The hours dragged on, weighed down by a thick silence broken only by the distant ticking of a clock.

Svetlana sat on the edge of the bed, knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around them.

She was thinking about Dante—about his dark, piercing eyes, the way he’d held her with that volatile mix of fury and desire in every movement.

Damn it.

She didn’t want to think about him, yet her mind betrayed her over and over again.

Across the house, Dante found no rest either.

He had poured himself a double whiskey, but the burn in his throat did nothing to silence the storm within.

His desire for Svetlana was consuming him, driving him mad.

And he couldn’t allow that.

He couldn’t afford to be weak.

Laughter echoed in the hallway—feminine, light, suggestive—accompanied by the sharp click of heels against the marble floor.

Svetlana stiffened instantly, her whole body on alert.

She slipped toward the door, pressing her ear to the wood, holding her breath.

"Move along, girls. The signore do