Page 8 of The Capo & the Curator

Dante rises in one fluid motion and extends his hand toward me. "Care to dance?"

I consider for a heartbeat, my gaze dropping briefly to the plush carpet between our feet. Then, feeling oddly emboldened by the lingering warmth of the wine, I place my hand in Dante's and allow him to draw me to my feet. His fingers are warm, calloused in a way that speaks of a man unafraid of life's coarser edges.

On the dance floor, our joined hands settle at his side while his other comes to rest against the small of my back, the possessive weight of it sending an unexpected shiver rippling down my spine.

We move in tandem to the low thrum of the music. There are no words exchanged, no need for them—not when the air between us crackles with the weight of unspoken tension. His gaze drops to my lips, and I instinctively wet them with the tip of my tongue.

That’s all that it takes. I can't tell who makes the first move, but suddenly, our lips crash together in a hungry, desperate kiss. I gasp at the initial contact but then melt into him, parting my lips to allow his probing tongue inside. Our tongues duel for control as the kiss deepens, growing more heated and frantic with each shared breath.

Dante's hand trails down my back, his fingertips leaving a trail of fire in their wake as they reach the curve of my ass. He gives it a gentle squeeze, pulling me even closer to him, and I can feel the hard length of him pressing against my stomach. I moan into his mouth, desire coursing through my veins.

It's a heady, intoxicating feeling, this all-consuming passion—one I've never experienced the likes of before. My fingers fist in the soft fabric of his shirt as I lose myself in the dizzying swirl of heat and want and need, every rational thought fleeing.

And then, like a bolt of lightning piercing the fog of desire, it hits me.

The journal's code—I've been approaching it all wrong. The symbols aren't merely a cipher to be decrypted, but a language unto themselves. An intricate map encoded within the chapel's frescoes, hinting at locations or a sequence, the key to unlocking the deepest secrets hidden in his grandfather's words.

The realization washes over me in a blinding rush of clarity, and in that instant, nothing else matters except validating this new theory. I break from the scorching kiss with a ragged gasp.

"Evelyn?" His voice is rough, confused. "What is it?"

I can barely catch my breath or think past the thundering of my pulse and the electric thrill of this newfound epiphany. Meeting that questioning gaze, I tighten my grip on his hand in a silent request.

"I need to see the journal. Now."

Chapter 6

Dante

The night stretches on in endless silence as I lie awake, my thoughts a relentless torrent of images and impressions from the evening's events.

My mind keeps circling back to that heated kiss we shared on the dance floor, the memory of Evelyn's soft curves pressed against me sending a fresh surge of heat lancing through my veins. The taste of her, the breathy little gasps muffled against my mouth—it was like striking a match to a pool of gasoline, igniting a conflagration of desire so intense it damn near consumed me.

And then she pulled away, leaving me reeling and aching with unfulfilled need. Her fervor for unraveling the journal's secrets had reasserted itself with a vengeance, eclipsing everything else in that brilliant, endlessly fascinating mind of hers.

I drag a hand over my face, expelling a harsh breath into the stillness of the bedroom. She's a force of nature, utterly unfazed by the power and influence that have kept others cowering for decades.

That realization, as unsettling as it may be, is precisely what draws me to her like a moth to a flame. For too long, I've been surrounded by sycophants jockeying for position and favor through shallow flattery and false pretenses. But not Evelyn. With her, there are no parlor tricks or underhanded deceptions, only the raw authenticity of her brilliance laid bare. It's disarming. Exhilarating, even.

And if I'm being truly honest with myself—a struggle, given how accustomed I've become to maintaining rigid control over my deepest emotions—that's not even half of what renders her so endlessly captivating. No, it runs deeper than that, cutting straight to the heart of me.

There's a kinship that defies all logic or rationale, forged in the shared understanding of our pasts and the voids they've left within us both. The girl who lost her parents to tragedy's cruel whims, seeking solace and order in the immutable codes and histories of ages past. The man who lost his patriarchal lodestar, left to shoulder a crushing legacy while still reeling from grief's staggering blow. Two souls united through their respective losses, each seeking to make sense of the senseless in their own way.

What a pair we make, this unlikely duo bound by mutual devastation and the drive to decode whatever answers may lie in wait.

The creak of the door hinge slices through the weighted silence like a blade. In an instant, I'm tensed and reaching for the wicked hunting knife I keep tucked beneath my pillow, every sense razor-sharp as I slide from beneath the sheets.

My bare feet make no sound on the hardwood as I stalk toward the door, grip tightening around the hilt until my knuckles stand out in pale ridges. With a deft twist of my wrist, I fling it open, the knife arcing in a silver blur—

Only to freeze, the deadly edge hovering a hair's breadth from the intruder's throat as a familiar, enticing fragrance washes over me.

"Evelyn?" The name escapes me, more a ragged exhalation than a coherent utterance.

Those wide, whiskey-hued eyes are locked on the blade, her chest rising and falling in shallow, frantic pants that strain against the thin cotton of her sleep shirt. I drink in the disheveled tumble of her chestnut waves, the rosy flush staining her cheeks in the dim glow filtering through the windows. Christ, she's stunning like this—flustered and clad in little more than an oversized tee and a pair of tiny shorts.

Gritting my teeth, I force my gaze upward, the muscles in my forearm rigid as I maintain that immaculate control. "What are you doing?"

"I—I decoded another section," she stammers, those kissable lips trembling as she clutches a leather-bound tome to her chest like a shield. "There are coordinates, Dante. A new location we need to investigate."

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