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.