Page 36 of Shadows of Steel

Mattia falters. Then, after a moment, he shrugs again, like it doesn’t matter either way. “Okay.”

And then he turns, ascending the stairs, the box of chocolates in one hand and his toy car in the other. As I watch him disappear, an uneasy twist coils in my stomach.

Dante has a son.

I didn’t know.

I should have.

I loathe being caught off guard.

Yet here I am, utterly blindsided.

Chapter 13

Harlow

A fine beam of sunlight slices across my face, dragging me out of sleep. My eyes flutter open, squinting against the harsh morning light. I forgot to close the curtains last night.

With a quiet sigh, I shift onto my back, staring at the ceiling as my mind catches up to where I am. Fragments of the previous night resurface, the party, the stalker, discovering Dante has a son, meeting him. The unspoken tension, the weight of something unnameable pressing between us. After my encounter with Mattia, Dante had led me upstairs, showing me to his bedroom, but I refused to stay there with him.

This arrangement is nothing more than a strategic alliance. There’s no need for pretence behind closed doors. It’s preferable this way, neater, more straightforward, and far safer.

He hadn’t protested. He had simply regarded me in silence, his expression inscrutable, before offering a curt nod. Moments later, one of his men delivered my bags, and I had retreated into the solitude of the bathroom. I let the scalding water wash away the exhaustion woven deep into my muscles, the steam unfurling around me like a cocoon.

The rest is a blur. Slipping into my pyjamas. The cool press of the pillow against my skin. The pull of sleep, deep, immediate, absolute.

Now, I glance at the digital clock mounted near the television. Six-thirty a.m.

With a quiet exhale, I push back the covers and sit up, stretching my arms above my head. Mornings have never been a struggle for me, I’ve always been an early riser. Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I rise smoothly, running a hand over the sheets to straighten them before making my way to the bathroom.

Inside, I retrieve my toiletry bag from the counter where I left it last night. The guest bathroom is impeccably stocked with neatly arranged essentials, shampoo, conditioner, body wash, even a curated selection of luxury skincare products. Likely meant for guests.

I take my time under the hot water, allowing it to chase away the last remnants of sleep as I work shampoo through my hair, scrubbing my skin until it tingles. Steam curls around me as I step out, wrapping a towel around my body and another around my hair.

My reflection stares back at me from the mirror, sharp features, skin slightly flushed from the heat.

I reach for my skincare products, methodically massaging cream into my skin, smoothing lotion over my arms and legs. Taking care of myself is routine, a small ritual of control in a world that offers so little of it.

Stepping out of the bathroom, I let the towels drop, reaching for fresh lingerie, black lace, delicate, barely-there. The fabric clings to my skin as I slip it on, followed by a pair of high-waisted, wide-leg jeans that drape elegantly over my frame. I shrug on a structured blazer, its sharp lines adding an effortless polish to the ensemble. Sliding my feet into nude stilettos, I move back to the mirror, running a brush through my damp hair before blow-drying it straight. A few drops of oil add a sleek, polished sheen. Makeup is next, flawless foundation, a touch of bronzer to sculpt, mascara darkening my lashes with a single sweep. A swipe of nude lipstick.

Subtle.

Polished.

Precise.

A final veil of perfume, and I’m ready.

I step out of the room, the soft click of my heels echoing in the quiet hallway. Unfamiliar walls stretch before me, a starkindication that I don’t yet know my way around this house. But the distant murmur of voices drifts through the silence, guiding me like a thread through a maze.

I follow the sound, as I move through the corridors, taking in the surroundings. The scent of freshly brewed coffee and something faintly sweet lingers in the air, growing stronger as I approach.

Finally, I step inside what I assume is the kitchen. Dante is standing near the counter with Mario, their conversation pausing the moment they notice me.

The kitchen staff moves efficiently around them, but I barely notice, because Dante is watching me.

Not just watching, devouring.