POV: Dante
The dress bag hung from the frame of the massive, canopied bed in their bedroom, a slash of black fabric against the dark duvet. He'd had it placed there while she was in the library. He stood by the window, watching her return and freeze at the sight of it, her wariness palpable.
The present is a test, he told himself. For her. This occasion was a test for the family, he reminded himself. For me.
A week had passed since the night on the floor. A week of stifling silence in this shared room, of her retreating to her armchair the moment he entered, of a space that felt both too large and too small. The consummation deadline had come and gone, a silent, unacknowledged phantom between them. He hadn't pressed. The contract could be bent; the raw, exposed nerve her nightmare had revealed could not. He'd seen her fear and his own in response. Forcing her now would be… wrong. A strategic error. That's what he told Marco.
He watched her approach the bag as one would a sleeping viper. She unzipped it slowly.
It was a dress of midnight blue, the color of a deep, starless sky. Silk jersey, deceptively simple, designed to cling and flow in equal measure. It was backless, with a high neckline in the front that would draw every eye to the elegant column of her throat and the diamond necklace—his necklace—she still refused to wear. It was a weapon. Armor and invitation all in one.
She looked up from the dress, her green eyes finding his across the space of their bedroom. "I have a dress."
"You have clothes," he corrected, his voice echoing slightly in the high-ceilinged space. "Tonight, you need a uniform. This is it."
She held his gaze for a long moment, a silent battle. Then, without a word, she took the dress bag into the bathroom—the only private space she had left—and shut the door.
An hour later, as he adjusted his cufflinks in the foyer, he heard her descend the stairs.
He turned.
The air left his lungs.
The dress was a masterpiece for her. It hugged every curve of her slender frame before falling in a soft sweep to the floor. The back was a breathtaking plunge, revealing the elegant line of her spine and the delicate wings of her shoulder blades. Her dark hair was swept up in a loose knot, exposing her neck. She wore no necklace. Her defiance, even now. But it didn't matter. She was a vision of controlled fire and icy beauty.
She stopped on the last step, her eyes meeting his. He saw the nervousness there, the fear of the unknown world she was about to enter, but also a steely resolve. She would not cower.
Marco, standing by the door, let out a low, appreciative whistle, then immediately schooled his features into neutrality under Dante's sharp glance.
"You look…" Dante began, his voice tighter than he intended. He cleared his throat. "Appropriate."
A ghost of a smirk touched her lips. "Appropriate. How romantic."
He closed the distance between them, stopping at the base of the stairs. He was close enough to smell her perfume—something light and floral, not the heavy, expensive scent he'd expected. It was entirely her.
"Romance is not the purpose of tonight," he said quietly, for her ears only. "Survival is. You will stay by my side. You will smile. You will say nothing of consequence. You will be a beautiful, silent extension of my will. Do you understand?"
Her chin lifted. "And if I don't?"
He reached out, his hand hovering just beside her cheek, not touching. A threat. A promise. "Then the consequences will not be mine alone to bear. Your father's stipend, his safety… it is all part of the same ecosystem, Isabella. One weak link, and the chain fails."
He saw the flash of understanding and hatred in her eyes. Good. Let her hate him. Hate was cleaner than whatever confusing tempest had brewed between them on the floor.
"Let's go," she said, her voice flat.
Isabella's POV
The gala was at the St. Regis, a whirl of crystal, champagne, and obscene wealth. But beneath the shimmering surface, I felt it immediately—the undercurrent of something darker. The assessing glances weren't just from society matrons. They were men with cold eyes and sharp smiles, men who shook Dante's hand with a grip that spoke of violence barely leashed.
Dante's hand was a brand on my small back, guiding me and possessing me. He introduced me as "my wife, Isabella" with a tone that brooked no familiarity. I was a trophy, newly acquired, and the room was eager to appraise my worth.
"A pleasure, Mrs. Salvatore," said an elderly man with eyes like chips of flint. Don Moretti, from the wedding. His gaze was avuncular, but it missed nothing. "You bring light to our Dante. He has been too long in the dark."
I murmured a thank you, feeling like an imposter.
Then I saw him.
He stood across the ballroom, surrounded by a cluster of blonde, severe-looking men. He was tall and barrel-chested, with hair the color of steel and a face that looked carved from granite. He was watching Dante with a predator's stillness. And then his eyes—pale, almost colorless—shifted to me. A slow, insinuating smile spread across his face. It felt like being doused in ice water.
"Who is that?" I whispered to Dante.
His hand tightened imperceptibly on my back. "Viktor Volkov. Head of the Bratva. Do not look at him. Do not go near him."
But it was too late. Volkov was already cutting through the crowd, a shark moving toward us.
"Salvatore," Volkov said, his voice a gravelly baritone with a thick Russian accent. He clasped Dante's hand in a show of false camaraderie. "And her name must be the bride. The talk of the city."
"Viktor," Dante said, his voice perfectly cordial, but I felt the tension coiling in the arm behind me. "This is my wife, Isabella."
Volkov took my hand, not to shake it, but to lift it to his lips. His kiss was cold and damp on my skin. I fought not to recoil. "Enchanting. Like a delicate songbird. One wonders if she knows the nature of the cage she sings in."
Dante's smile was a razor's edge. "My wife lacks for nothing. Especially protection."
"Of course," Volkov purred, his pale eyes drilling into mine. "But protection can be so… stifling. A bird might long for a different sky, no?" He released my hand slowly. "Enjoy your evening, krasivaya ptitsa." Beautiful bird.
He melted back into the crowd. My skin crawled.
"I need air," I breathed.
"You need to stay where I can see you," Dante murmured, but he guided me toward the edge of the dance floor as the orchestra began a waltz.
Without asking, he pulled me into his arms. It was the first time we'd truly touched since the night of the nightmare. His hand was firm on my bare back, the heat of his palm searing through the silk. His other hand clasped mine, strong and sure. We began to move.
It was nothing like I expected. He was a flawless dancer, leading with an authority that was impossible to resist. Our bodies aligned, swaying to the music in the center of the glittering, dangerous room.
"You're trembling," he said, his lips near my temple.
"I'm not," I lied. But I was. The threat came from Volkov. The threat came from the hundreds of watching eyes. From him.
"He is nothing," Dante whispered, his breath warm on my ear. "A gnat. He cannot touch you."
"He wasn't trying to touch me. He was trying to get inside my head."
He pulled me closer, so our bodies brushed with every turn. The tension from the bedroom, from the floor, from every charged moment between us, ignited here under the crystal chandeliers. It was in the pressure of his thigh against mine, the possessive spread of his fingers on my back, and the way his dark eyes held mine, shutting out the entire room. The experience was a different kind of possession, more intimate, and claiming than any contract.
I hated how safe I felt in his arms. How my body instinctively followed his lead. How the fear of Volkov faded under the intensity of his focus on me.
"You are doing well," he said, and the praise, grudgingly given, felt like a victory.
"I'm following orders," I replied, my voice husky.
"You are," he agreed, his gaze dropping to my lips. "For now."
The song ended, but he didn't release me. The air crackled between us. I was acutely aware of every point of contact, of the rapid beat of his heart where my hand rested on his chest.
"Champagne," he finally said, releasing me. "Wait here."
He moved toward a passing waiter. As soon as he turned his back, the crowd engulfed me. I felt exposed, adrift.
"A stunning performance, Mrs. Salvatore."
The voice was at my elbow, low and accented. I turned to find Viktor Volkov standing beside me, holding two glasses of champagne. He offered me one. I took it, my fingers numb.
"I don't know what you mean."
"The obedient wife. The dazzling accessory. You wear the role beautifully. He has trained you well in such a short time." He sipped his drink, his pale eyes scanning the room. "He is a collector of beautiful things. But he does not understand they have souls. Wings."
"I have no interest in your metaphors, Mr. Volkov."
"A practical woman. I admire that." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a confidential murmur that made my blood run cold. "Such a beautiful cage he's built for you. Gilded, secure, enviable. But every bird eventually flies… or dies trying. Remember that, ptichka. The air outside the cage can be very, freezing."
He tapped his glass lightly against mine, gave me that chilling smile, and disappeared into the throng.
I stood frozen, the champagne flute slick in my hand, Volkov's words echoing in my skull like a death knell. I looked across the room and met Dante's eyes. He was already striding back toward me, his expression thunderous. He'd seen.
He took the glass from my hand and set it on a table, his grip firm on my elbow. "What did he say to you?"
The ballroom, the music, the perfume—it all blurred into a menacing haze. I looked up at my husband, at the ruthless Don who owned me, and at the man whose arms had just felt like the only safe place in a den of wolves.
"Nothing of consequence," I whispered, repeating his earlier instruction back to him.
But the crack in my armor, the one his kindness had started, now felt like a chasm. And Viktor Volkov had just whispered into the dark of it, promising not freedom, but a different, more final kind of fall.