Chapter 10: Rain, Rooftop, and a Ring
The club was called Elysium, which was pretentious as hell, but Dante had been a member for six years and the maître d' knew better than to ask questions when he called ahead and requested the rooftop terrace be cleared for the night.
Val stood under the awning, watching the rain come down in sheets.
The city sprawled beneath them like a living thing, all those lights pulsing and flickering through the storm. From fifty floors up, Manhattan looked almost peaceful. Almost innocent.
"You're going to catch a cold," Dante said behind her.
"I don't get colds."
"Everyone gets colds."
"Not me." She turned, and the wind caught her hair, whipping dark curls across her face. "I'm immune."
"To colds?"
"To weakness in general."
Dante laughed. He was standing by the marble table, a bottle of Glenfiddich 30 in one hand, two crystal glasses in the other. The gas lantern flickered between them, casting his face in alternating planes of gold and shadow.
God, he was beautiful.
Not in the pretty way that some men were beautiful—all sharp cheekbones and soft lips and easy smiles. Dante was beautiful the way a storm was beautiful. Dangerous. Overwhelming. The kind of thing that made you want to run for cover even as you stood transfixed.
He'd shed his jacket when they arrived, leaving him in a black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. The tattoos on his forearms caught the light—intricate patterns of thorns and flames that told stories she'd never asked him to explain.
"You're staring," he said.
"You're worth staring at."
"I meant you're staring at the whiskey."
"That too."
He poured. The liquid caught the lantern light, glowing amber and gold. Val took the glass he offered, their fingers brushing in the exchange.
She didn't pull away.
Neither did he.
"Sit with me," he said.
They settled into the chairs facing the city, the table between them, the rain a constant percussion against the awning above. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn't uncomfortable—it was the kind of silence that came from years of knowing someone, of understanding that words weren't always necessary.
Val sipped her scotch.
It was perfect. Smoky and smooth, with hints of honey and peat and something darker underneath. The kind of whiskey that cost more than most people made in a month.
"You remembered," she said.
"Of course I remembered."
"It's been ten years."
"I know exactly how long it's been." Dante's voice was quiet, almost contemplative. "Three thousand, six hundred and forty-two days."
Val's hand paused halfway to her lips.
"You're not serious."
"I'm always serious about you."
She looked at him then. Really looked. The green eyes that had haunted her dreams for a decade. The jaw that clenched when he was holding something back. The way his thumb traced the rim of his glass, a nervous habit he'd never been able to break.
"Why now?" she asked.
"Why what now?"
"Why are you doing this? The rooftop. The whiskey. The..." She gestured vaguely at the lantern, the cleared terrace, the entire production. "All of this."
Dante set down his glass.
"Because I wasted ten years," he said. "Ten years of pretending I didn't want you. Ten years of watching you walk into rooms and forgetting how to breathe. Ten years of telling myself that friendship was enough, that having you in my life in any capacity was better than risking everything for something more."
"And?"
"And I was wrong." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I was a coward. I let you go because I was afraid—of my father, of the families, of what it would mean to love someone who could destroy me."
Val's throat tightened.
"Can I destroy you?"
"You already have." His smile was crooked, almost sad. "The question is whether you'll stick around to watch me rebuild."
She didn't answer.
Couldn't.
Instead, she drank. The scotch burned going down, a welcome distraction from the ache in her chest.
"I don't know how to do this," she admitted.
"Do what?"
"Be... open." The word felt foreign in her mouth. "I've spent my whole life building walls. Keeping people out. It's how I survived. It's how I became what I am."
"I know."
"So how do you expect me to just... let you in?"
Dante stood.
He crossed to her chair, crouched down so they were eye level. The rain continued to fall, a silver curtain separating them from the world below.
"I don't expect anything," he said. "I'm not asking you to change. I'm not asking you to be someone you're not. I'm just asking you to let me stand beside you while you're being exactly who you are."
Val stared at him.
"That's it?"
"That's it."
"That's a very low bar."
"I know." He reached up, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "But I've learned to start small."
She caught his wrist.
His skin was warm against her fingers, the pulse beneath his skin steady and strong. She could feel the calluses on his palm—evidence of a life spent doing things that required strength, precision, the willingness to get his hands dirty.
"Dante."
"What?"
"I'm not good at this."
"Neither am I."
"You're a lot better at it than I am."
"Practice." His grin flashed, quick and bright. "I've spent ten years practicing what I'd say to you if I ever got the chance."
"And this is what you came up with? A rooftop and a bottle of whiskey?"
"It's a very good bottle of whiskey."
Val laughed.
It surprised them both—a real laugh, unguarded and warm. The kind of laugh that cracked through her carefully constructed facade like light through stained glass.
Dante's expression softened.
"There she is," he murmured.
"Stop."
"I'm serious. That's the woman I fell in love with. The one underneath all the armor."
Val released his wrist, but only so she could cup his face in both hands.
"You're infuriating," she said.
"I know."
"And sentimental."
"Also know."
"And you have terrible taste in clubs."
"Elysium is a perfectly respectable establishment."
"It's named after the Greek afterlife."
"Respectable and on-brand."
She kissed him.
Not hard. Not desperate. Just a soft press of lips against lips, a question asked and answered in the same breath.
When she pulled back, Dante's eyes were dark.
"I have something for you," he said.
"I thought the whiskey was the gift."
"The whiskey is a beverage. This is a gift."
He reached into his jacket—which was draped over the back of his chair—and produced a small velvet box.
Val's heart stopped.
"Dante—"
"It's not a ring." He held up the box, unopened. "Not yet. I told you I'm playing the long game."
"Then what is it?"
"Open it."
She took the box.
The velvet was soft beneath her fingers, the color of deep burgundy—her signature shade, she realized. He'd chosen it deliberately.
She opened the lid.
Inside, nestled on a bed of black silk, were a pair of cufflinks. Amber-colored, faceted like gemstones, catching the lantern light and throwing it back in warm, honeyed sparks.
They were the exact color of her eyes.
Val's breath caught.
"Dante."
"Do you like them?"
She couldn't speak.
Couldn't breathe.
No one had ever given her anything like this. Not her uncle, who'd seen her as an asset. Not her enemies, who'd tried to buy her loyalty with money and threats. Not any of the men who'd shared her bed, who'd seen her as a conquest or a curiosity or a challenge to be overcome.
No one had ever looked at her and seen something worth keeping.
"They're beautiful," she managed.
"They're a promise." Dante reached out, closed the box over the cufflinks, and pressed it into her palm. "A promise that I'm not going anywhere. A promise that when you're ready—when we've won, when we own this city, when the world finally makes sense—I'll ask you a question. And you can decide if you want to answer."
Val looked at the box in her hand.
Then she looked at him.
"You're asking me to wait."
"I'm asking you to trust me."
"I already trust you."
"Then trust me when I say that I'm not going anywhere." He stood, extended his hand. "Dance with me."
"There's no music."
"We don't need music."
She took his hand.
He pulled her to her feet, into his arms. The rain continued to fall, a symphony of water and wind. The lantern flickered, casting their shadows across the wet marble floor.
They swayed.
No rhythm. No pattern. Just two bodies moving together, finding their own tempo in the chaos of the storm.
"This is ridiculous," Val murmured against his chest.
"I know."
"We're standing in the rain."
"Technically, we're standing under an awning."
"The wind is blowing the rain sideways."
"I know."
"My suit is going to be ruined."
"I'll buy you a new one."
"This suit costs more than your car."
"I'll buy you two."
Val laughed again.
She was doing that a lot tonight. Laughing. Letting her guard down. Letting him in.
It was terrifying.
And exhilarating.
And she wanted more.
"Kiss me," she said.
Dante didn't need to be told twice.
His mouth found hers in the darkness, warm and sure. He tasted like whiskey and rain, like promises and patience. His hands slid down her back, settling on her hips, pulling her closer.
She melted into him.
The kiss deepened. His tongue traced her lower lip, asking permission. She granted it, parting her lips, letting him in.
The box fell from her fingers, forgotten.
The lantern guttered, the flame dancing wildly as the wind picked up.
Neither of them noticed.
Dante backed her against the railing, the metal cold through her jacket. She gasped at the contact, and he swallowed the sound, his mouth never leaving hers.
"I want you," he murmured against her lips.
"Here?"
"Here. Now. Always."
"We're on a rooftop."
"I know."
"Anyone could see."
"The terrace is cleared."
"The building across the street—"
"Has tinted windows."
Val pulled back, just enough to look at him.
His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. His hands on her hips were trembling slightly—not from cold, but from restraint.
He was holding back.
Waiting for her permission.
"Fuck it," she said.
Dante's grin was wolfish.
"I was hoping you'd say that."
He lifted her onto the railing.
Val's back hit the metal, her legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. The rain soaked through her jacket, through her shirt, through everything. She didn't care.
Dante's hands were everywhere.
Cupping her face. Skimming down her sides. Unbuttoning her jacket with practiced ease, pushing it off her shoulders so it fell to the wet marble below.
"Your jacket—"
"Forget the jacket."
He kissed her throat.
She tilted her head back, giving him access, and he took it—scraping his teeth along her pulse point, sucking hard enough to leave a mark.
"Possessive," she breathed.
"Always."
His hands found the buttons of her shirt.
He worked them open slowly, deliberately, kissing each inch of skin as it was revealed. The rain dripped from his hair, trailing down his face like tears.
Val tangled her fingers in his hair and pulled.
He groaned.
"I want you inside me," she said. "Now."
"Bossy."
"You love it."
"I do."
He undid his belt, and she watched him as he did it—watched his hands, his wrists, the dark head of his cock springing free from the constraints of his trousers. He was hard. Thick. Perfect.
She was already wet for him.
Dante positioned himself between her thighs, the rain-slicked railing slick beneath her. His cock nudged her entrance, and she shuddered.
"You have protection?" she asked.
"Always."
He sheathed himself with quick, practiced movements, then looked at her.
"Ready?"
"Just fuck me already."
He thrust inside her.
Val cried out—not from pain, but from the sheer overwhelming fullness of it. He was big. Bigger than she remembered, or maybe her memory had softened the details. He filled her completely, stretching her in ways that made her toes curl.
"Fuck," Dante groaned. "Fuck, you're tight."
"Move."
He moved.
Slow at first. Measured. Letting her adjust to the feel of him. The rain pounded against the awning, against the railing, against their bodies. The city sprawled below them, indifferent to the two people fucking on a rooftop high above.
"Harder," Val demanded.
He obliged.
His hips snapped forward, driving deep. She gasped, nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt. He fucked her like he meant it—like every thrust was a declaration, like every groan was a prayer.
"Look at me," he said.
She did.
His eyes were wild. Hungry. Desperate in a way she'd never seen before. Ten years of wanting, of waiting, of hiding what he felt—all of it poured into this moment.
"I love you," he said.
"I know."
"Say it back."
"Make me."
He fucked her harder.
The railing rattled. The lantern flickered. The wind screamed around them, and Val screamed with it—honest and raw and completely unguarded.
"I love you," she gasped. "Fuck, Dante, I love you."
His rhythm faltered.
Then he buried his face in her neck and drove into her so hard she saw stars.
The orgasm ripped through her like a storm.
She came with his name on her lips, with her legs locked around his waist, with the whole city burning below them. It was messy and beautiful and real.
Dante followed a moment later, groaning into her skin as he emptied himself inside her.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
The rain continued to fall.
The city continued to pulse.
The world continued to turn.
But something had shifted. Something fundamental. Something neither of them could undo.
Dante pulled back, just enough to look at her.
His face was soaked—from rain or sweat or both. His eyes were softer now. Vulnerable.
"That was—"
"If you say amazing, I'm pushing you off this rooftop."
"I was going to say overdue."
Val laughed.
She laughed, and she kissed him, and she held his face in her hands like he was something precious.
"The cufflinks are acceptable," she said.
"Just acceptable?"
"Don't push your luck."
He grinned.
"Ask me again in a year."
"Val—"
"A year." She looked at him, steady and sure. "When we own the world. When the families are under our thumb. When there's no one left standing who can tell us no. Ask me then."
Dante nodded slowly.
"A year," he agreed.
"Good."
He helped her down from the railing.
Her legs were shaky. Her suit was ruined. Her hair was a disaster.
She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt this alive.
Dante retrieved her jacket from the marble floor. It was soaked, but he helped her into it anyway, his hands gentle on her shoulders.
"Come on," he said. "Let's go home."
"Your place or mine?"
"Ours."
Val froze.
Dante met her gaze.
"I mean it," he said. "I want you to move in. Not because I'm trying to tie you down, not because I need you to belong to me. But because I'm tired of waking up without you. I'm tired of saying goodbye. I'm tired of pretending that sharing a bed is the same as sharing a life."
Val's throat tightened.
"You want me to move in."
"I want you to live with me." He reached for her hand. "I want to come home to you. I want to argue about stupid things like whose turn it is to take out the trash. I want to wake up next to you every morning and fall asleep next to you every night."
"That's a big step."
"I know."
"I don't know if I'm ready."
"Neither do I." He squeezed her hand. "But I'm tired of waiting for ready. I'm tired of playing it safe. I'm tired of being the man who loves you from a distance."
Val closed her eyes.
The rain continued to fall.
The city continued to hum.
And somewhere, deep in her chest, a wall she'd spent thirty-two years building began to crack.
"Okay," she said.
Dante's breath caught.
"Okay?"
"Okay, I'll move in." She opened her eyes, fixed him with a look. "But I'm keeping my apartment. I need a place to go when you piss me off."
"You're never going to go."
"I will."
"You won't."
"I might."
"You love me too much."
Val groaned.
"God, you're insufferable."
He kissed her.
"Come on," he said. "Let's go home."
They walked toward the elevator, his arm around her shoulders, her hand on his heart.
Behind them, the lantern finally died.
The rooftop fell dark.
And high above the city, two people who'd spent a decade dancing around each other finally started moving in step.