Playing with Fire

Dante's Penthouse – Midnight

Belle stepped out of the car, the cold night air biting at her skin.

She had just made a deal with Giovanni Russo—a deal that could destroy her.

Her mind spun with the weight of her decision, but she had no time to dwell.

Because now, she had to face Dante.

The elevator ride to his penthouse was too slow, too quiet.

Belle's heartbeat drummed in her ears. Would he notice the shift in her? Would he sense the weight of her secrets?

When the doors slid open, she found Dante sitting on the couch, a glass of whiskey in his hand.

He looked up.

"You took your time."

Belle smiled, stepping inside. "I didn't realize I was on a curfew."

Dante chuckled, but his eyes were sharp. Watching. Measuring.

"You left the club in a hurry," he said casually. "Something I should know?"

Belle forced herself to stay relaxed.

"I needed air," she said smoothly. "You were busy."

Dante studied her.

Then, with slow, deliberate movements, he set his glass down and leaned forward.

"Come here, Elena."

A test.

Belle knew it was a test.

But she had no choice.

She stepped forward.

Dante reached out, his fingers brushing her wrist.

Then—he pulled her onto his lap.

Her breath hitched, but she let him.

His hands trailed up her arms, over her shoulders, then settled around her waist.

"You feel different," he murmured, his lips brushing her ear.

Belle's heart pounded.

"Do I?"

Dante smirked. His grip tightened.

"Like you're hiding something."

Belle forced a slow breath, tilting her head to meet his gaze.

Then, she did the only thing that could save her.

She kissed him.

It was slow. Deep. A kiss that spoke of loyalty, of devotion—of a woman with nothing to hide.

Dante responded instantly.

He pulled her closer, his fingers tangling in her hair, his lips moving with dangerous possession.

When he finally pulled away, his gaze was darker. Hungrier.

"If you ever do hide something from me, Elena…" His voice was a whisper, but laced with warning. "I'll find out."

Belle smiled.

"Then I guess you'll never have to."

Dante chuckled, brushing his fingers against her jaw.

"Good girl."

But as he kissed her again—

Belle knew the truth.

She wasn't a good girl.

She was a liar. A thief. A traitor.

And Dante Castellano had no idea.

Yet.