The morning sunlight poured through the villa's wide windows, scattering soft gold across the marble floor. It was too bright, too peaceful for the silence hanging between us.
Dante stood near the edge of the bed, already dressed for the day, black shirt, black slacks, sleeves rolled to his forearms. His tie hung loose around his neck, an unfinished gesture that somehow made him look even more untouchable.
I watched him from the vanity as I brushed my hair, pretending to be indifferent to his reflection behind me.
He spoke first.
"There's an event tonight."
His tone was smooth, businesslike. I didn't turn around. "Another one of your meetings?"
"Not exactly. A private showing. High jewelry." His gaze met mine in the mirror, steady, unreadable. "You'll come with me."
It wasn't a question.
I set the brush down with a soft click. "And if I say no?"
"Then I'll assume you're being difficult," he said, the faintest curve touching his lips. "And we both know how that ends."
My pulse jumped, but I kept my voice cool. "Maybe I'm tired of being your display piece."
He crossed the room in three measured steps. When he stopped behind me, the faint heat of his presence brushed my back. His reflection in the mirror was all shadow and command.
"You're not a display piece, bella mia." His voice dropped to a near whisper. "You're the weapon I wear to remind them I can't be touched."
Something in my chest tightened, anger, confusion, a flicker of something else. "That's not better."
He didn't argue. Instead, he reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small black box. "Then maybe this will make it worse."
He opened it.
Inside lay a necklace, a choker of platinum and diamonds, intricate, almost delicate, but heavy enough to feel like a chain. In the center rested a single ruby, deep as blood.
"It belonged to my mother," he said quietly. "Now it's yours."
I stared at it, unsure what to say. The ruby caught the light, burning scarlet against the white velvet lining.
When he fastened it around my neck, his fingers brushed the base of my throat, slow, deliberate. My breath hitched. The metal was cold, but his touch was not.
"There," he murmured, his voice close to my ear. "Now they'll know you're mine."
I turned to face him, lifting my chin, trying to mask the storm rising in me. "You mean they'll know I'm owned."
His eyes darkened, a flicker of something dangerous and intimate. "Owned, protected, depends on who's asking."
I stepped back before he could say more. "Then I suppose I should dress for the occasion."
He smiled, faint, knowing and left the room without another word.
The door closed softly behind him, and I stared at my reflection again. The ruby glowed like a wound against my skin.
It was beautiful. It was suffocating.
And for the first time, I wanted to see what would happen if I wore it like defiance instead of surrender.
The car glided to a stop outside La Casa di Vetro, a mansion of mirrored glass that shimmered beneath the evening lights. The entire facade caught the glow of Rome's skyline, fractured and dazzling, like a thousand watching eyes.
Inside, the event was everything I expected: polished, perfumed, dangerous in its beauty. Women in glittering gowns laughed too softly; men in tailored suits spoke in smiles that never touched their eyes. Every surface reflected light and wealth, but underneath, I could feel the same undercurrent I always felt around Dante power pretending to be civility.
His hand rested lightly at my back as we entered, the gesture poised and practiced. To anyone watching, we were the perfect couple, the cold prince and his flawless jewel.
"Smile," he murmured, lips barely moving. "They're watching."
So I did. The kind of smile that cost nothing but looked expensive.
Crystal glasses clinked. Laughter rippled. Every step I took drew attention; I could feel it, the weight of eyes on my skin. The necklace, his necklace , sparkled like fire at my throat.
We drifted through the crowd until a voice, smooth and accented, cut through the hum.
"Bellanti."
The man who approached was tall, elegant in a slate-gray suit that fit like a second skin. His dark hair was perfectly groomed, his smile disarmingly warm. But it was his eyed sharp, and assessing that held mine a second too long.
"Lorenzo," Dante greeted coolly, shaking his hand. "I didn't know you'd be here."
"Of course you did," Lorenzo said, his grin widening. "You just hoped I wouldn't be."
Their handshake lingered, a silent test of strength wrapped in charm. Then Lorenzo's gaze slid to me.
"And this must be the famous Isabella."
I inclined my head, polite but distant. "I don't know about famous."
"Oh, you should," he said, his tone easy, almost teasing. "Half the room stopped breathing when you walked in. That necklace, stunning. Bellanti always did have impeccable taste."
Dante's hand tightened on my waist. Barely noticeable. Almost.
Lorenzo's eyes flicked to that subtle grip, amusement dancing there. "You wear it beautifully," he added, his voice dropping just a touch. "But somehow I think the diamonds are the ones lucky to touch your skin."
A soft, practiced laugh escaped me before I could stop it, an automatic reflex from years of polite dinners and social pretense. But Dante heard it. Felt it. His fingers pressed harder, a warning disguised as affection.
"Lorenzo," Dante said, smooth as silk, "I didn't realize you'd turned poet."
"Only when the inspiration's worthy," Lorenzo replied easily.
Their eyes locked, two men smiling, neither friendly. The air between them thrummed with quiet threat.
A waiter appeared, breaking the tension. Lorenzo lifted his glass toward me. "To beauty and danger," he said. "The most lethal combination."
I clinked mine against his before Dante could intervene. "And to men who think they can tell the difference."
Lorenzo's laughter was genuine. Dante's wasn't.
The music softened to a low hum of strings, elegant and steady but under the surface, the tension between the three of us burned hotter than the chandelier lights.
Lorenzo lingered near, refusing to fade into the crowd. Every now and then, he would make a small remark meant only for me harmless on the surface, but sharp enough to make Dante's jaw tighten.
"I'm surprised," Lorenzo said, swirling the champagne in his glass. "You don't seem like the kind of woman who lets someone else choose her jewels."
"I wasn't given a choice," I replied evenly.
His brow arched. "Then the man who did must be either a fool or a coward."
Dante's voice cut through the air, low, controlled, deadly. "Careful, Lorenzo. I'm standing right here."
"Exactly," Lorenzo said, not breaking eye contact with me. "That's why I said it."
The smile Dante gave him didn't reach his eyes. "If you're looking to make a point, make it somewhere else."
But Lorenzo didn't move. He leaned closer instead, close enough that his cologne, something dark and expensive brushed against the faint vanilla of mine.
"I meant no offense," he said softly, gaze flicking between us. "Just admiration. It's not every day I meet a woman who looks like she's learning to love her cage."
For a second, I forgot to breathe.
Then Dante's hand closed around mine. Not gentle. Not rough. Just claiming.
"We're leaving," he said.
"Dante..."
His voice left no room for argument. "Now."
The crowd parted instinctively as he guided me out, his hand firm at the small of my back. I could feel his pulse against my skin, rapid, uneven. It wasn't just anger. It was something darker, hungrier.
The night air hit like cold silk when we stepped outside. The valet scrambled to bring the car. Neither of us spoke.
Inside the sleek, silent vehicle, the tension hung like a blade between us. I could still feel Lorenzo's words echoing, learning to love her cage.
"You were enjoying that," Dante said finally. His tone was quiet, but the edge in it could cut glass.
"I was surviving it," I shot back. "He was being polite."
"He was testing me."
"And you failed," I snapped before I could stop myself.
His head turned sharply toward me, eyes catching the city lights. "Careful, Isabella."
I met his gaze, steady, defiant. "What, are you going to warn me? Lock me away? You can't control what people see when they look at me, Dante. Maybe you should stop trying."
His jaw clenched. "You think I like men looking at you like that?"
"No," I said. "I think you like knowing they can't have me."
The car went silent again. The kind of silence that burned.
His fingers flexed once against the steering wheel, restrained fury. I turned my face to the window, pretending not to notice the storm building beside me.
Because part of me wasn't angry.
Part of me was trembling.
Not from fear but from how alive his jealousy made me feel.
The car slid to a stop at the foot of the villa's marble steps, the engine purring before falling silent. Neither of us moved. The night outside was too still, the silence between us too sharp.
Dante's hand gripped the steering wheel like he was holding himself together. The muscles in his forearm were tight, the veins standing out. His breathing was steady, too steady. Controlled fury.
I waited for him to speak first. He didn't.
Finally, I reached for the door handle. "If you're going to sit there and brood all night, I'll..."
His hand shot out, catching my wrist. "You think this is a game?"
I froze. "What?"
His gaze flicked to me, dark and unreadable. "You have no idea what you just did in there."
I pulled my hand free. "I didn't do anything wrong."
"You looked at him." His voice was low. Not loud. Not cruel. Just… raw.
"So what?" I said, a bitter laugh slipping out. "You parade me around like a trophy, and I'm not allowed to glance at anyone else?"
"That's not what this is about."
"Then tell me," I said, facing him fully now. "What is this about, Dante? Control? Ownership? Pride?"
He looked at me for a long time, so long I almost wished he'd yell instead. Then, quietly: "It's about danger, Isabella. You don't understand what men like him are capable of."
I swallowed, pulse quickening. "And what about you? What are you capable of?"
He didn't answer.
The air between us shifted, thickening. There was something in his eyes, something that looked almost like regret, buried under fury.
He finally spoke, voice barely above a whisper. "You think I enjoy this? That I want to cage you? Every man in that room saw you tonight, and I…" His jaw tightened. "I can't stand the thought of someone else even imagining you're theirs."
The words hit harder than I expected. There was nothing tender in them, just truth. Messy, possessive truth.
I looked away, my voice smaller now. "You can't own me, Dante."
He leaned in, close enough that I could feel his breath on my skin. "No," he murmured. "But I can want you like hell for trying to make me believe I don't."
Before I could react, he kissed me hard, desperate, every bit of tension from the night pouring into it. It wasn't gentle; it was war and surrender, both at once.
I should've pushed him away. I didn't.
The car door slammed open behind me, cool night air rushing in as he drew me out. We stumbled up the stairs, lips still locked, hands searching like we couldn't decide whether to fight or fall apart.
When he finally broke the kiss, his forehead rested against mine, breath ragged.
"This," he said hoarsely, "this is what you do to me."
I stared up at him, angry, breathless, shaken and whispered, "Then maybe you should learn how to handle it."
For a moment, I thought he'd laugh. Instead, he stepped back, eyes burning with something dangerously close to respect.
"Careful, Isabella," he said quietly. "You're starting to sound like me."
He turned, disappearing into the shadows of the villa, leaving me on the marble steps, heart pounding, lips swollen, and no idea whether I'd just won or lost the most dangerous battle yet.