Page 37 of Shadows of Steel
His gaze moves over me in a slow sweep, as if he’s committing every detail to memory, as if the rest of the world has ceased to exist. The quiet hum of voices, the clatter of dishes, the faint aroma of coffee, none of it registers. There is only him. Only the way his dark eyes drag over the sharp lines of my blazer, the way they linger at my waist, the subtle curve of my hip, the way my heels add to my height, forcing him to take me in from a new perspective.
The heat in his stare is slow burning, all consuming. A quiet, unspoken claim.
And yet, I refuse to let it shake me.
I hold his stare for a lingering beat before shifting my attention. “Good morning, everyone.”
A subtle tension ripples through the room, almost imperceptible, but the maids exchange quick glances, attuned to the charged atmosphere. As I step forward, Dante finally speaks, his voice authoritative and unquestionable.
“This is Harlow,” he announces. “My fiancée. I expect you to treat her accordingly.”
There is no uncertainty in his tone, no room for interpretation. His words carry weight, settling over me like an unspoken decree. I don’t react, keeping my expression impassive. Instead, I offer a small nod as the maids acknowledge me, their gazes flicking between us, assessing, understanding.
One of them, an older woman, steps forward, offering a warm smile. “Benvenuta, signorina. I am Bianca.”
Her voice is gentle, tinged with warmth, yet there is a quiet strength behind it, an authority that suggests she is someone of importance among the staff.
I meet her gaze, offering a slight nod in acknowledgment. “Grazie, Bianca.”
Nothing more is said, but there is a silent agreement between us, before the conversation naturally shifts and the household resumes its rhythm.
Breakfast is being served in the dining room. Dante, Mario, and I make our way inside, where the mansion staff moves efficiently, setting plates before us with careful attention. Dante pulls out my chair before I sit.
One of the women steps forward, her posture poised yet respectful. “What would you like to drink, signorina?”
“A cappuccino. Thank you.” My response is smooth, though I can still feel the weight of Dante’s presence beside me.
She nods before moving away, seamlessly blending back into the tranquil flow of the residence. It isn’t long before she returns, setting down our drinks.
I wrap my fingers around the warm porcelain, inhaling the rich aroma of freshly brewed cappuccino.
Across the table, Mario’s phone buzzes, breaking the subdued atmosphere. He glances at the screen, his expression shifting subtly. “Scusatemi,” he mutters, rising from his seat. “I need to take this.”
And just like that, it’s only Dante and me.
The air between us shifts, thickening, an unspoken current weaving its way through the silence. The room, once filled with the quiet hum of movement, now feels impossibly still.
I stir my cappuccino, watching him from the corner of my eye before finally breaking the silence.
“So, you have a son.” My voice is intentional. “You didn’t think that was something worth mentioning?”
Dante’s jaw tightens, a flicker of tension ghosting across his expression. “It’s no secret, but few are aware of my son. I don’t make a habit of exposing him to the world, and I’d prefer to keep it that way, for now, at least.”
I study him for a moment, taking in the quiet protectiveness that laces his words. It’s instinctual, deeply ingrained, a shield forged from necessity. And I understand why. A child in this world... changes everything.
I exhale slowly, tilting my head as I meet his gaze. “And his mother?”
A muscle in his jaw ticks, his eyes darkening with something far more dangerous than irritation.
“Is she in the picture?” I press.
His expression turns to stone. “Why?”
I hold his stare, unwavering. “Because if we are to live under the same roof, I believe it is only reasonable that I be informed whether the child’s mother is present in his life.”
His grip tightens on the armrest of his chair, knuckles flexing as if restraining something lethal. “She plays no role in his life, nor will she ever.” His voice is even, but there’s an unmistakable edge to it. “And if you have any sense, you will never bring her up again.”
I don’t look away, but the weight of his warning is suffocating, thick with the promise of violence. “The mere mention of her stirs the urge to erase that wretched woman from existence.”
