Bianca's POV
The mirror mocked me.
The woman staring back wasn't me.
A jeweled crown pressed against my forehead, diamond earrings too heavy for my ears, and a gown so glittering it looked like it had swallowed stars. My caretaker's hands moved quickly, pinning pearls into my hair, layering my arms with gold bangles, and fastening rubies against my throat like a noose.
I let her finish for a while, out of habit, not consent. Then, when she reached for another box of ornaments, I caught her wrist.
"That's enough," I said, my voice sharper than I intended.
The woman froze, confusion flashing across her tired eyes.
"Miss Bianca, the clan leaders expect..."
"I don't care what they expect." I turned from the mirror, the silk of my gown hissing against the floor. "Gather my belongings. All of them. I'm leaving."
Her lips parted, but I didn't wait for her excuse. She lowered her head, obeyed, and began to pack.
The door opened, and the air changed. Mabel rushed in, her little hands clutching her doll, with Andreina following close behind. My chest softened as Mabel ran into my arms. I crouched, kissing her forehead, inhaling the sweetness of her hair.
"I'll be back during the weekends," I whispered, squeezing her tiny fingers. "Be obedient to Andreina. Promise me."
"I promise," she murmured, her voice small.
Andreina approached, her dark hair falling over one shoulder, her gaze locking with mine in that way that always carried more meaning than words. She placed a hand on my arm, tugging me slightly aside.
"Remember, Bianca…" her voice lowered, sultry and protective at once, "don't let a man define your body. Don't crave one to feel whole. You're more than that."
Her words settled into me like fire and ice, but I only smiled, forcing strength I didn't feel.
"We'll talk later," I said softly. "Take care of Mabel."
As I left, I caught sight of my father slouched in the corner of the hall, a bottle hanging from his fingers, his eyes clouded with drunken nothingness. He didn't even look up. My chest tightened, but I turned away, shaking my head. His consent, his presence, none of it mattered anymore.
***
The ride into Dante's city felt like crossing into another world. By the time we arrived, dusk had thickened the air, and fire torches burned against the looming walls. A sea of men awaited me, all dressed in blood-red coats, the color as vivid as fresh wounds. Their faces were stern, scarred, merciless. In their hands, not roses but blades, and yet, flowers scattered across the ground in some twisted mockery of celebration.
It didn't look like a wedding.
It looked like an obituary.
My obituary.
The car halted. I stepped out, my heels crunching over petals and gravel. The crowd roared, not cheers, but a guttural sound, primal and violent. Swords lifted, clashing together as sparks crackled into the air. A mafia welcome. A warning.
I didn't flinch.
I didn't smile.
I walked straight through them, chin lifted, each step a defiance.
At the end of the long pathway, Dante stood. A cup of wine in hand, his black suit tailored to perfection, his posture relaxed yet coiled like a predator. He looked at me as though I was already an enemy, a possession, and a challenge all at once.
"Welcome, Mrs. Moretti," he drawled, extending the cup.
I took it, swallowed it in one sharp tilt, dropped the empty glass onto the table beside him… then tore the slit of my gown with one swift movement. The silk ripped open, revealing the leather beneath... a black corset studded with silver, tight pants, and holsters strapped to my thighs. A woman ready for war, not marriage.
The men gasped. A few whistled.
Dante smirked.
He leaned close, his lips brushing my ear as his whisper slithered into me.
"I can see you like it rough."
I turned, meeting his eyes without flinching. "I like it real."
And walked past him.
"Would you like to see our room?" His voice caught me halfway up the stairs, low and teasing.
I stopped, pivoting slowly. "Our room?"
"Yes. Our. Don't look so scandalized." He took a lazy sip of his wine. "Married people usually share."
I stalked closer until my heels clicked against his boots. "Let's get one thing straight, Dante. We are not married. This is a contract. Nothing more."
He arched a brow, clearly amused by my fire. "Contracts can be enforced however I see fit. And in my house, my rules rule."
"And in my body," I snapped back, "my rules rule."
His smirk deepened, devilish. "Funny. You talk about your body like I'm the one mentioning sex right now. You brought it up, not me."
Heat crawled up my neck, but I shoved him lightly, my hand brushing the firmness of his chest. "You're insufferable. I want my own room."
"You can take my room and lock me out, if you're bold enough."
"Oh, don't tempt me," I shot back, glaring.
He tilted his head, eyes glinting with something dark. "Try it. I'd enjoy watching."
One of his men interrupted, carrying my bags. "Boss, where should we put these?"
Dante didn't hesitate. "My room."
I froze, narrowing my eyes at him. "You're doing this to provoke me."
"Or maybe," he said smoothly, "I just want to see how far you'll go."
I hissed. "Dante, I do not give a flying fuck if this is your abode but you would fucking bend to my rules also."
He chuckled. "Men don't bend."
"Don't be sexual right now."
"Shake it off, you aren't all that." he teased.
The room awaited me, roses scattered across the floor, the bed draped in satin sheets, candles flickering low. It was a scene of intimacy, romance… something Dante wasn't supposed to know.
I turned sharply to him. "Who did you plan this for? It's our first night, and you already had someone else here?"
He smirked, unbothered. "You don't want to hear about what's been done on those sheets."
I clenched my jaw. "You're disgusting."
Without warning, he swept his hand across the dresser, knocking the vase of roses to the floor. Petals scattered like blood across marble.
"The woman this was meant for isn't appreciating it," he muttered, lighting his last cigarette. "So I'll trash the idea of being romantic."
I chuckled coldly. "Romantic? You?"
He inhaled deeply, then blew smoke into the air before crushing the cigarette beneath his boot. His eyes locked with mine, sharp as a blade.
"Lay your things. Do what you want with this room. But don't raise your hopes. I'm not here to take advantage of you. Not now. Not ever."
His sudden shift froze me. For once, his voice was cold. Ruthless.
Not playful. Not taunting. Just… ice.
I frowned. "Why are you speaking to me like this?"
He ignored the question, grabbed a blanket, and headed for the door.
"Tomorrow, we begin the plan. Sleep well, Bianca."
The door closed, leaving me in silence. For the first time, I felt something I never thought possible, disappointed that he had left me untouched. This coldness… this distance… it unsettled me more than his flirting.
I turned to the room again. Despite the roses on the floor, the place was a masterpiece. Dark mahogany walls lined with shelves of rare books, a chandelier dripping crystals, a king-sized bed dressed in deep crimson satin, black silk curtains flowing from ceiling to floor. It was masculine, dangerous, and yet strangely intimate.
I sighed, sinking onto the bed. The sheets smelled faintly of smoke and something darker. As my fingers brushed the fabric, I wondered why a man like Dante, ruthless, merciless would ever design a room that whispered passion.
And why, despite myself, I already dreaded the morning.