Page 58

The sun was falling behind the horizon, burning the clouds into embers as two private jets cut through the sky

Dante’s jet was black—a sharp-winged beast of custom engineering and lethal elegance.

Inside, the leather seats were hand-stitched, the minibar fully stocked, the controls whisper-quiet.

He sat with his jacket off, shirt sleeves folded precisely to his forearms, gaze fixed on the silent screen tracking their flight path.

Lucien Thorne’s jet flew behind, nearly identical but customized to his taste: steel gray with black-tinted windows.

He sat reclined in his cabin, jacket unbuttoned, one leg crossed over the other as he reviewed files on a digital tablet.

His glasses caught the overhead light, casting subtle glints into the otherwise dim cabin.

Neither man spoke to their crew. They didn’t need to.

Hours later, both jets touched down at the private landing strip on the outskirts of Dante’s coastal city.

The moment the engines quieted, a convoy of matte-black SUVs awaited on the tarmac.

The guards moved like clockwork—doors opened, bags loaded, comms whispered.

Lucien descended first, slow and relaxed, his serpent ring glinting under the terminal lights.

His tailored suit barely creased as he stepped into the backseat of his vehicle, his head tilting just once to nod at the guard opening his door.

Dante followed, walking with deliberate calm, his expression unreadable.

When his foot hit the asphalt, the guards straightened further.

He got into his car without a word, only the brief flick of his hand signaling the convoy to move.

The ride through the city was seamless.

Sirens cleared their path in advance. No one honked. No one dared.

At the gates of Dante’s beach estate, steel doors opened without delay.

Isolde had heard them long before she saw them.

The low hum of tires on gravel, the sudden stillness of the staff. Her heart stuttered.

She was barefoot, wearing a soft white summer dress.

Her hair was long and loose, falling down her back in a silken curtain.

The moment she heard the engine shut off, she rushed out the front door.

The guards had already lined up.

Dante stepped out, the air shifting around him like the return of a storm.

“Dante,” she breathed.

And then she ran.

Her bare feet hit the stone path, her arms flung forward.

He caught her halfway across the courtyard, pulling her tightly into his chest, his hand sliding into her hair.

“You’re back,” she whispered into his neck.

“I said I would be.”

She clutched him tighter, inhaling his scent—smoke, and home.

“I was scared,” she said. “That something happened.”

“I was covered in blood when I said ‘I love you.’ That should count for something.”

She laughed, half-choked, and leaned back.

Then noticed the other man standing by the SUV, leaning casually with one shoulder against the passenger door, arms crossed, watching them.

Lucien Thorne.

He didn’t move. He simply watched.

Dante’s arm remained firmly around her waist as he led her forward.

“Lucien,” he said coolly, “meet my wife. Isolde.”

Lucien straightened slightly, slow and fluid.

Isolde’s eyes widened for a second.

He was unreal up close—tall, built like a mythical god she read about in the novels, with eyes like steel and a mouth that could either break or seduce you.

She blinked.

“I—uh—I know you,” she blurted. “I’ve seen you. In the news. Magazines.”

Lucien’s mouth curved.

Dante’s grip tightened just enough to make her breath catch.

“I mean—you’re...you’re Lucien Thorne.”

“I am,” he said smoothly. “Nice to meet you, Lady Valencourt.”

She flushed.

Dante smirked.

Lucien added dryly, “You looked a little starstruck.”

“I wasn’t—” she stopped, realizing she was.

Lucien chuckled. It was low and unhurried.

Dante’s smirk sharpened. “She’s adorable when nervous.”

Lucien just nodded and pushed off the SUV. “Let’s go inside before he thinks I’m the villain in your fairy tale.”

Inside, the villa was quiet and perfectly kept.

They moved to the main living room—vaulted ceilings, long velvet sofas, floor-to-ceiling windows casting moonlight into the marble floors.

Lucien sat first, one leg crossed, wrist draped casually over the couch’s arm. He looked completely at home.

Dante dropped into a nearby armchair, legs wide, one hand on the armrest, fingers tapping once.

Their presence filled the space like thunderclouds.

Isolde sat a few feet away, awkward but trying to appear composed.

“Would you like something to drink?” she asked.

Lucien tilted his head. “What do you have?”

“Juice?” she offered.

He smiled, faintly amused. “Bourbon.”

She blinked. “I—oh, I didn’t think...”

“Don’t give me that judgmental look, Lady Valencourt. It's fine if your husband doesn't have the wine I'm asking for.”

“I wasn’t!” She said while shaking her head.

Dante interjected with a grin. “You just insulted my bar. Come. I’ll show you the real collection.”

Lucien rose, slow and sure. “Lead the way.”

They walked down a hall toward the private bar.

Isolde watched them go, then turned to the kitchen with determination.

She would make them lunch. The best she could.

In the private bar.

Rows of rare bottles lined the shelves, many sealed with wax and gold wire.

In the center, a custom-carved marble bar glistened beneath the warm glow.

Lucien stepped in and exhaled softly. “I’m proud of you.”

Dante raised a brow as he moved behind the bar. “Proud?”

Lucien ran a hand over one of the bottles. “You finally turned your obsession into an empire.”

“It was always an empire,” Dante said, pouring two fingers of deep amber into crystal.

“Not like this.” Lucien accepted the glass. “You built this in her image.”

Dante’s eyes glinted. “And I’d tear it all down in her name if I had to.”

Lucien nodded once. “Good. That’s what makes you dangerous.”

They sat on matching stools, Dante resting one boot on the brass rail below, Lucien leaning with forearms on the bar.

“You know what I miss?” Lucien asked suddenly.

“What?”

“The warehouse job in Palermo. The one with the albino twins and the stolen Monet.”

Dante scoffed. “You set that fire before I even got inside.”

“You were late.”

“You didn’t tell me it was booby-trapped.”

“You didn’t ask.”

Dante shook his head, sipping. “You’ve always had a God complex.”

“I’ve always been right.”

They shared a laugh—dry, low, and slightly menacing.

Dante reached under the counter and pulled out a smaller black box. “For you.”

Lucien opened it slowly—inside, a limited edition Italian vintage, 1974, labeled in gold.

He looked up, genuinely surprised. “You remembered.”

“Of course.”

Lucien said nothing, but his smile said plenty.

He held the bottle up, admiring it. “I’ve been collecting this series. Back home, I’ve got an underground cellar. Temperature-controlled. Sealed with biometric locks. Sorina thinks it’s excessive.”

“It is,” Dante said. “But respectable.”

“I’ve got vintages going back to 1880. One bottle so rare I paid for it with a diamond necklace instead of cash. The dealer was trying to impress his mistress.”

Dante gave a low chuckle. “Did it work?”

“He called off the engagement the next week.”

“Figures.”

They clinked glasses again.

Lucien gestured toward a shelf. “I see you’ve still got the Macallan 72.”

“Untouched. For your funeral.”

Lucien smirked. “Touching.”

They sipped.

“Do you still shoot at scarecrows in your garden for stress relief?” Dante asked.

Lucien raised a brow. “They’re not scarecrows. They’re ballistic mannequins.”

“You put ties on them.”

“For realism.”

“You named one of them Mikhail.”

“Because he owed me money.”

Dante barked out a laugh.

“You?” Lucien asked. “Still burn letters in your fireplace even after the job’s clean?”

“I burn the ones that feel unfinished.”

Lucien shook his head in mock disapproval. “And they call me dramatic.”

They sat in silence again, the kind only men like them could share.

Heavy with history.

Dante topped off both their glasses.

Lucien stared into his bourbon. “Sometimes I think about disappearing. Taking Sorina. The boy. Faking my death.”

“And then?”

Lucien smiled faintly. “Then I remember who I am.”

Dante raised his glass. “We weren’t made for peace.”

Lucien met his gaze. “That's the issue here.”

They drank in silence.