The sun dipped low over Manhattan, casting long shadows over the sprawling De Luca estate. Inside its ornate walls, the tension between Dante and Isabella simmered like a volcano on the brink of eruption. Hours had passed since their heated confrontation in the foyer, but neither had sought the other out.
Isabella paced her room, her mind churning. Every interaction with Dante felt like stepping onto a battlefield, and the man was relentless. She hated how he could twist every moment, every word, to his advantage. Yet beneath her frustration, there was something else—a spark of something darker.
She shoved the thought aside. Dante might have his charms, but he was still the man who had trapped her in this arrangement. She would never let herself forget that.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, jolting her out of her thoughts. She picked it up and saw a message from her younger brother, Marco.
Marco: Are you okay? What's he like?
Her heart clenched. Marco had always been her soft spot. She typed a quick response.
Isabella: I'm fine. Don't worry about me.
The lie came easily. She couldn't let Marco know how precarious her situation was, not when he depended on her to hold their family together.
A sharp knock at the door startled her. She straightened, her heart skipping a beat. "Come in."
The door opened, and Dante stepped inside. He didn't ask permission, didn't hesitate, as if he had every right to invade her space. He wore a crisp black shirt, the top button undone, and his sleeves rolled up to reveal the tattoos winding around his forearms.
"You've been quiet," he said, his voice low. "I don't like silence. It usually means someone's plotting."
Isabella crossed her arms, meeting his gaze. "Not everything is about you, Dante."
He smirked, stepping further into the room. "In this house, it is."
"What do you want?" she asked, her tone sharp.
Dante's smirk faded, replaced by something more serious. "You've made your position clear—you don't want to be here, and you don't want me. But this isn't about what you want, Isabella. It's about what's necessary."
"Necessary for whom? You?" she shot back. "Because this arrangement doesn't feel necessary for me."
"For your family," Dante said coldly. "Your father sold you out to save his empire. I'm the only reason you're still standing on De Luca soil."
His words hit like a slap, but Isabella refused to let him see her flinch. "Don't act like you did this out of kindness. You're using me, just like my father did."
Dante stepped closer, his dark eyes boring into hers. "You're right. I'm not a kind man, Isabella. I never claimed to be. But I protect what's mine, and whether you like it or not, you're mine now."
She stared at him, her chest rising and falling as anger warred with something she couldn't name. "I'll never be yours, Dante. Not in the way you want."
He tilted his head, a dangerous glint in his eye. "We'll see."
Later that evening, Isabella found herself reluctantly descending the grand staircase. Dante had insisted they have dinner together, and she didn't doubt he'd drag her to the dining room if she refused.
The long table was set with crystal glasses and silver cutlery, the flicker of candlelight casting the room in a warm glow. Dante was already seated at the head of the table, his presence dominating the room.
She took her seat at the opposite end, her back straight, her expression carefully neutral.
"I hope you're hungry," Dante said, his voice cutting through the silence.
"I hope this doesn't take long," Isabella replied, her tone matching his.
The corners of his mouth twitched, as if he were amused by her defiance. "I don't enjoy dragging things out. Let's cut to the chase."
He gestured to the waiter, who poured them both a glass of deep red wine. Dante picked up his glass, swirling the liquid before taking a sip.
"Your move earlier with Luca Romano—it won't happen again," he said, his tone calm but firm.
Isabella set her fork down, meeting his gaze. "And if it does?"
Dante leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "You don't want to find out."
The warning hung heavy in the air, but Isabella refused to let it intimidate her. "You can't control everything, Dante. No matter how powerful you think you are, there will always be cracks."
He smiled, a slow, dangerous smile that sent a shiver down her spine. "Perhaps. But I've built my life on finding those cracks and exploiting them before anyone else can. That's why I'm still standing, Isabella. And that's why you'd do well to remember your place."
She clenched her fists under the table, her nails digging into her palms. "My place is wherever I decide it is."
Dante chuckled, shaking his head. "You're exhausting, you know that?"
"Good," Isabella said. "I hope you're prepared to stay exhausted."
When dinner ended, Isabella returned to her room, her mind spinning with frustration. Dante was infuriating, impossible, and yet... she couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to him than he let on.
She sat by the window, staring out at the city lights in the distance. If she wanted to survive this marriage, she needed to be smarter, faster, and stronger than him.
Because one thing was certain—Dante Marino might think he had all the power, but Isabella wasn't done fighting. Not by a long shot.
The city lights blurred into streaks of gold as Isabella leaned her forehead against the cool glass. Her pulse still thrummed with the tension of the dinner, Dante's words replaying in her mind like a haunting melody she couldn't escape.
You're mine now.
His declaration had been as infuriating as it was unsettling. She hated how the words lingered, wrapping around her like invisible chains. But there was something more—something that made her heart race and her resolve tremble. She hated that even more.
A soft knock at the door broke her reverie. Isabella's first instinct was to ignore it, assuming it was Dante again. But the knock came again, softer this time, almost tentative. She pushed herself to her feet, smoothing her dress as she approached the door.
When she opened it, she found Nico, one of Dante's most trusted men, standing there. He was younger than she expected, barely older than Marco, with sharp features and a nervous energy that betrayed his usual stoic demeanor.
"Mrs. Marino," Nico said, his tone cautious as if weighing each word. He avoided her gaze, instead glancing over his shoulder toward the empty hallway.
"I've told you before," Isabella replied coolly. "Don't call me that."
Nico shifted awkwardly. "Dante wants to see you."
She crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe. "Tell him I'm busy."
"It's urgent," Nico pressed. There was a flicker of fear in his eyes now, not of her but of what would happen if he returned without her.
Isabella studied him for a moment, considering her options. Dante's commands weren't requests, and defying him outright rarely ended well. But she couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. Nico's unease wasn't the usual posturing of Dante's men—it was genuine.
With a resigned sigh, she grabbed a shawl and stepped into the hallway. "Lead the way."
Nico nodded, quickly turning on his heel. He led her down a series of corridors, deeper into the estate than she had ever been. The air grew heavier, the grandeur of the house giving way to stark simplicity. Finally, they stopped in front of a heavy oak door.
"He's waiting inside," Nico said, stepping aside.
Isabella raised an eyebrow. "You're not coming?"
Nico shook his head, his jaw tightening. "This is between you and him."
She pushed the door open, her heels clicking against the hardwood as she stepped inside. The room was dimly lit, a single overhead light casting a stark glow on the scene before her.
Dante stood near a large wooden desk, his posture rigid. He wasn't alone. Two of his men held a third man between them—a bloodied, trembling figure whose face was nearly unrecognizable beneath the bruises.
Isabella froze, her stomach twisting at the sight. "What the hell is this?"
Dante turned to face her, his expression unreadable. "This," he said evenly, gesturing to the man, "is what happens when someone betrays me."
The man whimpered, his voice barely a whisper. "Please... I didn't mean to—"
"Quiet," Dante snapped, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. He looked back at Isabella. "I wanted you to see this. To understand."
"To understand what?" she asked, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and unease. "That you're a monster?"
Dante's gaze hardened. "To understand the cost of betrayal. This man sold information to the Romano family—information that could have put your brother in danger."
Her breath caught. "Marco?"
Dante nodded, his eyes locked on hers. "I had men watching him. They intercepted the threat before it reached him. But if I hadn't..." He let the sentence hang, the weight of it pressing down on her.
Isabella turned to the trembling man, her fists clenching at her sides. She wanted to hate Dante for his cruelty, but the thought of Marco—innocent, vulnerable Marco—being caught in the crossfire was unbearable.
"You didn't have to do this," she said, her voice shaking. "There were other ways."
Dante stepped closer to her, his voice low and dangerous. "In my world, there are no other ways. Mercy is a weakness that gets people killed. Do you want your brother to pay the price for someone else's betrayal?"
The words hit her like a slap, and she hated how easily he could twist the narrative, forcing her to see his side. She looked away, unable to meet his piercing gaze.
"Leave us," Dante commanded his men.
The guards released the battered man, who crumpled to the floor, and filed out of the room without a word. The door closed behind them, leaving Isabella and Dante alone with the sound of the man's labored breathing.
"What do you want from me?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Dante cupped her chin, forcing her to look at him. His touch was firm but not unkind. "I want you to stop fighting me, Isabella. This isn't just my fight—it's ours. You can hate me all you want, but the sooner you accept what we are, the sooner we can protect what matters."
She stared at him, her heart pounding. For a moment, she thought she saw something in his eyes—something raw and unguarded. But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by the cold, calculating man she had come to know.
"You think this makes us allies?" she said bitterly. "That I'll forgive everything because you protected my brother?"
"No," Dante said quietly. "But it's a start."
He released her and stepped back, leaving her standing in the dim light as the weight of his words settled over her. As much as she hated him, she couldn't deny the truth: in this world, survival meant making choices she never thought she'd have to make. And whether she liked it or not, Dante Marino was at the center of every one of them.