Morning came too soon. I woke to the sound of footsteps in the hall and the faint aroma of espresso drifting under the door. My first thought was that I'd dreamed it all—the body, the car ride, the man with glacier eyes. But the silk sheets beneath me weren't mine, and the view outside the balcony doors wasn't Florence.
The cliffs stretched endlessly, their jagged edges looming over the sea, which thrashed violently against the rocks below. It was a kind of beauty that tempted you to escape. I slipped out of bed and noticed a midnight blue robe draped over a velvet chaise. It was soft as sin. My clothes from the day before were missing, likely taken away by someone who worked for him.
I cautiously opened the door to the hallway. A woman in a crisp black dress stood just outside, her dark hair pulled into a severe bun. Her eyes flicked over me once before she offered a polite nod.
"Good morning, Signorina Moretti. Breakfast will be served on the terrace. Don Vitale is waiting."
I almost slammed the door in her face. "Tell him I'm not hungry."
Her lips curved faintly, but it wasn't amusement—it was pity. "It would be unwise to keep him waiting."
The warning was quiet but unmistakable. I followed her through the hall, past arched windows that flooded the corridor with gold light. Every inch of this place screamed power. Old power. The kind that didn't need to flaunt itself because it already owned everything worth having.
The terrace overlooked the ocean, where a long table was set for two under the shade of a stone archway. Dante was already there, dressed in a black suit without a tie, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal the edge of a scar. He didn't stand when I approached; instead, he simply watched me cross the space between us, his gaze moving over me as if he had every right to do so.
"Sleep well?" he asked.
"You mean did I sleep in the bed of my kidnapper, who also happened to have killed my father, while wearing clothes I didn't choose, in a room I didn't want, under a roof I never agreed to? Yes. Like a baby."
His lips twitched. "The sarcasm is charming. Dangerous, but charming."
I sat down without asking, more to prove I could than because I wanted to. A silver coffee pot gleamed at the centre of the table. He poured me a cup without asking how I took it; he already knew.
I frowned. "Did you follow me before this?"
"Yes," he said bluntly with an annoyingly charming smile on his face. God, I hated how I liked it.
The bluntness made me pause mid-reach. "For how long?"
"Years."
My chest tightened. "Why?"
He met my eyes without shame. "Because I knew you were mine the moment I saw you."
I wanted to throw the coffee in his face. I wanted to demand every reason, every moment, every time he had been near without my knowledge. Instead, I chose to drink it because showing him that he had rattled me would give him exactly what he wanted.
He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. "You'll have the afternoon to yourself. Explore the house. Familiarize yourself with your home."
"It's not my home."
"It is," he said, as if stating a fact. "And soon, it will feel like one."
The casual way he said it scared me more than the threat from last night. Dante Vitale didn't believe he needed to force me. He believed inevitability would do the work for him.
I set my cup down. "What if I refuse? If I never bend?"
That smile again, slow, deliberate, predatory, charming. "Then I'll enjoy the chase."
I didn't touch my food, and Dante didn't press me to eat. He simply sipped his coffee, every movement deliberate, as if he had nowhere else to be but right there, watching me and taking note of my behavior. When I finally stood up, his gaze followed me all the way to the archway.
"Stay inside the gates," he said as I turned to leave. "You'll find… fewer temptations that way."
"I'm not tempted by anything here."
He didn't respond, but his smirk told me he thought otherwise. The woman who'd woken me Marta appeared as soon as I stepped into the hall. "Would you like me to give you a tour, Signorina?"
"I'll manage." the words dropped living no room for argument.
Her eyes flickered, but she stepped aside. The estate was a maze of polished marble and shadowed corners. Oil paintings lined the walls—Vitale men through the centuries, each wearing the same cold, calculating expression. I stopped in front of one and traced the frame with my fingertips. It was Dante, he looked younger. He wasn't wearing a suit or gloves. His eyes were the same, though-Sharp enough to cut.
I wandered farther, past the library that smelled faintly of leather and smoke, past the sunlit atrium with an overgrown citrus tree in the center. It was beautiful, in a way that made me furious. This wasn't a home. It was a throne disguised as a palace.
Then I saw it. At the far end of the east wing stood a door—heavy oak, iron-banded, and locked. It didn't match the rest of the house. Everything else was open, welcoming in its opulent way, but this... this door was meant to keep people out or something in. I reached for the handle.
"Don't." a voice came from behind me low and firm.
My pulse spiked as I turned. Dante leaned in the doorway across the hall, one shoulder against the frame, arms crossed. He hadn't made a sound, and somehow that was worse than if he'd stormed in.
"What's in there?" I asked.
His gaze didn't waver. "Not for you."
I lifted my chin. "This is my 'home,' remember? Shouldn't I know what's behind every door?"
He pushed off the frame and closed the space between us in slow, deliberate steps. "Some doors aren't meant to be opened."
"By me, you mean."
He stopped so close I could feel the heat of his body, the faint scent of gunpowder and cedar clinging to his skin. His gloved fingers reached up, brushing a strand of hair back from my cheek soft, almost gentle, but laced with warning.
"Especially by you."
I hated that my breath caught. Hated that his nearness made my skin prickle with something that wasn't just fear. His eyes held mine for a long moment, like he was trying to decide if I'd obey. Then he stepped back.
"Dinner is at eight. Be on time." And just like that, he turned and walked away, leaving me staring at the locked door with my pulse still racing.
I avoided the east wing for the rest of the day. Not because he'd told me to, but because I could still feel the ghost of his touch on my cheek every time I thought about that door. Whatever was behind it wasn't just a secret it was a temptation, and I already had too many of those.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting streaks of crimson and gold across the sea, I stood in front of the mirror in my room, gazing at the dress laid out on the bed. It was made of silk, black, and was off-the-shoulder. Expensive enough to cover three months' rent in Florence.
I hadn't chosen it, which meant he had. I slipped it on anyway—not to please him, but to avoid looking as though I'd been dragged here against my will. If he were going to confine me, I would make sure the bars were made of gold.
The dining room was dimly lit by candles when I arrived. The table was long enough to seat twenty, but only two places were set: one at the head and one to his right. Dante was already there, of course, his suit darker than the shadows, and his gaze fixed on me the moment I entered.
"You're late," he said.
"It's eight-oh-one."
"In my world," he murmured, "one minute can be the difference between life and death."
I sat down without saying a word. The first course was served: pasta drizzled with truffle cream. Although I wasn't hungry, the aroma was irresistible. I took a small bite, careful not to reveal that I hadn't eaten since the day before.
"Good," he said, watching me instead of his plate.
"Are you going to stare at me all night?" I said, not being able to hide my disgust.
"Yes."
The honesty made my fork pause mid-air. "You don't even try to hide it."
"Why should I?" His lips curved faintly. "A man doesn't hide from what's his."
I set my fork down. "I'm not yours."
He leaned in, his voice low enough that it slid along my skin like silk.
"Not yet."
The way he said it wasn't a threat; it was a promise. The kind that felt inevitable, even as I bristled against it. Dessert was a small, dark chocolate torte, which I ignored, pushing the plate away.
"You're not eating," he observed.
"I'm not hungry."
"You will be," he said, his gaze dipping to my mouth. "Soon."
The air between us thickened, charged with something dangerous and magnetic. My pulse spiked, and for a split second, I wondered if he meant hunger for food at all. I pushed back from the table, standing before I could think better of it. "Goodnight, Don Vitale."
I didn't wait for his reply. As I walked away, I could feel his eyes on me, heavy as a hand at the small of my back, following me up the stairs.
The hallway leading to my room was empty—silent, too silent. I slipped inside and locked the door behind me, aware that it wouldn't stop him if he really wanted to get in. My shoes hit the floor with a soft thud as I sank into the armchair by the balcony. Beyond it, the sea shimmered silver under the moonlight.
For a few moments, I let myself breathe. Then I heard it. Low voices. Muffled, coming from somewhere behind the walls. I stood, pressing my ear against the panelling. The sound was faint but clear enough, two men speaking in Sicilian.
"…she doesn't know yet…"
"…when he tells her, it will be too late…"
"…blood for blood, that was the deal…"
A chair scraped. Footsteps. I backed away from the wall, heart pounding. The voices faded, replaced by the deep rumble of a door closing somewhere far below. I told myself not to care. Not to listen. Whatever Dante Vitale was planning, it wasn't my concern, not if I wanted to survive.
I turned toward the bed, ready to lose myself in sleep, when I saw it. On the nightstand. A single white rose. It looked fresh and perfect. With its stem wrapped in black silk. My breath caught in my throat. There was no way it had been there when I left for dinner, which meant someone had been inside my room. He had been inside my room.
I picked it up slowly, the petals soft against my skin, the faint scent of something sweet and dangerous curling around me. A small piece of paper was tied to the stem with the silk ribbon. Two words written in precise, masculine script:
Soon, mine.
I placed the rose down, turned off the lights, and slid under the covers with the cool silk against my bare legs. My pulse wouldn't slow, no matter how hard I tried to calm it. Somewhere out there, Dante Vitale was awake—watching and waiting. For the first time since I stepped into this house, I wasn't sure whether I feared him or myself more.