Only her typing breaks the silence—sharp bursts of sound in the heavy air.
She’s on the couch, laptop balanced on her knees, hair falling loose from the messy knot she tied it in earlier. Every few minutes, she tucks a strand behind her ear without noticing. It shouldn’t be distracting. It is.
I’ve spent my life surrounded by noise—meetings, orders, gunfire. But this silence? This soft rhythm of her presence in my space? It’s worse.
I try to focus on the files in front of me. I don’t. I keep looking at her instead.
“Do you ever stop staring?” she asks, eyes still on her screen.
“Do you ever stop provoking me?”
She glances up, one brow raised. “Depends. Is it working?”
I don’t answer. She smiles to herself like she’s already won.
The corner of my mouth twitches before I can stop it. “You think this is a game, Bella?”
She shrugs, pretending to be busy. “Everything’s a game, Dante. You happen to be better at the dangerous kind.”
“Careful,” I murmur. “You’re in my game now.”
Her eyes lift to meet mine. Whatever she was going to say disappears on her tongue. The air shifts, the space between us charged again.
An hour passes—maybe more. We sit side by side on the couch now—her laptop open, my notes spread beside her. Close enough that our knees brush when we move.
She doesn’t pull away.
“You always this quiet when you work?” she asks softly.
“Quiet keeps me alive.”
“That why you never smile?”
I look at her, and for a second, she seems sorry for asking. Then she doesn’t. That’s what I like about her—she never takes it back.
“Smiling doesn’t fix anything,” I say.
“No,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “But sometimes it helps you remember what’s worth fixing.”
I look away first. Because if I don’t, I’ll do something I can’t undo.
She leans over my notes, shoulder brushing mine. “You write in pen?”
“Pencil smudges.”
“Of course,” she mutters. “God forbid the Don of New York smudge something.”
“God has nothing to do with me.”
Her eyes lift, a spark in them. “You sure?”
I’m not sure of anything when she looks at me like that.
At some point, the coffee turns cold, the city fades into night, and she’s still beside me. Her laughter—low, unexpected—fills the room when I make a dry comment about one of the names in her notes.
She covers her mouth like she isn’t used to laughing. I don’t think she is.
“You should do that more,” I say before I can stop myself.
