The dining room shimmered like something out of a dream—or maybe a nightmare. Crystal chandeliers rained down golden light, glinting off polished silver and the deep mahogany table stretched long enough to seat an army.
Platters of roasted meats, bread still steaming, and vegetables dressed in oil filled the air with rich scents that made my stomach twist.
I smoothed the skirt of my dress as I stepped inside, suddenly painfully aware of how plain I looked. My simple fabric clung in all the wrong places beneath the eyes of men who had already begun to study me like I was part of the menu.
Vince DeLuca stood at the head of the table, and his eyes cut straight through me.
"You're late," he said. Not raised, not shouted. Just calm, sharp, and commanding enough that my pulse stuttered.
I forced a small smile even as my cheeks burned. "I wasn't aware there was a specific time."
His jaw ticked, the tiniest twitch, but I noticed. He was a man who measured the world in obedience, and I had just put myself in the wrong column. "In my house," he said, voice smooth as steel, "punctuality isn't a suggestion."
I lifted my chin, refusing to wilt under his stare. Before I could speak again, Rafael's low chuckle broke the tension.
"Don't be too hard on her, Vince. She's still learning our… modi operandi." His smile was lazy, mischievous, but his eyes sparkled with something sharper. He raised his glass of red wine, swirling it like blood in the crystal.
Vince cut him a look, and silence snapped back like a whip. Then he motioned for me to sit.
The chair he indicated was to his right. A deliberate choice. A claim. Every man at that table would see it. I swallowed the knot in my throat and slid into the seat, aware of all their gazes—hard, amused, predatory.
A server poured wine into my glass, but I barely touched it. My eyes fixed on the plate before me, heavy with food I couldn't taste.
"Let's get one thing straight," Vince said suddenly, his voice slicing through the murmur of conversation. "Isabella is under my protection now. Any misunderstandings will be dealt with swiftly."
The room went silent. Even the scrape of a knife against porcelain stopped. His words pressed against my skin like the heat of a fire, suffocating and unrelenting.
I tightened my fingers around the fork. I hated the way he claimed me, like I was something he'd purchased and displayed. I glanced at Rafael. He leaned back in his chair, lips curling into a smirk.
"Protection," Rafael echoed, voice deceptively light. "Is that what we're calling it these days?"
Vince's eyes darkened. "Careful, Rafael."
"Tranquillo," Rafael said with a shrug, unbothered. "I'm only admiring your generosity." His gaze flicked to me, softer, dangerous in its own way. "Tell me, bella donna, are you enjoying the food?"
Every pair of eyes landed on me. My throat felt raw, but I forced out, "It's… lovely."
"Good," Rafael said, leaning just enough to make Vince notice. "A woman like you deserves the best."
The sound of Vince's palm slamming against the table cracked the silence. Plates rattled, silverware stilled. The men froze, watching carefully, like animals wary of their alpha's rage.
"She's not here for your amusement," Vince said, each word ground out like stone.
Rafael only raised his hands in mock surrender. "Just making conversation."
My heart thudded against my ribs. I wasn't just at a dinner table. I was caught in the center of a war between two predators—and I was the prize.
Anger surged, hot enough to burn through my fear. I set down my fork and looked at Vince. "Am I supposed to sit here silently, like some doll you've put on display?"
The air shifted. Every man seemed to lean back ever so slightly, as if to watch what Vince would do next. His lips twitched into a smile that was more threat than amusement.
"You can speak, Isabella. Just remember who you're speaking to."
My chest tightened. A memory flickered unbidden—my father at our dinner table back home. He would sit at the head just like Vince, his silence a warning, his gaze a threat. My mother's fingers would tremble against her spoon whenever he cleared his throat. That silence had felt like death.
I straightened, pushing back against the ghost of that memory. "Perhaps you should remember that I'm not one of your men to command."
The silence was deafening. Vince studied me, his eyes unreadable, then leaned back with a slow, deliberate smile.
"Brava," he said softly. "You've got spirit. Let's see how long it lasts."
That night, back in my room, I paced the floor until my feet ached. My thoughts replayed every moment, every word. Vince's hand against the table. Rafael's smirk. The way all those men had looked at me as though I was something fragile to be claimed—or broken.
My fists curled until my nails dug into my palms. "What am I doing here?" I whispered to the silence. My chest ached with a familiar heaviness—the same feeling I'd carried all those years under my father's roof. That same suffocating cage, only gilded this time.
"I won't be controlled," I muttered. I wanted to believe it.
A knock startled me. I wiped my eyes quickly and called, "Come in."
The door creaked, and Rafael leaned against the frame, his smile soft but knowing. "Rough night?"
I crossed my arms. "What do you want, Rafael?"
"To check on you." His voice was light, but there was something sharper beneath it. "Vince can be… intense."
"That's an understatement," I muttered.
"You stood up to him," Rafael said, and for once there was no smirk, no teasing. Just something like admiration. "Not many would dare."
"I'm not like the others," I said firmly.
His lips twitched. "No. You're not." Then his tone shifted, darker. "Be careful, Isabella. Vince doesn't take kindly to defiance."
I studied him. "And you? Should I be careful around you too?"
His grin returned, slow and dangerous. "Always."
Before I could reply, footsteps echoed in the hall. Rafael's expression hardened instantly. He straightened, gave me a nod, and slipped out the door.
Curiosity tugged me after him. Against my better judgment, I opened the door just a crack.
Vince's voice carried down the hall, low and sharp. "Stay away from her. She's mine."
Rafael's laugh was soft, mocking. "Yours? She's not a possession, Vince. She has a mind of her own."
"Don't test me," Vince warned. His tone was colder than I'd ever heard. "You won't like the outcome."
A pause. Then Rafael's voice, smooth as sin: "We'll see who she chooses."
My breath caught. A chill ran down my spine. I pressed a hand to the doorframe, heart hammering.
I wasn't just a pawn in their game. I was the board.
And for the first time, I wondered if survival meant learning to play as ruthlessly as they did.
But the thought curdled in my chest, because a deeper truth was already sinking in— I hadn't chosen this role. Someone had placed me here, Vince DeLuca. He would pay for this.