⚜️VELVET RUIN:
CHAPTER 2 – Caged in Silk
The walls of Palazzo Moretti whispered secrets. They bled with ghosts of past sins, soaked in power and perfume and iron. Alessia's heels echoed as she walked down the marble corridor, the quiet rhythm the only sound in the suffocating silence.
She'd showered. Washed Dante's touch off her skin. Scrubbed until her thighs were raw, until her lips stung from the memory of his kiss.
But nothing could rinse out the scent of him.
She was still wearing the silk robe he'd left for her—black, smooth, expensive. It whispered against her skin like a promise she hadn't agreed to. Every step felt like a surrender.
Two guards watched her as she passed the grand staircase, their eyes like gun barrels—cold, trained, indifferent. Not a single crack in their masks. No humanity. Only orders.
She hated how beautiful this prison was. Frescoed ceilings, velvet chairs, gold-veined marble underfoot. It mocked her.
Her fingers curled into the fabric at her waist. Her body betrayed her with the smallest shiver. Not from cold. From memory.
Dante's mouth.
His voice.
His control.
She found the library—massive oak doors and walls lined with books that hadn't been touched in years. Dust and desire hung heavy in the air. And he was there, of course.
Sitting in a leather armchair like he owned the world.
Like he owned her.
Dante looked up from a dossier. "Buongiorno, bella."
She didn't reply.
Her silence struck him like a whip—he flinched, barely.
His jaw tensed. "Sit."
"No."
He stood slowly. Predator calm. That suit again—ink-black, molded to his frame like sin itself. "Alessia."
She lifted her chin. "You abducted me."
He walked toward her, deliberate, patient. "I saved you."
"From what?"
"Your fiancé," he said simply.
She blinked. "Luca?"
"Luca is a puppet," he said, reaching into his jacket. He handed her a photo—grainy, candid, unmistakable. Luca shaking hands with a man in a Russian uniform. "Bratva. Your sweet little husband-to-be is selling off Florence piece by piece."
Her stomach turned. "You're lying."
"Am I?"
Another photo. This time: Luca's hand at the small of another woman's back, mouth near her ear. Intimate. Private.
"I could've just sent these to your father," Dante said softly. "But he's too blind to see the truth. So I took the liberty of removing you myself."
"You had no right."
"I had every right."
She slapped him.
It echoed through the room like a gunshot.
Dante didn't react—at first.
Then, slowly, he smiled. It was the kind of smile men wore before they broke something. "That was a mistake."
He grabbed her wrist—not hard. But firm enough that her breath caught.
"I'm not your enemy," he whispered.
"Then why do I feel like your captive?"
He stepped closer. Her back hit the bookshelf. Leather and musk and danger invaded her senses. His mouth was inches from hers.
"Because you are," he said.
And then—he let go.
As if she burned him.
Alessia stood frozen. Her skin buzzed like it remembered his touch even when he wasn't touching her.
"I should hate you," she whispered.
"Do it properly," he said. "With your whole heart."
She turned to leave.
His voice followed her like a hand around her throat. "Tonight. 8 PM. Dinner."
"I'm not hungry."
"Didn't ask."
The door clicked behind her as she fled.
—
The dress was red.
Of course it was.
It lay on the bed like a threat—blood-colored silk, low-cut, backless, indecent. A pair of black stilettos beside it. Diamond earrings in a velvet box.
She wore it anyway.
Not because he told her to.
Because she knew how to weaponize beauty.
If he wanted a show, he'd get one. But it would be hers.
Her game. Her rules.
When the clock struck eight, she walked down the grand staircase like a queen—no, like a curse.
Dante was already at the head of the long table, pouring himself a glass of Barolo. He looked up. His pupils flared, just for a second. A tiny fracture in the control.
Good.
"Buonasera," she said smoothly, slipping into the chair across from him.
He didn't respond.
Only poured her a glass. His hands steady. His jaw tight.
The table was laid for royalty—gold cutlery, bone-white plates, crystal glasses. Dishes she couldn't pronounce, smells that made her stomach rumble despite herself.
He watched her eat like he was memorizing the way her lips parted around each bite.
She set down her fork. "You said you're not my enemy. Then tell me what you want."
His eyes met hers.
"I want Florence clean. I want the Bratva gone. And I want you."
She laughed. "You kidnapped me to save the city?"
"Don't mock me."
"Then don't insult my intelligence."
Dante leaned forward. "You think I'm the villain."
"I don't think. I know."
"Then let me show you how villains love."
He stood. Came around the table. Held out a hand.
She stared at it.
Refused.
He didn't move. "Dance with me."
"No music."
"I don't need it."
She stood, just to spite him. Let him pull her in, their bodies barely touching. But her skin sang.
Dante's hand settled low on her back.
The other laced with hers.
Their breath mingled. A silent rhythm.
She hated that he smelled like safety and danger all at once.
Hated that her body leaned into him before her mind could scream no.
"Why me?" she asked quietly.
"Because you're the only thing in Florence not for sale."
He spun her—slow, controlled—and when she landed in his arms again, he dipped his head to her ear.
"I could break you," he whispered.
"You already did."
Dante froze.
Their eyes locked. Her mouth was trembling—but not with fear.
With fury.
With lust.
With something darker.
And then—he kissed her.
Hard. Punishing. Hungry.
She clawed at his shirt. Bit his lip. Let him taste the war inside her.
They crashed against the wall, lips bruising, hands desperate. Her thigh around his waist, his mouth on her throat.
And for one terrifying, thrilling moment—she let herself want it.
Let herself want him.
Because hating Dante Moretti was starting to feel too much like needing him.
He pulled back, breathing like a man starved.
"I shouldn't have done that," he said.
"Do it again," she whispered.
But he stepped away.
His eyes were wildfire.
"Go to bed, Alessia."
She straightened her dress. Smoothed her hair. Marched to the door without looking back.
Because if she did—
She might beg.
— End of Chapter 2 —