EMILIO'S POV
Emilio's heart jolted at the sight of Dante standing in front of his house, his figure cloaked in night shadows and moonlight. His first thought was disbelief—how long had Dante been there? Standing. Waiting.
He turned to Rossi. "Take him home."
Rossi looked confused. "Boss?"
"Rossi. Take him home. Now."
Milan clutched Emilio's arm, clearly unwilling to leave. "Wait—who is that? Emilio, who the hell is that man?"
Emilio ignored him. His eyes never left Dante. "Rossi. Now."
Rossi gave a hesitant nod and began coaxing Milan toward the car. Milan protested, casting one last confused glance at Dante before the car pulled away, taillights fading into the street.
Now alone, Emilio stepped toward Dante. "What do you want? It's the middle of the night."
"No different from when you walked out on me," Dante shot back. His voice was sharp, unforgiving. "You leave my house like it meant nothing, and minutes later you're wrapped up with someone else?"
Emilio scoffed, seething. "You must be out of your damn mind."
He turned and made for his front door, but Dante followed, his footsteps angry and close.
They moved in together in the quiet of his sitting room.
"That's how it is now? Just fuck the next person that gives you attention?" Dante snapped.
Without thinking, Emilio turned and slapped him—hard. The sound cracked in the air.
Dante froze.
Emilio raised his hand again, but Dante caught both wrists and held them tightly. They struggled, Emilio, writhing in his grip.
"Let go of me!"
But Dante didn't. His jaw was clenched, eyes blazing. Emilio had seen Dante cold, indifferent, even amused. But never like this. Never this furious. Never this unhinged.
It scared him.
"Stop... Stop!" Emilio gasped, breathing hard. His heart pounded violently in his chest. "You're scaring me."
Something in Dante's expression shifted. Guilt flashed behind the rage. He released Emilio's wrists and took a step back, breath heaving.
Emilio stumbled away, wiping his face as tears began to spill.
"I hate you," he whispered, voice cracking. "I hate you so much. I can't fucking believe this."
Dante said nothing. He just stood there, hands clenched at his sides as if fighting with himself.
When Emilio turned to go inside, Dante grabbed his arms again, this time less forcefully, but firm enough to stop him.
"Don't walk away," Dante said. "Not until you answer me."
"Let go of me! What do you want now?!"
"I want to know—" Dante's voice broke, but he pushed on. "Is this what you do? Find someone, make them think you care, then toss them the second it gets complicated?"
"I don't know," Emilio replied bitterly, eyes still wet.
"Answer me!" Dante's voice cracked with fury, raw and desperate all at once.
"No!" Emilio cut in quickly, almost shouting. "No, Dante."
Silence fell between them. Emilio's breathing was still ragged, but he was trying to calm himself. The tension cracked around them like lightning.
Then Dante moved—fast, deliberate.
He yanked Emilio toward him, their bodies slamming together, his erection pressing hard against Emilio's lower body.
Emilio froze, his chest rising and falling against Dante's, too stunned to pull away.
Dante leaned in close. His breath was hot against Emilio's ear as he hissed, "You're lying."
In one swift motion, Dante spun him around and slammed him against the sitting room wall, his body pressing in close. Strong hands gripping Emilio's arms, forcing Emilio's ass against his thick cock.
Dante shoved down Emilio's trousers, his bare ass popping out, Emilio let him. Dante unzipped his trouser, his hardened members sprung out and poke between Emilio's ass.
"That thing you wanted to do to him," Dante whispered, his voice low and dangerous, "you'll do it to me. Now."
Blood surged to Emilio's face, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it echoed in his skin. He struggled against Dante's grip, trying to wrench himself free, but Dante didn't budge. He held Emilio tighter—firm, unyielding refusing to let him.
"I wasn't planning to do anything to anybody," Emilio snapped, his voice shaking with fury and something else he couldn't name.
Dante spit on his hands with the other and his finger slid into Emilio's hole.
Emilio tensed, his breath hitching sharply. A sound escaped his lips—soft, unwilling—a moan that betrayed him before he could hold it back.
It fingered his hole for a while before he slid his cock inside it gently but steadily. " oh god, it feels so good" Dante moaned.
It wasn't just Dante who felt the rush of it—it lit something in Emilio too. It felt too good, too real. His body betrayed him, pushing back as Dante thrust into him firm but steady.
Emilio's release came so fast, a while later Dante pressed against him moaning as his release poured between Emilio's ass.
"Emilio, I can't stop this," Dante rasped, his voice raw with desperation.
Emilio turned.
Their eyes locked—and for the first time tonight, Dante's expression wasn't cold or angry. The harsh edge had vanished, replaced by something raw and conflicted. His brows were drawn, lips parted like he was searching for words he couldn't find.
Emilio didn't need them.
With a sudden breath, he stepped forward and slid his arms around the broad man's frame, hugging him tightly, his head burying into Dante's shoulder. Their naked lower pants pressing against each other,
Emilio's chest heaved with uneven breaths, the contact grounding him.
And just like that... he had forgiven him.
All the yelling, the accusations, the pain—dissolved in the space between that look and this embrace. It didn't make sense. It probably never would. But Emilio had always had a soft spot when it came to Dante.
Maybe it was the way he followed him home, the way he showed up when he wasn't supposed to. Maybe it was the way his anger looked too close to heartbreak. Whatever it was, it melted him the moment he stepped out of the car.
He just needed to understand Dante.
Maybe Dante was still trying to understand himself too.
Then Emilio slid his hand into Dante's, his eyes sultry and sure. "Come here," he said, voice low and persuasive, tugging him toward the bedroom. Dante followed like a man entranced, with no resistance, no questions—just drawn to him, utterly and completely.