POV: Dante
The scent of expensive whiskey and stale fear clung to the back room of Club Inferno. The man kneeling on the concrete floor—a supplier who'd thought skimming from the Salvatore family was a viable retirement plan—was sobbing, snot and blood mixing on his ruined lip.
"Please, Don Salvatore… It was a mistake… I'll pay back every cent…"
Dante leaned against the edge of the steel desk, rolling the cold weight of a brass knuckle-duster over his knuckles. The rhythmic click-click-click was the only sound besides the man's whimpers. He felt nothing. No anger. No satisfaction. This was arithmetic. A debt was owed. Payment was being extracted.
This is the world she thinks she understands, a traitorous voice whispered in the back of his mind. This is the monster she sees.
"You'll pay back triple," Dante said, his voice flat. "And you'll relinquish your Brighton Beach routes to Marco by morning. Do you understand the terms?"
The man nodded frantically, blubbering his agreement.
Dante made a slight gesture with his chin. Two of his soldiers hauled the man to his feet and dragged him out, leaving a smear on the floor. Only the distant thump of bass from the club above broke the heavy silence that followed.
Marco, who had been a silent statue by the door, let out a long breath. "He'll run."
"I know," Dante said, placing the knuckle-duster on the desk. "Have Petro follow him. When he tries to board the flight to Miami, make it clear the consequences of breaking a second agreement are permanent."
Marco nodded, his scarred face grim. He didn't move. "Dante."
The use of his first name, not his title, meant a personal matter. Dante braced himself. "What is it?"
"You've been… distracted."
Dante poured two fingers of whiskey, not bothering with a glass for Marco. "The business is running. Profits are up twelve percent this quarter. The Volkov situation is contained."
"I'm not talking about the business," Marco said, stepping closer, lowering his voice. "I'm talking about her. You've been at the mansion for dinner every night this week. You're checking in with Greta three times a day. You're… present."
Dante took a slow sip, the liquor burning a familiar, welcome path down his throat. "She is my wife. Her well-being is my responsibility."
"Her well-being, or her defiance?" Marco pressed. "Leo says she spends all day in the library, barely eats, and speaks to no one. She's a ghost in a haunted house, and you're the one haunting her. And it's pulling your focus. Viktor Volkov isn't contained; he's waiting. He sees a new variable in your equation. A vulnerable one."
A cold, sharp dread—a feeling he'd spent a decade suppressing—coiled in Dante's gut. Marco was right. Viktor would see Isabella as a lever. Volkov's hands anywhere near her and his soulless eyes on her sent a primal, violent rush through his blood so intense that his knuckles turned white around the glass.
She is mine to break. No one else's.
The thought was immediate, possessive, and utterly true.
"She is protected," Dante said, his voice dropping to a dangerous timbre. "The security is impenetrable."
"The security around the house, yes. But what about the security inside her?" Marco asked, his gaze knowing. "A prisoner who wants to die is the hardest to guard. She's fading, Dante. And you're watching it happen."
Dante slammed the glass down, whiskey sloshing over his hand. "What would you have me do? Chain her to a bed and force-feed her? I gave her space. I gave her a choice!"
"And she's choosing to disappear," Marco said softly. "Maybe space isn't what she needs."
The truth of it was a physical blow. He had been handling her as if it were a hostile takeover, attempting to acquire the company through a combination of intimidation and strategic distance. But a company didn't have green eyes that saw through his masks. A company didn't have a spirit that refused to be crushed, even as it starved itself.
"Handle the Brighton Beach transfer," Dante said abruptly, grabbing his suit jacket. "I'm returning to the mansion."
The drive home was a blur of neon and shadow. The usual satisfaction of a problem solved, a lesson taught, was ashes in his mouth. All he could see was Isabella's face at the dinner table, pale and drawn, picking at her food like it was poisoned. She hasn't been eating.
Greta confirmed it the moment he crossed the threshold, her lined face tight with concern. "She refused lunch, Don Salvatore. And dinner is untouched on the tray outside her door. She will not answer."
A red haze descended over Dante's vision. This wasn't defiance. This was self-immolation.
He took the grand staircase two steps at a time, the marble echoing under his heels. He didn't knock. He turned the handle of her bedroom door—their bedroom door, though she'd claimed it as her solitary cell—and entered.
She was by the window, curled in the same armchair, wrapped in a blanket, even though the room was warm. A book lay open but unread in her lap. She looked ethereal in the moonlight and so fucking fragile it made his teeth ache. The dinner tray sat on a table, the silver domes still in place.
"You didn't eat," he said, his voice rougher than he intended.
She didn't look at him. "I wasn't hungry."
"You need to eat." He walked to the tray and removed the dome. Grilled sea bass with lemon, roasted vegetables, and fresh bread. It was perfect. It was cold. "Now."
"I said I'm not hungry." Her voice was a hollow echo.
The fear Marco had planted—the image of her fading to nothing in this gilded tomb—exploded into a torrent of fury. He picked up the plate, strode to her chair, and held it out. "Eat. One bite."
Finally, she looked up. Her green eyes were huge in her thin face, glazed with a detached resentment that was worse than hate. "Or what? You'll add it to my debt? Force it down my throat? Go ahead. It would be the most honest thing you've done since you bought me."
Something in him snapped.
He didn't think. He acted.
With a roar of pure frustration, he hurled the plate across the room. It shattered against the far wall, China, and scattered fish and vegetables in a grotesque mosaic across the Persian rug.
The violent crash shattered her detached calm. She flinched, her eyes flying wide with shock.
Before she could recover, he was on her. He didn't grab her. He planted his hands on the arms of her chair, caging her in, his face inches from hers. He could see the rapid pulse in her throat, smell the faint scent of her shampoo, and see the faint tremble of her lower lip.
"You think this punishes me?" He snarled, the words ripped from a place he'd sealed shut years ago. "You think your silent, starving martyrdom is a weapon against my conscience? You are a fool."
She tried to shrink back, but there was nowhere to go. "Get away from me!"
"No." His voice dropped, trembling with an emotion too raw to name. "You want to hurt me? Then fight me! Scream at me! Throw something at my head again! But this… this slow suicide? Wasting away in my house, using your pain as a blade?" He leaned closer, his breath mingling with hers. "Don't you understand? You are mine. Your body. Your breath. Your pain." He brought one hand up, his thumb brushing roughly over the dark hollow under her eye. "Every time you suffer, tesoro… it's my hands that bleed."
The words hung in the air, a confession he hadn't meant to make. He saw the shock register in her eyes, the detached glaze shattering into a storm of confusion, fear, and something else—something that looked like the first crack in her armor.
He was too close. The heat of her, the vulnerability, and the truth of his words were a vortex pulling him under. He wanted to shake her. He wanted to kiss her until neither of them could remember this toxic dance of pain and possession.