The heavy oak door didn't creak when it opened; it simply yielded.
Elara didn't need to look up to know who had entered. The very atmosphere of the study shifted, the air growing dense and pressurized, as if a storm front had moved into the small, wood-paneled room. The scent of rain, expensive cedarwood, and a faint, sharp metallic tang—the scent that always clung to him—announced his arrival before his shadow even touched her feet.
Dante Moretti didn't walk so much as he prowled, a predator who owned every inch of the earth he stepped upon. He was, quite unfairly, the most beautiful thing Elara had ever seen, and that beauty only made him more terrifying. His features were carved from cold, pale marble: a jawline that could cut glass, a straight, aristocratic nose, and lips that rarely bothered to curve into a smile. His dark hair was pushed back, still slightly damp from the Chicago drizzle, revealing the sharp, intelligent brow of a man who played life like a game of chess where everyone else was merely a pawn.
He stopped five paces away from her. He didn't crowd her, but his presence was so absolute that the room felt half its size.
"Silvio said you agreed," Dante said. His voice was a low, resonant baritone that vibrated in Elara's chest, devoid of the frantic desperation that had colored her uncle's tone. It was steady. Dead. Like a heartbeat that had forgotten how to race.
Elara looked up at him, her fingers digging into the velvet of the armchair. "I didn't have much of a choice, did I? It was you or the Romanos."
Dante's eyes—obsidian pools that seemed to swallow the light—roved over her face. He noted the tear tracks, the trembling of her lower lip, and the way she pulled her silk robe tighter around her shoulders. He didn't offer a handkerchief. He didn't offer a hug. He simply watched her with a clinical, detached intensity.
"Choice is a luxury for those who don't have empires to lose, Elara," he said smoothly. He moved to the sideboard, his movements fluid and graceful despite his massive frame. He poured a glass of water, his large, scarred hand steady as a rock, and brought it over to her. "Drink. You're hyperventilating."
"I am not," she lied, though her chest was heaving.
"Your pulse is visible in your throat," he countered, his voice dropping an octave. He held the glass out until she took it, her fingers brushing his. His skin was unnervingly warm compared to her own ice-cold hands. "I am not your enemy. I have never been your enemy."
"You're a hitman, Dante," she whispered, taking a shaky sip of the water. "You're the man people call when they want someone to disappear. And now I'm supposed to call you 'husband'?"
Dante pulled out the chair opposite her and sat. He didn't lounge; he sat with the coiled tension of a spring. He looked at the portrait of Elara's father hanging on the wall—the man he had served for twenty years.
"Your father knew this day might come," Dante began, his expression unreadable. "Long before the Romanos got ambitious, he sat me down in this very room. He knew the vultures would circle the moment his heart stopped. He didn't trust Silvio to hold the line. He didn't trust the captains."
Dante turned his gaze back to her, and for a fleeting second, the coldness in his eyes flickered with something darker, something ancient. "He told me that if he were ever taken off the board, his legacy—and his daughter—were to become my sole responsibility. He told me that if the only way to keep you safe and the Moretti name intact was through a marriage contract, then I was to claim you."
Elara's breath hitched. "He... he planned this? He gave me to you?"
"He gave me his name first," Dante said, his voice level. "I was a boy from the gutters with nothing but a knife and a lack of conscience. Your father gave me the Moretti name. He gave me a life. Marrying you isn't just a tactical move, Elara. It is me returning the favor. It is me ensuring that the bloodline he built stays protected by the only man he knew wouldn't betray it."
Elara looked away, her heart aching. "So I'm just a debt? A way for you to settle a balance with a dead man?"
Dante was silent for a long moment. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner felt like a countdown.
"You are whatever you need to be to survive this," he said eventually. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, bringing his face closer to hers. Up close, he was devastating. The sheer symmetry of his face, the thickness of his lashes, the dangerous power radiating from him—it was overwhelming.
"I heard your condition," he continued, his gaze dropping to her mouth for a fraction of a second before returning to her eyes. "About the rooms."
Elara stiffened. "And?"
"And I agree," he said simply. "I am a man of my word, Elara. If you want your own wing of the house, you shall have it. If you want a door with a lock that I do not possess a key to, I will have it installed by morning. I will not force myself upon you.I am your shield, not your shadow-dweller."
He stood up, towering over her once more, the sheer physical scale of him making her feel small and fragile.
"You are eighteen. You are frightened. And you have just lost your father," he said, his voice lacking emotion but holding a strange, grounded weight that started to settle her frantic nerves. "I do not expect you to love me. I do not even expect you to like me. But you will respect the protection I provide. Outside those doors, you are the Queen of this city because you belong to me. Inside this house... you are as free as you choose to be."
He reached out, his hand hovering near her cheek. For a heartbeat, Elara thought he might touch her, and her heart skipped a beat—half in fear, half in something she didn't want to name. But he pulled back, his hand dropping to his side.
Dante said, his mask of cold indifference firmly back in place. "Take as long as you need to composed yourself. But remember, Elara—every minute we delay is a minute the Romanos use to plan their next move. I can protect you from a bullet, but I cannot protect you from a life of running if we don't end this tonight."
He turned to leave, his black coat billowing slightly behind him.
"Dante?" she called out, her voice small.
He paused at the door, but didn't turn around. "Yes?"
"Why you?" she asked. "Why did my father trust you above everyone else? He knew what you were. He knew they called you the Butcher."
Dante looked over his shoulder, a ghost of a dark, haunting smile touching his lips—a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Because, Elara," he whispered, "a Butcher knows exactly how to keep the other wolves away from the lamb. They're afraid of the knife I carry. And they're even more afraid of the man who knows how to use it."
With that, he stepped out into the hallway, leaving her in the deafening silence of the study. Elara looked at the glass of water in her hand. Her reflection was pale, haunted, and utterly changed.
She was about to marry a monster to stay alive. And the worst part? For the first time since the gunshots started, she actually felt safe.