Playing with Fire

Virello Estate – Belle's Room

Belle shut the door behind her, pressing her back against the cool wood.

Dante knew something.

Not everything. Not enough to expose her. But he was watching. And if she wasn't careful, he'd start pulling at the threads of her carefully woven lies.

She should leave. Tonight.

Luca had told her to run, and he was right. She had no business staying in this house, wearing Dante's necklace, pretending to be someone she wasn't.

But…

Leaving meant giving up her mission.

It meant abandoning the revenge she had spent years planning.

No. She couldn't leave. Not yet.

She had to be smarter.

Dante was suspicious—but suspicion wasn't certainty.

If she could pull him in—make him trust her, make him lower his guard—she might have a chance to get what she came for.

And then?

Then she would disappear.

---

The Next Morning – Private Dining Hall

Belle entered the room carefully. Dante sat at the head of the long table, sipping his coffee, flipping through a newspaper like he didn't have the entire criminal underworld at his feet.

She had two options: keep her distance, or walk straight into the fire.

She chose the fire.

"Good morning, Mr. Castellano," she said, her voice smooth as she moved toward him.

Dante glanced up. His gaze flickered with something unreadable.

"Elena," he greeted slowly.

Belle hesitated only for a second before stepping closer and—pouring him more coffee.

Dante smirked.

"You don't have to serve me, you know."

Belle met his gaze. "Force of habit."

A pause. Then—Dante leaned back in his chair, watching her like she was a puzzle he was slowly putting together.

"You disappeared quickly after the gala last night." His voice was casual, but his eyes were anything but.

Belle forced a smile. "Too many eyes on me. I wasn't used to it."

"You better start getting used to it," Dante murmured, setting down his cup. "You belong to me now."

Belle's breath caught. A test. Another game.

She had to play her part perfectly.

So she lowered her gaze, letting just a hint of hesitation slip through. "If that's what you want."

Silence stretched between them.

Then, suddenly, Dante chuckled. Low. Dark.

"You're good at this," he said, tilting his head. "But not good enough."

Belle's stomach tightened.

He knew. He knew she was playing him.

And yet—he was letting her continue.

Why?

Dante stood, stepping closer, so close she could smell his cologne—warm spice and danger.

"Careful, Elena," he murmured. "You might just make me believe you."

And just like that, he left.

Belle exhaled, her hands trembling slightly at her sides.

She had taken a risk—and now she was trapped in a game where one wrong move could destroy everything.

But she couldn't back down now.

If Dante Castellano wanted to play with fire—

She would make sure he burned.