Chapter 4: Blood in the Water
The Obsidian Club hadn't changed.
Five years had passed, and yet everything about it felt frozen in time—same slick marble floors, same pulsing bass, same lingering scent of luxury and lust. But this time, Evelyn wasn't there for temptation.
She was there for survival.
She'd spent years keeping her distance, building a quiet life far from Dante Moretti's shadow. But fate had dragged her back to the city—and like a curse waiting to be triggered, it didn't take long before she found herself walking back into the last place she should ever be.
And now, he was staring at her.
Dante Moretti stood at the heart of the club like it belonged to him. Because it did. Impeccably dressed in black, his presence cut through the crowd like a blade. No one got too close. No one dared to look too long.
Except her.
Evelyn hadn't meant to look. But her eyes found him the moment she stepped in. And now he was moving—crossing the club with the slow, deliberate stride of a man who feared nothing and owned everything.
Panic surged through her. She turned, ready to leave.
Too late.
A hand gripped her wrist—firm, unshakable. The scent of him hit her instantly: smoke, spice, sin. Her pulse spiked.
"You've got a hell of a nerve showing up here." His voice was rough silk. Low. Dangerous.
Evelyn forced herself to look up at him, despite the way her knees trembled. "Let me go, Dante."
His dark eyes narrowed. "I buried you five years ago."
"I didn't die."
"No." His gaze dropped to her lips. "You just disappeared after f***ing me and stealing something."
Her breath caught. "I didn't steal anything."
His grip tightened just enough to remind her who he was. "Lies don't look good on you, Evelyn."
People were watching now, but no one moved. No one interfered with Dante Moretti's business.
She tried to twist free. "Let me go, or I swear—"
A scream tore through the air.
Evelyn jolted as a gunshot echoed across the club floor. A man staggered by the bar, blood blooming across his chest. Chaos exploded—screams, glass shattering, bodies dropping to the ground.
Dante didn't flinch. His eyes were still on her.
"You walked in here like a ghost," he said coolly. "But ghosts don't bleed."
Moretti's men surged through the room, locking the place down. Evelyn's heart pounded as the lights shifted and sirens in the distance wailed. She should've run earlier. Should've known this place would only ever end in ruin.
"I'm not your enemy, Dante," she whispered.
"Then stop acting like one."
His voice was low but laced with fury. And suspicion.
"You're hiding something," he added. "And I'm done playing games."
He reached for his phone, issued a quick command.
"Take her upstairs."
Her eyes widened. "What are you doing?"
"Finding out what the hell you're running from."
As she was pulled away, something slipped from her coat pocket—a manila folder.
It hit the ground, pages sliding free.
Dante knelt slowly, eyes catching on a photo that had fallen face-up on the floor.
Two boys.
Twins.
Dark hair. Sharp cheekbones. Black eyes.
His eyes.
His blood froze.
His world tilted.
Evelyn was already being dragged up the stairs—but Dante didn't follow.
He was still staring at the photograph.