He Killed My Papa, Then Told Me He Loved Me

Dante didn't come back all night.

The day I threw those photos in his face, he had his men confiscate them all.

But he didn't know that besides the prints, Chloe had also sent me a digital copy.

Chloe’s pitiful act was just that—an act. She was far from the innocent girl Dante believed her to be.

Throughout the long, lonely night, I sat at my computer, meticulously examining the photos.

In the images, even in the throes of passion, Dante's eyes were filled with a startling tenderness and restraint.

It was as if he feared the slightest bit more force might hurt the woman beneath him.

In our five years together, I had never seen such a gentle expression on his face.

In bed, Dante was a frenzied storm, as if he wanted to consume me, to crush my very bones.

But the tenderness on the face of the man in those photos was terrifyingly unfamiliar.

Just then, my phone chimed with a text message. It was a picture of a tattoo: a black rose, exquisite and bewitching.

"I just mentioned I liked it, and Dante had the tattoo of your name covered up. He said he wanted something new."

"Sorry, but this patch of skin belongs to me now. It has nothing to do with you anymore."

I froze. At that exact moment, the door opened. It was Dante.

I closed the file on my computer and quickly locked my phone screen.

Dante strode over to me, leaning down to press a kiss to my cheek.

"Why are you still awake? Waiting for me?"

I didn't answer, my gaze fixed on his chest.

He once had my name, "Elara," tattooed there.

He had sworn he would be mine forever.

I shifted away, creating a sliver of distance between us.

"Your shirt button is undone."

Using it as an excuse, my fingertips nonchalantly brushed his collar aside, revealing the black rose.

Dante’s expression didn't flicker. He casually loosened his tie.

"Felt like a change. I had the artist rework it."

I remained silent, my mind reeling.

Five years ago, when he rescued me from that high-end club in Las Vegas, he wasn't the Don yet, but he was already a force to be reckoned with in New York's underworld.

He brought me back to New York. He gave me a home.

Then, he had my name tattooed over his heart.

"Elara, I, Dante Costello, will never betray you in this life."

"Anyone who wants to hurt you will have to step over my dead body."

But now, a black rose bloomed where my name used to be, with no trace of "Elara" left.

I looked up at Dante, a sudden, cold resolve hardening within me.

"Dante, let's get married."

"I want to be your wife. I want to be officially acknowledged by the Costello family."

Dante froze, clearly caught off guard.

In five years, I had never once asked for a title.

He recovered quickly, feigning a casual air as he ruffled my hair.

"Alright, stop fooling around. I'm going to take a shower."

With that, he turned and disappeared into the bathroom.

It was just a test. I didn't get a direct answer, but his evasion was the loudest one he could have given.

For the next few days, Dante spent most of his time at home.

We both wordlessly agreed to avoid the topic of that woman and of marriage.

Until the fourth day, when Dante happened to be out.

I hadn't held a gun in a while, and I was itching for the familiar weight in my hand, so I went to my private shooting range.

I was fully focused, aiming down the sights at the target, when a voice purred beside my ear.

"Miss Elara certainly has a lot of free time. Still in the mood for target practice, are we?"

"I heard Miss Elara was once a princess of the Russian Volkov family."

"So why are you so shamelessly clinging to a man now? Quite a fall from grace."

I lowered my gun and turned to look at Chloe.

Her face was a mask of triumph, all traces of the other day's timidity gone.

Her acting skills were truly a sight to behold.

I took off my safety goggles and studied her for a long moment before letting out a sneer.

"You heard him that day. He's the one who won't let me go. So tell me, Miss Chloe, who's the one shamelessly clinging here?"