Ishani woke to the sound of the sea. The villa had become too familiar now—the gilded cage that mocked her freedom. Every morning felt the same: breakfast laid out, a guard shadowing her steps, Dante watching her with that unnerving calm.
But today was different.
When she entered the dining hall, Dante was already seated, a chessboard spread across the table between them. The pieces gleamed ivory and obsidian under the chandelier's light. He looked up at her, his expression unreadable.
"Sit," he said simply.
Her brow furrowed. "I don't play."
His lips curved faintly. "Then learn. Life is just a chess game, avvocato. Power is about strategy, sacrifice… and knowing which pieces are expendable."
Reluctantly, she slid into the chair opposite him. The board felt heavy, symbolic, and she hated that.
"White or black?" she asked, folding her arms.
He pushed the black pieces toward her. "You defend. I attack."
The game began in silence. Ishani's fingers trembled slightly as she moved her pawns, but she refused to meet his gaze. Dante played with precision, each move confident, deliberate. He didn't just want to win—he wanted to teach.
"You defend well," he said after a few exchanges, his accent rolling like silk. "But defense only delays defeat. At some point, you must strike."
She shot him a sharp look. "And you think I don't know how to strike?"
His eyes glimmered. "Oh, I know you do. But in this game—" he moved his queen, capturing her knight with ease, "—your victories are mine."
Her jaw tightened. He wasn't just talking about chess.
The match dragged on, tension thickening with every move. At one point, she leaned forward, countering his rook with a clever play that surprised him. His brows lifted, his smirk widening.
"Brava," he murmured. "Finally, you bite back."
She allowed herself a small, defiant smile. "Don't underestimate me, Mr. Moretti. I don't break easily."
He leaned back, studying her with unsettling intensity. "No. That's why I keep you."
The words unsettled her more than she wanted to admit.
In the end, he won, of course. His final move cornered her king with brutal elegance. He didn't gloat. He simply whispered:
"Checkmate."
She pushed the chair back, rising abruptly. "Congratulations. You've proven you're better at moving pieces on a board. What a legacy."
But as she turned, his voice followed, low and dangerous.
"This wasn't about winning, Ishani. It was about teaching you something. In my world, you don't survive by playing safe. You survive by surrendering… or becoming as ruthless as me."
She froze, her back to him, fists clenched.
"You'll learn," he said softly, almost tender. "Whether you want to or not."
That evening, the second game began—not on a chessboard, but at dinner.
Two plates were placed before her: one simple meal, plain rice and dal. The other, a lavish Italian spread—pasta, wine, roasted lamb.
Dante gestured casually. "Choose."
Her eyes narrowed. "What is this?"
"A test," he said smoothly. "Do you cling to what is safe, what you know? Or do you step into my world, taste what I offer?"
Her stomach churned. It wasn't about food. It was about him. About control.
Slowly, she reached for the Indian meal.
His smirk widened, victory gleaming in his eyes. "Ah. Comfort over risk. Predictable."
Ishani's jaw clenched, anger spiking. On impulse, she grabbed the wine glass from his side and took a bold sip, the rich liquid burning her throat. She set it down with a sharp clink, meeting his gaze.
"Don't mistake caution for fear, Dante," she said. "I choose when to risk. Not you."
For a moment, silence crackled between them. Then he laughed softly, darkly, like a man savoring the hunt.
"Good," he murmured. "Very good. You'll make this game worth playing."