When Heroes Fall (Anti-Heroes in Love 1)

I blinked at him, more intrigued by why he watched me than by his stark, almost bluntly masculine looks.

I’d seen handsome.

I’d dated Daniel for four years, and he had been a model for a short time.

And currently, I was being forced to cohabitate with a man who quite simply would take any woman’s breath away.

So, this man only intrigued me the way I would have been by a gorgeous painting or a new set of Louboutin pumps. Which was why I was confused when he slowly folded the newspaper he was reading and pressed it under his shoulder before he stood to walk, quite clearly, to my side.

“Good morning,” he said with a slight smile, the expression all mouth and no eyes.

I returned a polite smile. “Hello.”

We stood there for a moment, not speaking just cataloging each other. He was younger than I’d previously thought, his skin silken and mostly unlined but for two creases between his slashing brows.

I realized what it was he emanated, what had my teeth slightly on edge as if I’d been struck like a tuning fork by the power of his dynamism. It was dominance.

Dante exuded the same tangible tension, this invisible aura that made you instinctively want to obey him, but where he had charisma to soften the delivery, this man just stared at me with determination in those bright jade eyes. He looked as if he didn’t intend to take no for an answer.

So I waited for him to ask the question.

When we seemed to be in some kind of holding pattern as the line moved up and I was fourth from the top, a slight, almost begrudging smile overtook his firm mouth.

“I’d like your number,” he said, finally.

“Oh?” I asked, flattered despite myself but enjoying our little stand-off too much to act anything but cool. “That’s interesting. What would you presume to do with it?”

He seemed to actually consider it, his hand stroking the facial hair that was a little longer than stubble but not quite a beard. “After waiting an appropriate amount of time, I would call you.”

“For what purpose?”

“To tell you where I’m going to take you on our date,” he quipped easily, narrowing his eyes as he looked me up and down. It wasn’t a salacious gaze, but a calculating one. “Somewhere you can wear those heels with a tasteful suggestive dress.”

Immediately, I thought of the dress Dante had bought me, the gorgeous vintage Valentino that had fit me like a dream. Unbidden, I considered what Dante might do if he knew I was being asked out by a handsome stranger.

Irritated by my line of thinking, I acted uncharacteristically impulsively and smiled the way I’d learned from Cosima, my lips wide and parted to reveal my blessedly straight smile.

“My name is Elena,” I offered with my hand extended. “And as long as it isn’t Italian food, I just might answer your call.”

His expression was smug without being a smile, satisfaction softening his hard-green eyes as he took my hand. “Excellent.”

And when I gave him my number, I wasn’t thinking about the black-eyed gaze of a certain mafioso I knew in my bones would probably strangle this man for asking me on a date.

I definitely didn’t experience a flash of spine-tingling arousal at the idea of a man like him being possessive of me.

And if I did, I consoled myself with the truth. It had been a long time since someone had been possessive of me, and it was only natural to be intrigued.

Still, I swore an oath as I left the coffee shop for my office that I wouldn’t breathe a word of it to Dante.

That evening, I was barely through the elevator doors with Bruno, the man who attended the lobby reception having personally taken me up so he could talk my ear off about his wife and children, when I heard a sound I’d never thought to hear in Dante’s palatial apartment.

A child’s laughter.

It was high, melodic, and utterly lovely.

Something in my chest where my heart used to be flipped over like a half-done pancake. My hand went to my upper breast unconsciously, rubbing at the sensation as I moved into the living room and stared over the long room into the kitchen where the sound had emerged from.

A small girl with long, curling chestnut brown hair was seated on the long matte black kitchen island. Her white and pink dress pooled over the dark granite as she carefully rolled orecchiette pasta in her hands. Her tongue poked between her teeth in concentration as she studied her pasta dough, then darted a look over at Dante, who occupied the same task beside her.

I couldn’t move as I watched them, overcome with something that hurt.

It rolled through me hotly, molten like lead poured into my veins. I felt poisoned by the sensation, unable to breathe the way Dante had when he’d ingested cyanide.