Dante's Protectiveness

Chapter 13: Dante's Protectiveness

The night air was thick with anticipation as Isla moved through the club. Inferno was alive, pulsing with energy, the scent of alcohol and perfume wafting through the air, mixed with the low hum of music and the chatter of wealthy patrons. It was a typical night, the kind that Isla had grown used to since she'd started working here as Bella Caruso. But tonight felt different. There was an edge to the atmosphere, a tension that crawled under her skin.

Isla tried to push the feeling away as she moved between tables, carrying drinks to VIPs, offering polite smiles to everyone she passed. Her mind was focused, but part of her couldn't shake the feeling that something was about to happen. Something that would change everything.

Her instincts weren't wrong.

It started with the man in the corner booth.

Isla had seen him before—a grizzled man with a deep scar running down his cheek, his eyes cold and calculating. He was a known figure in the underworld, a rival to the DeLucas. His name was Marco Santoro, and his presence at Inferno wasn't a good sign. She had no idea why he was here tonight, but the way he was eyeing her made her stomach churn.

She tried to ignore the unsettling feeling in her chest as she made her way past his booth, only to feel a rough hand grab her wrist.

"Where are you going, sweetheart?" Marco's voice was smooth, but there was an underlying menace that sent a shiver down her spine.

Isla jerked her arm back, but his grip tightened, pulling her toward him. "Let go of me," she hissed, her voice firm, though her heart raced in her chest.

He didn't listen. Instead, he tugged her closer, his breath warm against her ear. "I've been watching you, Bella. You're quite the beauty. I'm sure the DeLucas wouldn't mind me taking you for a little spin."

Isla's pulse quickened as she fought to free herself from his grasp. She knew she had to be careful. Marco Santoro wasn't just any thug—he was ruthless, known for making his enemies disappear without a second thought. The last thing she needed was to get involved with someone like him.

"Let go," Isla repeated, her voice colder now. But Marco only chuckled, his grip tightening further.

"You don't get to say no to me," he murmured, his fingers sliding along her arm possessively.

Before Isla could react, a shadow fell over the booth. She froze when she saw the figure standing just behind Marco, his presence like a dark storm cloud that chilled the air around them.

Dante.

His jaw was clenched tight, his eyes cold and deadly as he took in the scene before him. Marco barely had time to process Dante's arrival before the man moved, fast and lethal. In an instant, Dante grabbed Marco by the collar, lifting him off the seat with ease.

"You're making a mistake," Dante's voice was low, barely a whisper, but the venom in it was unmistakable. He tossed Marco back into the booth with enough force to make the man slam into the table.

Isla stood frozen, her heart hammering in her chest, both relieved and terrified by Dante's sudden intervention. She didn't know how to process it—how quickly he had moved, how easily he had dominated Marco. But she also couldn't deny the way his protectiveness made something stir inside her.

Marco snarled, standing up quickly, but Dante was already on him. "Don't touch her again," Dante warned, his voice laced with an edge that made everyone in the immediate vicinity fall silent.

Isla's breath caught as she watched the confrontation unfold. There was no hesitation in Dante's movements. No second thoughts. He was all violence and fury in that moment, and it was enough to send a chill down her spine.

"I'll deal with you later," Marco spat, his hand flying to the gun at his hip. But before he could draw it, Dante had his own weapon out, pressing the barrel against Marco's chest in a blink of an eye.

"You'll deal with me now, Marco," Dante said, his voice cold as ice. "You'll leave this club, and you'll stay the hell away from my people. You don't get to touch what's mine."

Isla's stomach twisted as the words hit her like a slap to the face. She knew Dante was protective of his territory, but the raw intensity of his possessiveness over her felt like a punch to her gut.

Marco's eyes flickered to the weapon in Dante's hand, and then he looked at the people around him, their faces filled with fear. Realizing he was outmatched, he slowly raised his hands in surrender. "Fine," Marco growled, "but you're making a big mistake."

"I'm not making any mistakes, Marco," Dante replied smoothly, his finger tightening on the trigger. "Now get out."

The threat was clear, and Marco knew better than to challenge it. With a final glare at Isla, he turned and stalked out of the club, leaving a trail of tension in his wake.

Isla exhaled slowly, her legs trembling beneath her as the adrenaline finally wore off. She felt Dante's gaze on her, the weight of his stare almost suffocating as he turned toward her.

"Are you alright?" Dante asked, his voice softer now, though there was still an edge to it.

Isla nodded quickly, trying to steady her breath. "I'm fine. I—thank you."

Dante took a step closer, his eyes scanning her face for any sign of injury. "He won't bother you again. I won't allow it."

The intensity in his gaze made Isla's chest tighten. She had no idea why he cared so much. Was it because she worked for him? Was it because of their twisted, dangerous connection?

But then, just as quickly as the moment had started, Dante stepped back, his posture shifting to one of casual indifference. He glanced toward the back of the club, where several other members of his crew were now watching the scene unfold.

"Get back to work," Dante said, his tone businesslike once more. "We'll talk later."

Isla swallowed hard, feeling a mix of emotions swirl inside her. She wanted to be angry, to push him away. But she couldn't. There was a part of her that was grateful. Grateful for the protection he'd offered. Grateful, but confused.

She had a plan. She had a purpose. Revenge was her only goal, not getting tangled up in Dante DeLuca's web of violence and power.

But as she turned away from him, the words he'd said echoed in her mind: What's mine.

The possessiveness in his voice, the way he had stepped in so quickly to defend her, rattled her more than she was willing to admit.

She had to remind herself why she was here.

For her family.

For revenge.

But why, then, did the idea of Dante claiming her feel like a temptation she couldn't resist?

Shaking her head, Isla pushed the thoughts aside. It didn't matter. It couldn't matter.

But deep down, she knew something had shifted in the air tonight, something dangerous that had the power to change everything.

And it wasn't just the threat of Marco Santoro.