Dangerous Melodies - Chapter 49: Chapter 49

DANTE
I sat in my office, early morning light filtering through the heavy curtains, casting long shadows across the room.
Guilt churned in my gut, heavy and relentless. The weight of last night pressed down on me like a storm cloud I couldn't outrun.
I’d hurt the one person I was supposed to protect, proving, again, that I was every bit as dangerous as my past had made me.
It hadn’t been passion that drove me. It was fear, anger, and a desperate need to push Marisol away.
I’d been rough. Cruel. The kind of man I swore I’d never be again.
When she hadn't come, I'd ordered her to finish herself, my voice so cold it echoed back at me like a sentence.
The image of her face turned away, breath trembling under the grip of my hands, burned behind my eyes.
I had never been that man. Not with her.
I’d treated her worse than the women in my past.
And for what? To protect myself from feelings I didn’t want to face.
But Marisol wasn’t nothing. She meant something. Too much. And that terrified me.
After retreating here, I’d gone back to the bedroom.
I couldn't stay away.
She was curled up in bed, her small frame turned away, sheets twisted around her legs. So fragile. So vulnerable.
What did I think I was protecting?
Myself? How laughable.
All I’d done was destroy whatever chance I had of her seeing me as anything but a monster.
The guilt deepened with the stark truth of my size, my strength.
She hadn’t said a word, hadn’t pushed me away, but her silence haunted me.
Maybe she didn’t know she could have told me to stop.
Maybe she felt she couldn’t.
That thought hollowed me out.
I hadn’t slept.
Guilt gnawed at me through the night until it drove me back here, to the one place that used to bring a sense of control.
Before I left the bedroom, I’d looked at her one last time.
She was curled in on herself like she needed to shield her body from the very person who should have kept her safe.
I had wanted to pull her close. Whisper apologies. Hold her until morning light could wash it all away.
But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
So I came back to the only refuge I knew, hoping work might bury the emotion tearing through me.
But guilt stayed with me, clinging like smoke.
One day, she’d see the full truth of who I was and walk away.
And maybe I’d deserve that.
No distance, no distraction could make it disappear.
MARISOL
I woke to an empty bed, the silence pressing down on me.
I missed the way Dante used to hold me, his arms a steady, reassuring presence that made the world feel a little safer.
Now, there was only cold space beside me.
The emptiness was more than physical; it was a reminder of how far he'd pulled away.
My chest tightened.
I’d let him in so easily. What a fool I’ve been.
He could've told me the truth. Instead, he'd chosen cruelty.
He’d shattered something fragile between us, something I thought might grow into more.
I sighed and shoved the thoughts aside as I got dressed.
My gaze landed on the bruises on my hips, dark reminders of how rough he'd been.
The ache between my thighs still lingered, sharp and insistent.
I winced. Pain, physical and emotional, lanced through me.
The hurt twisted, turning into something sharper, more dangerous.
I loved him. But he’d treated me like I didn’t matter.
How could he use me like that?
In the kitchen, the scent of breakfast met me like a warm blanket.
Maria was already there, bustling about and placing a plate of scrambled eggs, toast, and fruit on the table.
For a moment, her presence and the homey comfort of food softened the storm inside me.
"Thank you, Maria," I said quietly, my voice weighted with sadness and something heavier.
She looked over, her gentle smile laced with concern. "Sit down and eat," she urged.
I nodded and sat, but the food tasted like ash.
Last night replayed in my mind, unfiltered and raw.
He'd treated me worse than a stranger.
I’d exposed everything, and in return, he'd broken me. Left me here to gather the pieces alone.
After I forced down a few bites, I escaped to the only place that still felt like mine: the music room.
My piano and journal waited, quiet witnesses to everything I couldn’t say aloud.
I sat down, my fingers hovering over the keys before playing a few soft notes, letting the sound fill the room.
The melody twisted under my hands, jarring chords crashing out as frustration churned in my chest.
I grabbed my journal and poured it all out: the pain, the fury, the betrayal.
I loved him. But the wound he'd left was deep, and I didn’t know how to climb out of it.
How could he have been so heartless?
The question coiled inside me, dark and endless.
A knock pulled me out of my spiral.
Felix stepped in, face unreadable. "Marisol," he said, voice careful, "Dante wants to see you in his office."
My jaw tightened.
After everything, he thinks he can just summon me?
"If he wants to talk, he knows where to find me," I said, keeping my voice steady, though it pulsed with heat, "if he wants to see me, he can come here."
I went back to writing, my grip on the pen tightening until it nearly snapped.
Tears stung, but I blinked them away.
Felix hesitated, but he nodded and left.
I kept writing, though the words started to blur.
Everything inside me was fraying.
When Dante finally came in, I didn’t look up.
I heard the door close, felt the weight of his presence behind me.
I stayed focused on the journal, willing myself to remain detached.
The silence dragged. He didn’t move closer.
"It’s about your father," he said.
My pen froze. My heart skipped.
Slowly, I looked up.
His usual steel expression was cracked. His shoulders tense, his jaw tight.
"What happened?" I asked, my voice thin with dread.
"The FBI raided Roberto’s estate this morning." He paused. "Your father and his men fired at the agents. Roberto was killed in the crossfire."
The world tilted. I couldn’t catch my breath.
Roberto was dead.
Grief and relief slammed into each other, neither winning.
The weight of my choices crashed over me.
"I killed him," I whispered.
My voice broke. I covered my face, tears falling fast.
"It’s my fault. I sent that email. I signed his death warrant."
Dante moved in, pulling me into his arms.
I was too numb to resist.
For one brief moment, I let him hold me.
His embrace anchored me as I cried.
"No, Marisol," he said, steady but gentle. "It’s not your fault. He made his choices. He’s responsible, not you."
But the comfort didn’t last.
His words settled, and so did the memory of the night before.
The coldness. The cruelty.
How can he be here, acting like he cares, when just hours ago he treated me like I was nothing?
I pulled back, trembling. "Don’t touch me."
He hesitated, still reaching. "Marisol, please—"
"I said, don’t touch me!" My voice cracked.
The rage boiled over, no longer held in check by grief.
It was everything.
The way he played hot and cold.
How he broke me one moment and tried to comfort me the next.
I grabbed my journal and hurled it at him. "Get out!"
He didn’t move at first.
The journal hit his chest and dropped to the floor, but it wasn’t that that stopped him.
It was the fury in my eyes. He saw it. He finally saw what he'd done.
A flicker of pain crossed his face.
His shoulders dropped, his face unreadable again.
He nodded. No words, just a slow, regretful retreat.
Every step he took looked like it cost him.
When the door closed behind him, the silence felt louder than before.
I stayed frozen, heart pounding, fury still pulsing beneath the heavier grief.
My father was gone. Dante had hurt me.
And inside, everything felt hollow.
The tears came again, unstoppable now.
I let them fall. Let myself feel every jagged edge of it.