Page 89 of Ruthless Desire

And as terrifying as that is, maybe I like this change.

The next few days pass in a strange haze, the kind that comes after a storm has ravaged everything and left only fragments behind. The villa, once drenched in blood and darkness, slowly returns to the sunny haven it was meant to be. The windows are thrown open, allowing the warm breeze to drift in, carrying with it the scent of the sea and blooming flowers. The air is lighter now, the weight of what happened seeming to dissipate with each passing hour.

But I can’t forget. The image of Luca’s lifeless body, the way his blood soaked into the floor, still lingers in the back of my mind, a reminder of the line I’ve crossed. Yet, as much as it should haunt me, it doesn’t.

Not in the way it probably should. Instead, it feels like something I’ve absorbed into myself, a part of who I am now, a part of who Dante and I have become together.

Dante is different now, too. He moves through the villa with a sense of ease that wasn’t there before, as if a burden has been lifted from his shoulders. The darkness that once clung to him like a second skin has receded, leaving room for something else…

Something I hadn’t expected.

I watch him from the terrace as he speaks to one of his men, his voice low and commanding. He’s always in control, always the one giving orders, but there’s a softness to him now, a calm that I didn’t think was possible in someone like him. It’s in the way he carries himself, the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention.

In those moments, I see a side of Dante that I hadn’t seen before—a side that’s more than just the ruthless man who took what he wanted without hesitation. There’s a warmth there, a quiet intensity that’s almost tender, and it catches me off guard every time I see it.

One afternoon, I find him in the kitchen, something that surprises me more than it should. He’s at the stove, the scent of garlic and tomatoes filling the air, and for a moment, I just stand there, watching him. He looks out of place in this domestic setting, yet somehow, he fits perfectly.

“Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to help?” he asks, without turning around, his voice carrying a hint of amusement.

I blink, shaking off my surprise, and walk over to him, unsure of what to do. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Solnyshko,” he replies, his tone light, but there’s an underlying seriousness that makes me pause.

I take the knife he hands me, the cool metal solid in my grasp, and start chopping the vegetables he sets in front of me. It feels strange, this normalcy, like we’ve slipped into some alternate reality where the past week didn’t happen, where blood and death don’t linger in the corners of the villa.

But it’s nice. It’s different. And I find myself smiling, the tension in my chest loosening with each slice of the knife.

Dante glances at me, his eyes softening in a way that makes my heart skip a beat. “You look good like this,” he says, his voice low, intimate. “At peace.”

I don’t know what to say to that. I’ve never felt at peace, not really, but there’s something about this moment, this quietness between us, that feels close to it. “You do too,” I finally manage, my voice barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t respond, but the look he gives me is enough. It’s filled with something deep, something that makes me feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, ready to dive into the unknown. And for the first time in a long time, I’m not afraid.

The days continue like this, each one bringing something new, something unexpected. Dante takes me out on the water, the two of us alone on a sleek boat that cuts through the waves with ease. The sun is hot on my skin, the wind tangling in my hair, and for a few hours, it’s easy to forget everything, to pretend that this is all there is—just us and the endless blue of the sea.

He laughs more now, a sound that I’ve come to crave, each one like a rare gift. It’s a laugh that’s warm and real, and every time I hear it, I feel a little piece of me melt away, leaving behind something softer, something more vulnerable. It scares me, how much I want to hear it, how much I want to be the one who brings it out of him.

At night, we lie together in the dark, the sound of the waves crashing against the shore filling the silence. His arm is always wrapped around me, holding me close, as if he’s afraid I’ll slip away if he lets go. But I’m not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever.

I trace the lines of his chest with my fingertips, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my touch. It’s a rhythm that grounds me, that reminds me that we’re still here, still alive, despite everything. And in those moments, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, this could be enough. That we could be enough.

But the darkness is never far away. It lingers in the back of my mind, a shadow that I can’t quite shake. It’s in the way Dante’s gaze sometimes drifts off, his thoughts clearly miles away, lost in something that I can’t reach. It’s in the way his hands sometimes tighten around me, as if he’s holding on too tightly, afraid that if he loosens his grip, everything will fall apart.

One morning, I wake up to find him already gone. The bed is cold, his side of the sheets rumpled but empty. A note is left on the pillow beside me, the handwriting neat and precise:

Had to take care of something. I’ll be back soon. Stay out of trouble, Solnyshko.

I smile at the words, but there’s a tightness in my chest that I can’t ignore. It’s been days since I’ve seen the side of Dante that scares me, the side that’s ruthless and unyielding, but I know it’s still there, lurking beneath the surface.

I spend the day wandering through the villa, trying to shake off the unease that clings to me. The sun is bright, the sky a clear, endless blue, but I can’t enjoy it, not without him. I find myself drawn to the studio, the place that’s become a refuge for me, where I can lose myself in the colors and textures that flow from my hands.

The canvas is blank when I enter, waiting, just like I am. I pick up a brush, the familiar weight of it calming me, and start to paint. I don’t think about what I’m doing, don’t plan it out. I just let the colors bleed together, let the image form on its own, guided by something deep inside me.

The hours slip away, the light outside shifting from bright to golden as the day moves on. I lose track of time, of everything but the painting in front of me. It’s not until I hear the sound of the door opening behind me that I realize how late it’s gotten.

Dante steps into the room, his presence filling the space like a force of nature. He’s silent as he approaches, his eyes locked on the canvas. I can’t read his expression, but there’s something in the way he looks at the painting that sends a shiver down my spine.

He stops beside me, his gaze intense as he takes in the swirls of color, the sharp lines and soft edges that make up the image. It’s different from anything I’ve painted before, darker, more chaotic, and I’m not sure what to make of it.

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