The Truth Revealed

Chapter 38: The Truth Revealed

After the Brutal fight, Isla was still nursing herself from the handcuffs and pains while Dante was with blood all over his body. Marco's Blood

The tension in the room was suffocating. Dante stood across from Isla, his dark eyes filled with restrained fury, waiting for answers. He had always known she was hiding something—something deeper than betrayal, something that ran through her veins like poison.

But he wasn't ready for the truth.

Isla had spent years suppressing it, locking the memories away behind a wall of hatred and revenge. She had never allowed herself to relive that night. But now, after everything, after fighting him, after resisting him, after nearly losing herself in him—she couldn't hold it in anymore.

Her hands trembled at her sides.

She took a deep breath.

And then, she spoke.

"Your father ruined my life, Dante."

A muscle in his jaw ticked, but he remained silent, his body unnervingly still.

She forced herself to meet his gaze, even as her voice wavered. "Antonio DeLuca didn't just kill my father. He destroyed everything I had. Everything."

Dante's fists clenched at his sides, his breathing sharp. "Explain."

Isla's throat burned, but she refused to stop now.

"He didn't just kill my father," she whispered. "He raped me, Dante. In front of his men."

The room went deathly silent.

Dante's body locked up, his breathing going ragged, his entire expression frozen as if the words physically struck him.

But Isla wasn't done.

"He made my father watch." Her voice cracked, and a bitter laugh escaped her, laced with years of pain and resentment. "And when he was satisfied—when he had broken us both—he put a bullet between my father's eyes."

Dante inhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring.

His entire body vibrated with barely contained rage.

Isla wrapped her arms around herself, her nails digging into her skin. "My mother couldn't handle it. The shame. The grief. The way people whispered behind her back. A week later, I found her in the bathtub—her wrists slit open." Her voice was hollow now, devoid of emotion. "She bled out while I screamed for her to wake up."

Dante took a slow, unsteady step toward her, his hands shaking. His face had lost all its usual arrogance, his cold demeanor replaced with something she had never seen before.

Pure, unfiltered anguish.

"Isla," he breathed, his voice raw.

She let out a bitter chuckle. "That's why I wanted revenge. That's why I came for you. Because you're his son. And I thought that meant you were just like him." Her breath shuddered. "But you're not."

Dante's breathing was harsh now, his shoulders rising and falling with the force of his rage. He took another step toward her, and Isla instinctively backed away.

His face contorted with something dark.

"I would have killed him myself," Dante said, his voice low and venomous. "I will kill him myself."

The sheer ferocity in his words sent a shiver down her spine.

For the first time, Isla saw something in Dante she hadn't noticed before—something brutal, something unhinged.

But none of it was directed at her.

He wasn't angry at her betrayal anymore.

He was furious at his father.

His hands shot out before she could step away again, gripping her arms, his touch firm but not painful. "You're mine now, Isla." His voice was thick with something she couldn't name. "And I will burn the entire world to the ground before I let anyone hurt you again."

Her chest tightened, her breath shallow.

This was the man she had fought against. The man she had tried to destroy.

And now he was ready to kill for her.

Dante's grip softened slightly, his thumbs brushing over her bare skin. His eyes, still burning with rage, flickered with something gentler, something devastating.

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he cupped her face.

Isla stiffened, her instincts screaming at her to pull away. But her body—her traitorous, aching body—betrayed her.

His lips brushed against her forehead first, the touch searing through her. Then he tilted her chin up, his dark gaze locking onto hers.

And then he kissed her.

It wasn't like before.

It wasn't possessive. It wasn't punishing.

It was a promise.

A slow, lingering vow pressed against her lips.

He kissed her as if he was trying to take her pain, as if he could rewrite the past with just this moment.

And Isla, for the first time in years, let herself believe in something other than revenge.