Chapter 5 - The Master of the House
Avery slowly straightened up from the table, shielding Enzo behind her leg with protective instinct.
The footsteps on the stone stairs grew closer, heavy and unhurried.
Dante stepped out of the shadows of the stairwell, his tall silhouette framed by the harsh amber emergency lights. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket; his white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, and the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle and faint scars.
His dark eyes weren't looking at Enzo. They were locked entirely on Avery’s face.
“Dad!” Enzo piped up from behind Avery’s skirt, his voice trembling slightly. “Don't be mad at her! I found the secret door, and I wanted to show her the tunnels!”
Dante didn't look down at his son. His gaze remained pinned to Avery, cold and sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel.
“Go upstairs to your room, Enzo,” Dante said softly. His voice didn't rise in volume, but the absolute authority in it made the hair on the back of Avery’s neck stand up.
“But Dad—”
“I said, go to your room. Mrs. Higgins will meet you at the top of the stairs.”
Enzo looked up at Avery, his eyes wide with fear. Avery gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Go ahead, buddy. I’ll be up in a few minutes.”
Reluctantly, Enzo turned and scurried past his father, his sneakers clicking rapidly against the stone steps as he fled upward into the safety of the house.
The heavy iron door clicked shut above them, leaving Avery and Dante alone in the cavernous underground archives.
The silence between them was thick enough to suffocate in.
Dante walked slowly toward the wooden table, his boots ringing on the concrete floor. He stopped two feet away from her, towering over her in the dim light.
“You have a remarkable talent for finding things that do not belong to you,” Dante said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.
Avery didn't back down. She held up the photograph she had found in the red binder.
“Who is this, Mr. Mancini?” she asked, her voice steady despite the adrenaline hammering against her ribs. “Who is the man standing on the porch? And what does ‘He is coming back’ mean?”
Dante looked down at the photograph in her hand. For a fraction of a second, a muscle twitched in his jaw, and a shadow of profound, exhausting grief passed across his face—gone so fast she almost thought she imagined it.
Then his expression hardened back into solid granite.
“That photograph was taken ten years ago,” Dante said coldly. “Before any of this started. Before my wife died.”
“Your wife died,” Avery repeated, her eyes narrowing. “That’s what the agency report said. An accidental drowning off the coast of Long Island.”
Dante let out a harsh, bitter laugh—a sound with no humor in it whatsoever.
“An accident. That’s what the police report called it. That’s what the newspapers printed so the public could sleep peacefully at night.”
“And the truth?” Avery asked, stepping closer to him, refusing to be intimidated by his size or his anger. “What’s the truth, Dante?”
Hearing her use his first name made him flinch slightly. He reached out with blinding speed, his hand shooting out to snatch the photograph from her fingers. He slipped it into his trouser pocket as if banishing it back to the underworld.
“The truth is none of your damn business,” Dante snapped, his control finally cracking around the edges. “You are a nanny I hired forty-two hours ago to keep three boys from destroying my furniture. You are not an investigator, you are not a detective, and you are certainly not part of my life.”
“I’m living in your house!” Avery fired back, her own temper finally igniting. “My daughter is sleeping in your nursery suite! Every man standing outside with a gun is guarding my door just as much as yours! If there’s someone coming back—someone dangerous enough to make you write warnings on old photographs—I have a right to know if my child is sitting in the crossfire!”
Dante stepped forward so fast she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. His chest was nearly touching hers. She could feel the radiating heat of his body, smell the sharp, clean scent of cedar and gunpowder.
“Nobody is touching your daughter,” Dante said, his voice dropping into a fierce, absolute growl that vibrated through her entire body. “I protect what is mine. And while you are under my roof, that includes you and Mia.”
“Then stop treating me like an intruder you caught trying to steal the silver,” Avery whispered, her breath catching slightly as she realized how close they were standing. “If you want me to help your boys heal, I need to know what broke them. Otherwise, we’re all just playing dress-up in a haunted house.”
Dante stared down at her, his dark eyes searching her face with an intensity that felt like a physical touch. His jaw was clenched so hard she could see the bone pressing against his skin.
For five seconds, ten seconds, neither of them moved.
The tension between them was no longer about secrets or security; it was a raw, sparking wire of awareness that had been building since the moment she walked through the front doors and caught a flying porcelain vase.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, Dante raised his hand.
For a terrifying second, Avery thought he was going to grab her arm. Instead, his large, calloused fingers brushed a stray strand of blonde hair away from her forehead, tucking it gently behind her ear.
His fingertips lingered against her skin for a heartbeat too long.
“Your forty-eight hours are up tomorrow morning at ten o'clock, Miss Parker,” Dante murmured, his voice softening into something dangerous and low. “The money will be wired to your account the second the clock strikes. You are free to take your daughter and walk out those gates.”
Avery swallowed hard, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
“And if I don't want to leave?” she whispered before she could stop herself.
May you like
Dante’s eyes flared with a dark, hungry heat that sent a shiver straight down her spine.
“Then God help us both,” he said softly.
