Julian. I thought I was incapable of feeling anything other than rage and duty."

He reached out, his hand wraps rough against the sensitive skin of my jaw as he cradled my face. His thumb brushed over my lower lip, his touch so achingly tender it brought tears to my eyes.

"And then you walked into that restaurant," he murmured, his gaze dropping to my lips. "You looked at my monster, and instead of running, you showed him love. And then you looked at me... and you didn't see the mob boss. You saw a lonely man."

"Dante..." My breath hitched, my hands rising instinctively to rest against his bare, warm chest. The steady, powerful thud of his heart beat wildly beneath my palms.

"Tell me to stop, Olivia," he whispered, leaning down until his lips were a mere fraction of an inch from mine. His warm breath smelled of mint and raw heat. "Tell me to step away, and I will. Because if I kiss you right now... I will never let you go."

I didn't speak.

Instead, I rose onto my tiptoes, closed the agonizing space between us, and pressed my lips firmly against his.

Dante let out a ragged, possessive groan.

His arms wrapped around my waist like bands of forged steel, lifting me completely off my feet and pressing me flush against his hard body. The kiss was explosive—hungry, desperate, and filled with months of suppressed longing. He tasted like fire and rain, his tongue sweeping past my lips to claim mine with a fierce, intoxicating passion.

I wrapped my arms around his broad neck, threading my fingers through his damp, dark hair, surrendering entirely to the whirlwind of sensation. For those stolen minutes, there was no mob war. There was no danger. There were no ghosts.

There was only Dante, holding me as if I were the only anchor keeping him tethered to the living earth.

When he finally broke the kiss, we were both gasping for air. He lowered my feet to the mat, but his arms remained locked around my waist, his forehead resting gently against mine.

Orion stood up beside us, letting out a soft, contented whine and nudging our entangled hands with his wet nose.

Dante looked down at the hound, then back up at me, a brilliant, breathtaking smile finally illuminating his handsome face.