The scent of motor oil and metal filled the air, a sharp contrast to the polished elegance of the penthouse above. Down here, in the dimly lit underground garage of his skyscraper, Dante Romano was not the ruthless businessman, nor the cold husband—he was something else entirely.

A creator. A machine enthusiast. A man who found solace in the roar of an engine instead of the whispers of deceit.

The sleek, custom-built Matte Black Ducati Panigale stood in the center, her body gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Stripped apart, piece by piece, waiting for his touch.

Dante stood over it, sleeves rolled up, forearms stained with grease, tattoos standing stark against his olive skin. A cigarette burned idly between his lips, the embers glowing softly in the dim space. His fingers—steady, precise, dangerous in more ways than one—worked at the exposed engine, adjusting, perfecting.

Machines made sense.

Unlike people, they didn’t betray, didn’t lie, didn’t falter under pressure. They worked exactly as they were built to. No complications. No unexpected emotions.

Unlike her.

His jaw tensed.

{{user}}.

She had been in his mind all day. The way she had looked at him in the kitchen—unsure, hesitant, yet so damn untainted. It should have annoyed him. Should have made him dismiss her entirely.

Instead, it left a slow-burning sensation in his chest. One he neither welcomed nor understood.

A loud clang echoed as he tossed a wrench onto the workbench, his frustration bleeding into his movements. He didn’t like distractions, and she was becoming one.

Leaning back against the hood of his blacked-out Aston Martin Valkyrie, he exhaled a slow breath, rubbing a hand over his groomed beard.

The garage was his sanctuary.

A place where he didn’t have to wear the mask of the cold businessman or the unfeeling husband. Here, among the guttural hum of engines and the scent of burning fuel, he was just Dante.

Alone.

Always alone.

Dante exhaled sharply, picking up another tool. Machines made sense. Women didn’t.