His Dangerous Love: The Writer And The Don

Aria Sterling POV The safe house was a sprawling estate on Long Island, fortified by high walls and a dense, choking forest. It was quiet here. Suffocatingly quiet. It had been two weeks. Two weeks of living in Dante's shadow. Two weeks of trying to sanitize a history of blood into a palatable narrative for the federal government. It was late, past midnight. I was in the library, the blue light of my new laptop screen illuminating the darkness as I tried to find a synonym for "hostile takeover" that didn't sound exactly like "armed robbery." The heavy oak door creaked opened. Dante walked in. He looked wrecked. He had been gone for two days on "business." His suit jacket was gone. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the top, the sleeves rolled up haphazardly. And then I saw the blood. Again. But this time, the dark crimson didn't look like it belonged to someone else. "You're bleeding," I said, standing up so fast my chair scraped against the floor. He looked down at his side. A dark stain was blooming across the white fabric of his shirt. "It's nothing," he said, his voice rough. "A graze." "Sit down," I ordered. The fear I usually felt around him was replaced by a sudden, irrational panic. "You need a first aid kit." "I have handled worse," he muttered, but he sank onto the leather sofa with a heavy exhale. I ran to the bathroom down the hall and grabbed the kit I had seen earlier. When I came back, he had unbuttoned his shirt completely. I froze in the doorway. His torso was a living map of violence. There were scars crisscrossing every inch of muscle. Knife wounds. The puckered craters of bullet holes. Burn marks. It was a history book written on skin, brutal and far more honest than the lies I was typing. He looked up and saw me staring. "Ugly, isn't it?" he said. His voice was devoid of self-pity. It was just a statement of fact. "No," I whispered. I walked over and knelt beside him. I cleaned the wound on his ribs. It was a shallow cut, but it bled freely. My hands shook as I pressed the gauze against his skin. His skin was scorching hot. He flinched slightly, his muscles contracting hard under my touch. "Who did this?" I asked. "People who want what I have," he said. He watched my hands, his dark eyes tracing my movements. His gaze was intense, heavy. "Why do you do it?" I asked, daring to meet his eyes. "You have enough money. You could leave. You could just be... a businessman." He laughed, a dark, rough sound that vibrated through his chest. "You cannot leave the Family, Aria. You leave in a coffin. That is the only exit clause." He reached out and caught my wrist. His grip was gentle this time, a stark contrast to the violence etched on his body. "You have ink on your cheek," he said. I tried to pull away, but he held on. He used his thumb to rub the spot on my cheekbone. The friction sent a jolt of electricity straight to my core. "You are too clean for this place," he said quietly. "You smell like vanilla and old paper. And I smell like gunpowder and ash." "Then let me go," I whispered. He shook his head slowly. His eyes dropped to my lips. "I can't," he said. "Not anymore." He let go of my wrist and leaned back, closing his eyes. "Finish the chapter, Aria. Then go to sleep. Lock your door." I stood up, my legs trembling. I walked back to the desk, but I couldn't type. I could still feel the heat of his skin on my fingertips. I could still see the vulnerability in the monster's eyes. He wasn't keeping me here just to write a memoir. And I wasn't staying solely because of the contract. We were both bleeding, just in very different ways.