Page 65 of Shadows of Steel
But I feel it.
And I struggle to make sense of it.
Mario comes up behind me, so quiet I barely register his presence, a mistake in my fucking world. I exhale, forcing myself to focus just as he mutters, “I’ll catch you later.”
I glance at him, my mind still half elsewhere. “Aren’t you staying for dinner?”
Mario smirks, shaking his head. “Nah. I’ll let you enjoy the evening with your family.” His voice is laced with amusement, but the glint in his eyes is anything but soft. He stretches his arms, the picture of ease, though I know better. “I have... other appetites to satisfy tonight. Let’s just say my hunger isn’t for fucking food.”
I roll my eyes. “Try not to get yourself killed.”
He chuckles, low and knowing. “You’re one to fucking talk.”
With that, he strides away, leaving me alone. I step forward, toward the table. Mattia notices me first, his small head tilting up, his face still flushed from laughter. A second later, Harlow follows, her gaze lifting. And when our eyes meet, something shifts. That tightness in my chest spreads, coiling, pressing, suffocating. She doesn’t look away. Neither do I.
Fuck.
I feel more grounded in this moment than I have in my entire goddamn life. As if I’ve spent years wading through smoke and shadow, only to step into daylight for the first time.
And that’s how I know—this woman is going to ruin me.
Chapter 20
Harlow
I lock eyes with Dante, and for a fleeting moment, I forget how to breathe. He steps toward the table, the golden glow of the garden lights casts shifting shadows across his features, sharpening every angle, making him look almost unreal, too exquisite, too dangerous. I blink, forcing myself to break the moment’s hold. No. Absolutely not.
Dante pulls out the chair at the head of the table, settling in with quiet authority. The maids move swiftly, materializing as if from thin air, placing a steaming plate of freshly made agnolotti before him. The delicate, hand-folded pasta, stuffed with ricotta and black truffle, glistens under the garden lights, its aroma decadent and earthy. Another maid steps forward. “What may I bring you to drink, Signora?” She asks me.
“An espresso martini,” I say smoothly. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
Dante glances at me, then shifts his gaze to the maid. “A glass of red.” His voice is effortless, a command.
Across the table, Mattia pipes up. “Succo. Per favore.”
The air between Dante and me is taut, stretched so thin it’s suffocating. The tension lingers, a silent battlefield neither of us acknowledges, but both of us feel. My husband shifts his attention to Mattia, the sharp lines of his face softening, just slightly. “How was practice today? You didn’t get into another fight, I hope.”
Mattia shrugs. “No.” He stabs at his dessert. “It was okay.”
Dante’s gaze sharpens. “That’s all you have to say?”
“Dunno,” Mattia mumbles, still poking at his food. “Finished all the drills, ran a bunch. Didn’t hit anyone. Coach said I played well.”
Dante’s silence is heavy. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t press further, but the distance between them feels like a living thing, a quiet strain they don’t know how to bridge. I watch them, my fingers tightening around my glass. What caused it? Was it only because of Mattia’s mother, or was it deeper than that? Was it Dante’s nature? The way power and violence were woven into his blood, shaping him into a man who could never be anything but ruthless? Was it this life, a life where being strong meant never showing weakness, even to your own son?
Mattia, unaware of the thoughts spiralling in my head, shrugs again. And almost offhandedly, he adds, “Coach was talking to Harlow a lot. I think he likes her.”
Dante goes still.
Fucking hell.
His grip tightens around his fork, his entire frame coiling like a predator poised to strike. His jaw clenches, his throat works once. His eyes, dark, dangerous snap to mine.
“Is that so?” His voice is quiet, dangerously smooth.
My stomach tightens. That voice? That’s the voice of a man who acts first and deals with the consequences later.
I roll my eyes, forcing a smirk. “It wasn’t like that.”
