Page 44 of Impure Vows

"Well," I say, tapping a finger on one of the documents, "this clause here about the import taxes seems off. They're underreporting their shipments. That's a red flag."

Dante’s eyebrows lift genuinely impressed. "Go on."

I continue, feeling a strange sense of satisfaction. "If they're skimming on import taxes, they're probably hiding something else. It might be worth investigating their supply chain. Follow the money, see where it leads."

He nods slowly, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "You have a sharp eye, Aliyah. Maybe I should involve you in more of these dealings."

I shrug, trying to hide my pleasure at his praise. "I just call it like I see it."

Dante stands abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. Before I can process what's happening, he pulls me to him, his grip firm on my nape. His lips crash against mine with a roughness that steals my breath. For a moment, I forget everything—the danger, the fear. There's only the heat of his kiss and the pounding of my heart.

When we break apart, we're both breathing heavily. My heart flutters with confusing emotions. The attraction I feel for him is starting to outweigh my hesitancy, and that scares me more than anything.

"You're mine," he murmurs, his voice a low growl.

I swallow hard, my pulse racing. "You say that a lot, is that supposed to be reassuring?"

He smirks, a dark glint in his eyes. "It's a fact."

Before I can respond, he grips my hand and leads me out of the office. His stride is purposeful, and I have to quicken my pace to keep up.

"Where are we going?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

"To get you ready for tonight's party," he replies, not looking back.

An hour later, we arrive at the grandiose mansion, the site of tonight’s meeting. The opulence is overwhelming—crystal chandeliers, marble floors, and an air thick with the scent of expensive cologne and cigars. Dante keeps a firm grip on my arm, guiding me through the throng of guests.

“Remember the rules,” he whispers, his breath warm against my ear.

“Eyes down, no talking unless you say so,” I recite, feeling a strange combination of pride and submission.

He nods approvingly, and I catch a glimpse of the dangerous smile that’s both terrifying and magnetic. As we make our way to the main hall, I spot members of the Vitale family mingling with other mafia elites. The air buzzes with hushed conversations and clinking glasses.

A plan forms in my mind. Dante never asked me to gather information, but maybe if I did, he’d see me as more than just a pretty accessory. I steel myself, deciding to keep an ear out for anything that might help him.

Holy shit, I think, shocked at the realization that slams into me. This isn’t just about survival anymore; part of me wants to please him.

Dante stops to greet Don Carlo Vitale.

Carlo Vitale's gaze sweeps over me, lingering a moment too long. I’m prepared for it this time, knowing exactly how he’ll look at me like I’m some prized possession on display. But it’s the murderous glare Dante shoots him that sends a thrillthrough me. The intensity in Dante's eyes, the way his jaw tightens—there’s a raw, dangerous beauty in his anger.

“You’re looking well, Dante,” Carlo says, his voice smooth and insincere.

“And you’re still breathing, Carlo. Miracles do happen,” Dante replies, his tone icy but polite.

I can't help but stare at Dante, admiration creeping into my thoughts. When did this happen? When did I start seeing him as more than my captor? The danger he carries within him is magnetic, pulling me closer even as my rational mind screams to stay away.

“Your... companion is lovely as ever,” Carlo says, his eyes flicking to me again.

Dante’s grip on my arm tightens. “Keep your eyes to yourself, Vitale. Or I’ll remove them for you.”

Carlo chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. “Always so protective. I wonder, does she even know what she’s gotten herself into?”

“She knows exactly what she needs to,” Dante snaps. His hand moves to my lower back, a possessive gesture that’s both comforting and unsettling.

I glance up at Dante, catching the briefest flicker of a smirk before he slips back into his cold, calculating demeanor. He turns his attention to another guest, dismissing Carlo without another word. I stay close to his side, the tension in the room palpable.

As we move around the party, my mind spins with conflicting thoughts. The glitz and glamour, the raw power radiating from Dante, the danger lurking beneath every polite smile—it all swirls together in a heady mix. I don’t miss my old life. How could I? It’s like comparing a black-and-white sketch to a vivid, electrifying painting. Sure, my life was safer, but it was also painfully mundane.

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