Dante: A Dark Mafia Romance Novel

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 | 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓

𝐌𝐄𝐈-𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆

The water was hot, nearly scalding, just the way I liked it. Steam curled around me, thick and heavy, clinging to the glass walls as the spray pounded against my skin. I stood beneath it, letting the heat seep into my muscles, washing away the last remnants of sleep.

This was the only part of my morning that belonged entirely to me. No interruptions. No expectations. Just water, hot and steady, drowning out the noise of everything waiting beyond this door.

I dragged my hands through my hair, slicking it back as droplets traced slow paths down my spine. My fingers skimmed over the cool tiles, a sharp contrast to the warmth rolling off me in waves.

After a few more moments, I turned the faucet off, the water cutting to silence.

Steam clung to my skin as I stepped out, reaching for a plush towel. Wrapping it around myself, I wiped a hand over the mirror, clearing enough space to catch my own gaze.

Then—a knock at the door.

Sharp. Measured. Waiting.

I exhaled slowly, already knowing what was coming.

"Enter."

The door opened, and my second-in-command stepped inside. His gaze flickered, just briefly, before snapping back to mine. He was careful. They all were.

"Forgive me, ma'am," he said, voice steady but cautious.

I waited.

"I apologize for the interruption, Boss," he continued. "But your father has requested your presence. Immediately."

I didn't move. Didn't blink. The warmth from my shower still clung to my skin, steam curling in the air like smoke.

"Tell Toshiko," I said, my voice smooth, even, "that I will see him when I see fit. Not before."

Relief flickered across his face. "Yes, Boss."

He turned to leave.

And then he hesitated.

A flicker of tension passed through his frame. It was barely there, a shift in posture, a tightening of his jaw—but I caught it.

"Speak," I said.

He didn't look at me right away, but when he did, his eyes were careful. Calculated. "Is this truly what you intend to do?"

I stared at him, the silence stretching so thin I could hear the faint sound of water dripping from my hair onto the tile.

A dangerous question.

My expression didn't change, my voice no sharper than before, but the weight of it thickened the air between us. "Let me make something very clear." I stood there, unmoving, still wrapped in nothing but a towel, and yet he looked as though he wanted to shrink beneath my gaze.

"My word is law. You do not second-guess me. You do not question my authority. And you certainly do not ask me to justify my decisions to you. Have I made myself clear?"

A single beat of silence. Then, swiftly, "Yes, ma'am."

I stepped forward, slow and deliberate, watching the tension coil in his shoulders.

"Good." My tone softened, dangerously smooth, a whisper of steel beneath silk. "Then let me offer you a warning, just this once."

I leaned in slightly, close enough that he could hear every breath, every deliberate pause.

"Next time you question me, I will take that misplaced curiosity of yours, carve it out, and leave it bleeding at your feet. Do we understand each other?"

His throat bobbed. "Yes, ma'am."

A slow, satisfied smile ghosted across my lips.

"Then get out."

He turned sharply on his heel, the door clicking shut behind him with quiet finality.

I exhaled, rolling my shoulders, before turning back toward my room.

Message received. Loud and fucking clear.

My bedroom was quiet, save for the soft rustle of silk as I slipped the robe from my shoulders. The air still carried the lingering warmth of my shower, the scent of jasmine and white tea clinging to my skin.

I reached for a jade comb on the vanity, running my fingers over its cool surface before setting it down. My gaze flicked to the mirror, but instead of meeting my own eyes, it caught on my left hand.

Bare.

For now.

I flexed my fingers, watching the way the light cast faint shadows over my knuckles. A ring would sit here soon. A foreign weight. A symbol of ownership, of obligation, of something I had never entertained as a possibility for myself.

Something cold unfurled in my chest, and I forced the thought away with a slow exhale.

Not yet.

A soft knock at the door broke the silence.

"Enter."

Jia stepped inside, moving with effortless precision. She was one of the few people in my employ I never had to correct. Never had to remind of their place. She knew her purpose, and she executed it well.

She carried a garment bag over her arm, the muted shimmer of the fabric inside catching the light as she moved.

"I've prepared the black silk set," she said simply, already unzipping the bag. "Something understated, elegant, but with an edge. A high neckline, cinched waist—commanding, but not stiff."

I nodded. 

"Make it quick," I murmured, settling into the chair before my vanity.

She stepped behind me, pulling my damp hair through skilled fingers. Liling knew my routine well enough to move through it without asking—knew I preferred my hair down. 

Her hands moved swiftly, working the damp strands between her fingers, smoothing the weight of my hair down my back, brushing it with precision.

"It's grown longer," she noted.

I hummed in response, watching her reflection in the mirror as she worked. She knew better than to fill the silence with unnecessary conversation.

She was efficient. Sharp. An extension of my will in moments like this.

The finishing touch—a delicate layer of oil smoothed through the ends—before she stepped back.

"Your shoes are waiting by the door. I selected the stilettos with the lacquered blade heel."

Of course, she had.

I stood, letting the silk fabric of my outfit settle against my skin. Adjusted the cuffs, rolled my shoulders to test the fit. Perfect, as always.

As I stepped into the open-plan living area of my London townhome, my eyes immediately landed on Scar, stationed by the front door like a sentry. His stance was rigid, hands clasped behind his back, more akin to a secret service operative than the ruthless underboss I trusted with my life.

Why Scar? His name was a reflection of the jagged mark stretching from his left eyebrow to the corner of his mouth, a silent testament to a past I knew all too well.

He inclined his head slightly at my approach. "Your car is waiting outside, ma'am."

I gave a curt nod, my attention already shifting to my phone as I typed out final instructions to my pilot. The jet would be prepared. Everything would be in place.

No delays. No missteps. 

My heels clicked softly against the marble floor as I moved past him, the cool, familiar weight of control settling over me.

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