Chapter 3 - Handling it. Stay there. Safe.
Safe was a relative term when the man who promised to return was somewhere doing things that made my chest tighten whenever I considered them.
I had worked for him for 6 months and had been tentatively dating him for approximately 12 hours. I did not believe I had earned the right to feel as frightened as I did.
I fell asleep near 3:00 a.m., still fully dressed on top of the blankets because becoming comfortable felt like accepting that he would not return.
When I awoke at 7:00 a.m., a note in his sharp handwriting lay on the nightstand.
Had to leave early. A car will take you to the airport at noon. I’ll see you in the city. D.
There was no explanation, apology, or acknowledgment that he had vanished after ordering me to wait.
The note had the emotional warmth of a business memorandum.
A driver arrived exactly at noon, did not speak during the trip, and delivered me to the airport.
I returned alone on the company plane, wondering whether the previous day had been real or merely a temporary lapse in Dante’s control.
Back in the city, I went directly to my apartment and showered, attempting to wash away the suspicion that a man had warned me he could not manage a relationship and proved himself correct at the 1st opportunity.
Marco called.
His instincts as my older brother appeared to activate whenever I was in distress.
“How was the trip?”
“Productive. The meetings went well. I’m home.”
I did not mention the hotel, the bed, the conversation, or Dante’s disappearance.
“Why are you calling?”
“Can’t a brother check on his sister without an ulterior motive?”
Marco was a terrible liar.
“Dante called. He said you did excellent work and wanted me to know you handled the trip well.”
Of course he had called Marco to praise my professional performance. The boundaries had been restored. Everything was apparently normal.
“That was considerate.”
“You sound strange. What happened? Did Dante do or say something? If he behaved inappropriately—”
“He was completely professional. Nothing happened. I’m tired from traveling.”
The lie tasted bitter.
“I need to sleep. I’ll see you Sunday. Tell Isabella I’ll bring dessert.”
I ended the call before he could continue.
Dante did not contact me personally for 3 days.
His work emails were brief, professional, and entirely devoid of acknowledgment that we had held several emotionally significant conversations only 48 hours earlier.
On Monday morning, he was already in his office when I arrived at 8:00 a.m. He looked as though he had been there for hours.
“Good morning,” he said. “I need the quarterly reports by noon. Schedule a meeting with the Eastern territory managers for Friday at 10:00 a.m. in Conference Room B. Call Marco as well. He has been asking about a contract I promised to review. Handle it.”
“Good morning to you too.”
I placed my bag down with unnecessary force.
“Anything else? Coffee? Additional instructions delivered without basic courtesy? Soul-crushing emotional distance?”
His jaw tightened.
“I’m busy. Can we discuss this later?”
“Discuss what? The emotional breakthrough we had 4 days ago that you now pretend never occurred?”
I refused to retreat.
“Or should I treat Friday as a fever dream?”
“I’m not being cold. I am concentrating on work.”
He would not meet my eyes.
“We had a conversation. I acknowledged it. We are now in a professional environment where it is not relevant.”
“Not relevant? Your admission that you wanted me is irrelevant? Our agreement to attempt something is irrelevant?”
“I have not reconsidered.”
“I cannot tell. You vanished for an entire night, left before I awoke, sent me home alone, did not call for 3 days, and now behave as though I am unreasonable for expecting communication.”
I gripped the edge of his desk.
“If you have changed your mind, say so. Do not make me feel irrational for expecting you to honor your words.”
“I have not changed my mind.”
He stood abruptly and came around the desk.
“I spent 3 days handling a threat that nearly became violent. I managed the consequences and kept you separate from the danger. That is not withdrawing. It is protection.”
“I do not require protection from reality. I require communication so I am not left wondering whether you are dead or merely decided I was not worth the trouble.”
My voice broke.
“1 message or conversation would have been sufficient. You could not manage even that because when circumstances become real, you withdraw and make yourself unreachable.”
“You’re right.”
The admission startled me.
“I handled it badly. Under stress, I returned to old habits. I separated every part of my life and excluded everyone. It was unfair. I’m sorry.”
The apology reduced some of my anger.
“You cannot promise to try and then disappear the 1st time something becomes difficult. That is not effort. It is sabotage.”
“I know.”
He ran a hand through his hair, revealing real agitation.
“I know I did exactly what you told me not to do. I did not withdraw because I stopped wanting you. I withdrew because the situation was dangerous, and my instinct was to keep you as far from it as possible.”
“You also left me believing you regretted everything the moment reality intervened. That is avoidance, not protection.”
“You’re right.”
He looked exhausted.
“I do not know how to balance involvement with you against the dangerous parts of my life. My instinct is to place you in a box labeled safe and civilian and prevent the other parts from contaminating it. That will not work if we are genuinely trying.”
“What will you do differently?”
“I will communicate. I will tell you when I am handling something rather than disappear. I will not assume you will accept silence simply because I am accustomed to operating alone.”
He came closer, and I saw dark shadows beneath his eyes.
“I will stop punishing both of us because I cannot manage emotions like a functional adult.”
“That is a beginning.”
My anger softened.
“When did you last sleep?”
“Friday night in the chair.”
“That does not count.”
His hand moved gently along my jaw.
“I have been functioning on adrenaline and coffee for 3 days.”
“What happened with the competitor?”
“Someone believed he could take territory while I was outside the city. He was wrong. I corrected the misunderstanding in a way that will not require repetition.”
His voice became flat and clinical.
“No 1 died. Several people were encouraged to relocate their operations. The message was understood.”
“You describe threatening people into leaving town as though it were an ordinary Tuesday.”
“It is what I do. I stopped feeling guilty years ago when I understood guilt does not change necessity.”
He watched me carefully.
“Does knowing what I’m capable of disturb you?”
“I don’t know. In theory, yes. In practice, I’m too relieved that you returned alive to examine the ethical implications of your crisis-management methods.”
I studied him.
“You need actual sleep. The work can survive without you for several hours.”
“I have been gone for 3 days. Matters accumulate.”
“Those matters can wait. In your profession, exhaustion causes dangerous mistakes.”
I used logic because emotion was unlikely to persuade him.
“Go home. Sleep. Return tomorrow as a functioning person.”
“You are very commanding for someone I employ.”
Warmth entered his voice.
“Somebody needs to manage you.”
I pushed him toward the door.
“I’ll complete the quarterly reports and reschedule anything urgent. Go before I call Marco and tell him you require intervention.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Test me. I have no objection to using your best friend as a weapon to preserve your life.”
He reluctantly moved toward the exit.
“Sleep and send me a message when you wake so I know you remain alive.”
“Commanding.”
He nearly smiled.
“Fine. I will sleep and contact you. We will continue discussing boundaries when I can form coherent thoughts.”
“Good.”
He paused at the door.
“I meant what I said on Friday. I want to try. I’m simply very bad at it. Be patient while I learn not to destroy this whenever stress appears.”
“I can be patient. I will not be a doormat.”
“I understand.”
“And thank you for apologizing. It matters.”
He looked back at me, then left.
6 hours later, my phone vibrated.
Dante: Slept for 5 hours. I’m still terrible at this, but willing to continue if you are. You were also correct about sleep. I’m functional rather than a corpse. Thank you for forcing the issue.
Me: Somebody needs to stop you from destroying yourself. It might as well be me, since I’m invested in your survival now.
His reply came immediately.
Dante: I’m fortunate to have someone invested in my survival who is also unafraid to confront my nonsense. I should probably be more grateful.
Me: You should. I’m delightful, patient, and willing to tolerate your emotional constipation. That combination is rare.
Dante: Noted. Dinner tomorrow. A real date, not business or family obligation. Only us attempting to behave like normal people.
Me: We are not normal, but yes. You are paying because you are wealthy and I deserve compensation for managing your self-destructive tendencies.
Dante: Agreed. I’ll collect you at 7:00. Wear something appropriate. I’m taking you somewhere that requires effort.
Me: Commanding.
Dante: You enjoy it.
He was correct, though I refused to admit it.
The following evening, dinner was perfect until it was not.
Dante arrived precisely at 7:00 wearing a dark suit that probably cost more than my monthly rent. He took me to a restaurant I had seen only in magazines describing places ordinary people could not afford.
We were led immediately to a private table overlooking the city.
For 2 hours, I nearly forgot that dating Dante involved complications beyond ordinary relationship difficulties.
We discussed books, music, and childhood memories unrelated to grief. We spoke about his sister Sofia and her husband, Marco, and the offensive happiness they shared. We discussed my failed teaching career, Dante’s complicated feelings toward his empire, Italian neorealist cinema, and his conviction that pineapple on pizza was a crime against humanity.
“You’re staring,” he said.
He appeared relaxed in a way I rarely witnessed.
“I’m appreciating. There is a difference.”
I smiled across my wine.
“You are different tonight. Less guarded. I like seeing you this way.”
“Almost human?”
Warmth accompanied the words.
“I’m trying to remain open and present. It is less terrifying than expected when I’m with you.”
“I’m honored. Few people see Dante Moretti relaxed enough to debate film theory and confess his pizza opinions.”
I leaned closer.
“For the record, I defend pineapple on pizza. I am prepared to die on that hill.”
“Absolutely not. I refuse to become romantically involved with someone possessing such objectively appalling taste.”
He failed to conceal his smile.
“This is irreconcilable. We are finished. I will have my people prepare the separation documents.”
“Your people? You have attorneys assigned to breakups?”
I laughed.
“That is both absurd and completely consistent with your personality.”
“I have lawyers for every circumstance. Contracts, hostile acquisitions, and pizza-related dissolution of relationships.”
His smile became unguarded.
“I would prefer not to employ them in this matter. Despite your horrifying preferences, I find you surprisingly tolerable.”
“Tolerable. The romance is overwhelming.”
I pressed a hand theatrically against my chest.
“I’m learning. With time, I may advance to describing you as pleasant or moderately enjoyable.”
He took my hand across the table.
“For now, accept tolerable and the fact that I’m making a significant effort not to sabotage this despite every instinct insisting that I eventually will.”
“That sounds like a self-fulfilling prophecy. If you continue expecting failure, you will create it to prove yourself correct.”
My thumb moved across his knuckles.
“Try believing we are competent adults who can navigate complications without everything collapsing.”
“A revolutionary concept. Trust rather than assumed disaster.”
Softness appeared in his expression.
“You are good for me. You force me to question patterns I have maintained for 15 years. It is unpleasant and probably necessary.”
“I’m glad you are uncomfortable. Change usually requires it.”
I squeezed his hand.
“Now explain again why you believe Fellini is overrated.”
His phone rang while we were debating cinema.
He looked at the screen. The relaxed man vanished.
“I need to answer.”
I released his hand as he transformed into the man who controlled a shadowed empire.
He spoke in Italian, his voice clipped and his expression darkening by the second.
When the call ended, he stood immediately.
“We need to leave.”
“What happened?”
I gathered my things and followed him.
“There is a situation at 1 of my properties. Somebody made a move he should not have made. I need to deal with it.”
He placed cash on the table without counting it.
“The car is outside. I’m taking you home first.”
“I can take a taxi. You should manage the emergency.”
“That is not negotiable.”
His hand rested against my lower back as he guided me outside.
“Trust me.”
We had driven halfway to my apartment when his phone rang again. He answered immediately, listened, spoke sharply in Italian, and turned the car in another direction.
“Plans have changed. I cannot take you home. It isn’t safe. You are coming with me.”
“Where? What is happening?”
Fear began rising through me.
“Dante, you’re frightening me.”
“Somebody targeted 1 of my warehouses. He expected the building to be empty. It was not. There was a confrontation and gunfire. 1 of my men was injured.”
His hands tightened on the steering wheel.
“The attackers mentioned you by name.”
My blood became cold.
“They know about you. They referred to Moretti’s new girlfriend and threatened to send a message through you if I did not abandon their territory. They have been watching. They know about the hotel, dinner, and us.”
His voice was ice.
“You are not going home alone. You will remain with me where I can protect you.”
“What will you do?”
“What I always do when someone threatens what belongs to me. I will make certain he understands the consequences.”
He drove into a private underground garage beneath a building I did not recognize.
We took an elevator to a modern penthouse that was unmistakably his. It was expensive and minimally decorated. 2 large, armed men waited inside.
“Stay here with them,” Dante ordered. “Do not leave or answer the door. Wait until I return.”
“You are leaving me with armed strangers while you go somewhere dangerous?”
“You are supposed to remain alive. That is all I need from you now.”
He held my face between his hands.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry this is happening and that I brought you into it. You are safe here. These men work for me and will protect you with their lives.”
“I trust you. I’m afraid something will happen to you while you are ensuring nothing happens to me.”
The words escaped without restraint.
“Be careful. Return.”
“I will.”
He kissed me quickly and forcefully.
“I always do. Remain here. Do not do anything brave or foolish.”
Then he was gone.
The 2 men introduced themselves as Luca and Antonio. Both spoke heavily accented English and positioned themselves near the windows and door as though expecting an assault.
I sat on the sofa and tried to understand how we had moved from laughing about pizza to hiding in a secure penthouse because someone had threatened me.
This was what Dante’s world looked like when danger ceased to be theoretical.
3 hours passed.
Luca prepared coffee I did not drink. Antonio repeatedly examined his phone. They spoke only when necessary.
At 11:00 p.m., my phone rang from an unidentified number.
I nearly ignored it, then answered because the silence had become unbearable.
“Miss Rossi.”
The male voice was unfamiliar.
“We need to discuss your boyfriend.”
Every nerve in my body became alert.
“Who is this?”
“Someone trying to help you understand what you have entered. Dante Moretti is dangerous and violent. He has done things that would horrify you. Now you are a target because of him.”
“You are the people who threatened me.”
It was not a question.
“You are attempting to use me against him.”
“We are trying to save your life. Moretti will use you until you cease being useful and then dispose of you like everyone else who approaches him. We have documentation of his operations and evidence of what he has done. We can show you and help you escape before you become collateral damage.”
“Let me be clear. I’m not interested in your evidence, protection, or anything else you are offering. You threatened me and placed me in danger. If you believe a telephone call will persuade me to betray him, you know nothing about me.”
“You’re making a mistake.”
The voice hardened.
“He will get you killed. Perhaps not tonight, but eventually. That is the price of standing beside a man like him. You become a liability, and he eliminates liabilities.”
“Then I will accept the risk.”
I ended the call, my hands shaking.
Luca approached immediately.
“Who was it?”
“Somebody claiming Dante will get me killed and offering protection. He says he possesses evidence of Dante’s crimes.”
“They are attempting to separate you. It is a standard manipulation. Make you doubt him, then exploit the vulnerability. Do not respond. Tell Dante when he returns.”
“Tell me what?”
Dante’s voice came from the doorway.
I turned.
He stood there covered in blood.
I hoped desperately that it did not belong to him.
“You’re bleeding.”
I moved toward him.
“Are you injured? Do you need a hospital?”
“It is not my blood. I’m unharmed.”
His eyes moved between Luca and me.
“What occurred?”
I told him about the call.
His expression became completely dark.
“They contacted you directly while you were inside my secure residence under my protection?”
His voice became lethally quiet.
“Did they threaten you?”
“They attempted manipulation. They said you would eventually get me killed and offered to show me evidence.”
I examined him for injuries despite his assurances.
“I told them I would take my chances with you.”
Surprise and relief moved across his face.
“You defended me to the people attempting to turn you against me.”
“Of course. You spent 3 hours dealing with a crisis to protect me. I am not so easily manipulated.”
He pulled me against him despite the blood.
“You are loyal, brave, and trusting me despite having reasons not to. That is either extremely foolish or extremely generous.”
“Probably both. I have poor judgment regarding dangerous men.”
I held him tightly, unconcerned about the blood.
“Did you resolve it?”
“Yes. The message was delivered. It will not happen again.”
His voice was flat and final.
“The people who threatened you understand that touching you carries consequences they are unwilling to face. You are safe.”
“What does resolved mean? What did you do?”
“Nothing you need described. The threat has been neutralized.”
He pulled back.
“I lost control tonight. Somebody spoke your name as a threat, and I ceased thinking rationally. My people and my entire organization saw it. Everyone knows you are my weakness—the point at which I stop calculating and become something else.”
“Is that a problem?”
“A reality we must manage. At this moment, I only care that you are safe and remained here rather than fleeing when the danger became real.”
His forehead touched mine.
“I’m sorry for bringing this into your life and making you a target.”
“I’m frightened, but I’m not sorry.”
I held his face.
“Now take a shower. You are covered in blood. Afterward, we will discuss what happens next and how to manage the fact that everyone knows I matter to you.”
“Commanding.”
He smiled.
“I like it.”
“You should. I’m not leaving. You are stuck with me now.”
We did not leave the penthouse that night.
Dante showered for 20 minutes while I sat on the sofa processing the threats, the blood, and his casual description of neutralizing people as though it were a routine evening activity.
When he emerged wearing only sleep pants, I saw scars across his torso like a map of violence I did not understand.
He caught me staring.
“Occupational hazards. 15 years of constructing an empire through methods that do not comply with workplace-safety regulations.”
He spoke as though discussing the weather.
“Most are old. A few are recent. None matters.”
“They all matter.”
I stood and approached.
“Each represents a moment when something might have ended differently and you might not have returned.”
“But I did. Every time. I am very good at survival.”
His hand caught mine before I touched a scar near his ribs.
“Don’t. You do not want those stories.”
“What if I do? What if I want every part of you—the good, terrible, and everything between?”
I looked up at him.
“You continue trying to protect me from reality, but I’m already inside it. I am already involved and already a target. I might as well understand what I am confronting.”
After a long silence, he released my hand.
“Fine. You want the stories?”
He touched the scar along his ribs.
“This happened when I was 17. A rival family decided the best way to communicate with my father’s old associates was to target his orphaned son. There were 3 men and 1 knife. I survived. They did not. I learned that mercy is expensive and violence is effective.”
I did not look away.
He touched his shoulder.
“This was when I was 22. A business partner decided he would rather kill me than honor our agreement. He shot me. I survived. Eventually, he did not. His death was slow. I learned to verify loyalty before trusting it.”
May you like
I touched the scar near his collarbone before he could stop me.
“And this?”
Related Stories
