Chapter 45: The DeLuca Feast
The grand hall of the DeLuca estate was adorned with golden chandeliers, velvet drapes, and the lingering scent of expensive cigars and aged whiskey. Tonight was a night of triumph—a celebration of Dante's ascension as the new head of the DeLuca empire. The air buzzed with murmurs, a mix of admiration and fear for the man who had ruthlessly eliminated all opposition, including his own father.
At the center of it all stood Dante, his dark suit perfectly tailored, exuding the aura of a king who had just seized his throne. Isla stood by his side, draped in a striking black gown that accentuated every curve. Her presence was as commanding as it was controversial. The whispers had started long before she even stepped foot inside the hall, but now, surrounded by the powerful and the elite, they grew louder.
"She bewitched him."
"The witch who seduced the king."
"She's the reason Antonio is dead."
Isla felt the weight of every stare, the judgment in every glance. But she kept her chin high, her fingers lightly brushing against the cold rim of her champagne glass. She wasn't afraid—she had long learned to wear her defiance like armor.
Dante, however, was less composed. His jaw tightened, his grip around his whiskey glass turning white-knuckled as he overheard the hushed accusations. His guests were stepping over a dangerous line.
Luca leaned in from the side. "You expected this, didn't you?"
Dante shot him a warning glare. "I don't give a damn what they think."
Luca sighed, taking a sip of his drink. "Maybe, but Isla's standing in the middle of a pack of wolves. And they're hungry for blood."
Isla, sensing the tension, turned to Dante with a smirk. "Let them talk," she whispered. "They fear what they can't control."
But Dante wasn't one to let insults slide. As another round of murmurs circled, he slammed his glass onto the table with a sharp crack, silencing the room instantly. Every pair of eyes snapped to him, waiting.
"If any of you have something to say about my woman," he said, voice dangerously low, "say it to me."
Silence. No one dared to speak.
"I thought so." He exhaled sharply, his rage barely contained. Then, looking at Isla, he added, "We're leaving."
Before she could respond, he took her hand, leading her away from the grand hall.
A Moment Alone
The tension between them was palpable as Dante pulled her into an empty lounge room, shutting the door behind them. The sound of the celebration outside faded into a distant hum.
"You shouldn't have done that," Isla said, crossing her arms. "Now they'll think I have you wrapped around my finger."
Dante stepped closer, his gaze intense. "Let them."
She arched a brow. "You're the king now, Dante. You have an empire to run. You can't afford to be reckless just because someone talks about me."
His hands found her waist, his grip firm. "You don't understand, do you?" His voice was softer now, yet edged with something dangerous. "You're mine, Isla. And I won't let anyone disrespect you."
Her breath hitched. The possessiveness in his voice sent a shiver down her spine. She knew she should push him away, remind herself that she was never supposed to belong to him. But she was trapped in the way his dark eyes burned into hers, filled with an obsession that was both terrifying and intoxicating.
Her fingers trailed over the scar on his jaw, a silent acknowledgment of everything he had been through—everything they had been through together.
"This isn't how it was supposed to be," she whispered.
Dante leaned in, his lips just a breath away from hers. "Then tell me to let you go."
She opened her mouth, but the words never came.
Because the truth was, she didn't want to leave.
Instead of answering, she pulled him into a kiss—one that spoke of defiance, surrender, and something neither of them wanted to name.
And just like that, the tension that had been brewing all night ignited into something unstoppable.
The Fire That Wouldn't Die
Dante backed her against the wall, his body pressing against hers with an urgency that made her pulse race. His hands traced the curve of her waist, pulling her even closer. Isla felt the heat of his skin through the fabric of their clothes, and for a moment, nothing else existed—no betrayals, no past, no whispers of disapproval.
Just them.
"You drive me insane," Dante muttered against her lips.
She smirked. "Good."
His response was a deep, possessive kiss that left her breathless.
And in that moment, nothing else mattered but the fire they couldn't put out.