The city still slept when Isabella woke, the faint light of dawn dripping like gold through the silk curtains of Dante’s penthouse. The air between them was thick, charged — the remnants of the night before still clinging to her skin like a whisper of sin and salvation.

Dante was already awake. He sat by the window shirtless, the morning light tracing every curve of muscle, every scar that told a story of pain, survival, and power. A tumbler of whiskey rested on the armrest, untouched, his gaze fixed on the skyline of New York — brooding, unreadable.

Isabella stirred beneath the sheets, her voice soft. “You didn’t sleep?”

He...