The kitchen was quiet, save for the faint hum of the oven cooling down and the soft clink of a fork on porcelain. Dante sat at the head of the dining table, his posture sharp, every motion deliberate. Avery stood across from him, watching his expression like a hawk. Her fingers twisted nervously in the hem of her shirt.
He chewed slowly.
And then he stopped.
His jaw tensed as he set the fork down with a precise, almost theatrical clink. The silence between them stretched into a taut string, seconds dragging like eternity.
Avery's voice wavered. "So...?"
Dante dabbed his lips with the edge of his napkin, his obsidian eyes never leaving her. "Did you… bake this out of vengeance?"
Avery blinked. "W-what?"
"This tastes like betrayal in solid form." His voice was velvet-coated malice. "Tell me, cara, were you trying to poison me creatively or is your cooking genuinely this offensive?"
Her cheeks burned. "I—I followed the recipe—"
"Did the recipe tell you to assault my taste buds?"
Avery folded her arms. "You said you wanted me to learn to do something useful!"
"Useful," he echoed, rising from his seat. "Not hazardous."
She gasped as he stalked toward her, a smirk tugging at his lips. "You're overreacting."
"You're underseasoning."
She swatted his arm. "It's not that bad."
"I'll be installing a second fire alarm," he said coolly. "One specifically for your baking experiments."
Despite her embarrassment, a laugh escaped her lips. "Okay, okay. Maybe I need practice."
Dante leaned down, his face inches from hers, the smirk still etched on his lips. "Or maybe I need a taster. Ethan, perhaps?"
"Leave Ethan out of this," she groaned.
He straightened, brushing invisible crumbs off his suit. "You owe me."
"For what?"
"For surviving this culinary ambush."
"You're so dramatic."
Dante raised a brow. "And you're still terrible with an oven. I suggest we never speak of this again."
She narrowed her eyes. "You're not going to forget this, are you?"
He grinned wickedly. "Not a chance."The moment the fork touched his tongue again, Dante's face didn't change — not a twitch, not a wince. But Avery noticed the way he lowered the utensil like it had betrayed him.
He dabbed the corner of his mouth with a linen napkin. "Is this… vengeance?" he asked dryly.
Avery blinked. "What?"
"The texture suggests sabotage. The taste confirms it." He stared at the half-eaten pastry on his plate. "You baked this with your eyes closed, didn't you?"
Her jaw dropped. "Excuse me?"
He pushed his plate back like it personally offended him. "I've tasted poison more welcoming than this."
"You're so dramatic—"
"Am I?" His gaze pinned her. "Because my taste buds are calling their lawyers."
Avery folded her arms. "Fine. Maybe it didn't turn out perfect."
"It didn't turn out edible."
She huffed. "You could've just said thank you."
He leaned forward slowly, smirk curling like smoke. "Thank you... for reaffirming that hell has better chefs."
"Dante!"
He rose from his seat, still composed. "Next time you plan to assault my palate, cara, warn me in advance so I can update the fire alarm and write my will."
"I tried," she said, following him. "It was a peace offering."
He turned on his heel. "Then make peace with the fact that you're banned from my kitchen indefinitely."
"But I—"
"No. If there's ever a next time, you bring me a knife and fork, not an ultimatum disguised as dessert."
She narrowed her eyes. "You're impossible."
"Correct."
"You didn't have to eat it!"
"I didn't. I endured it. There's a difference."
"And yet," she said, stepping closer, "you ate three bites."
He didn't answer. Just gave her a long, unreadable stare.
Then he turned, walking away, voice cool. "Punishment enough for one morning."
Just as Avery opened her mouth to fire back another smart remark, a sharp buzz cut through the silence.
Dante's phone lit up on the countertop.
One glance.
That was all it took for his expression to shift—like a switch flipped.
The air changed.
Gone was the sardonic smirk, the teasing gleam in his eyes. In its place: ice. Controlled. Calculating. That face she'd seen when he dealt with power, threats, and shadows. The devil behind the suit.
He picked up the phone, eyes narrowing at the message. His thumb paused mid-scroll, jaw locking tight.
"Something wrong?" Avery asked, her voice softer now.
Dante didn't answer immediately. He just stared at the screen like it dared him to react.
Then he slipped the phone into his pocket.
"Change of plans," he said flatly, all warmth gone from his tone. "I have a situation to handle."
"What kind of situation?"
He turned toward her, colder than marble. "The kind you don't ask about."
She took a step forward. "Dante—"
"Stay in the house. Lock the doors."
And just like that, he brushed past her, the click of his shoes echoing like a countdown.
But right before he reached the door, he paused.
Without looking back, he added in a low voice, "Next time you want my attention, cara… bake something that doesn't taste like regret."
The door shut behind him before she could think of a comeback.
The moment Dante stepped outside, the air felt different—tighter. More alive with danger. The sleek black car was already waiting in the driveway, its engine purring like a beast barely restrained. He slid in without a word.
"Where to, sir?" the driver asked, eyes locked ahead.
Dante's jaw ticked. "Warehouse 17. And step on it."
He didn't speak for the next ten minutes.
But his mind was a battlefield.
That message—it wasn't unexpected, but it came too soon. Someone had moved prematurely. Someone stupid.
The streets blurred past as the city's darker veins pulsed to life. He tapped his fingers against the leather seat, the only visible sign of his simmering fury.
When they arrived, two men were already waiting at the warehouse entrance. Suits. Armed. Nervous.
Dante didn't break stride as he stepped out.
"Talk," he said coolly.
"It's the drop point. Someone tampered with the shipment," one of them replied, barely able to meet his eyes.
Dante raised a brow. "And?"
"There was... a name carved into the crate. Yours."
He stopped walking.
"Someone wants me to know they touched my territory." His voice was low, dangerous. "And you let them."
"No, sir—"
A gun cocked behind the man's head before he could finish. Dante didn't even look as one of his own men stepped forward.
"Tell me why I shouldn't let him paint this floor red," Dante said.
"Because we traced the signature. The initials match an old associate of Valen's crew. He's trying to bait you."
Dante smiled. It was the kind of smile that made hearts stop—not from admiration, but pure fear.
"Good," he said. "Then let him know the devil doesn't take bait. He sets the fire himself."
He walked into the warehouse, stepping over shadows and secrets like they were nothing.
But deep down… one thought bled through the cold control:
Avery.
He'd told her to lock the doors. But he hadn't told her about the storm that was coming.
And this time, it might not knock.
It might break in.