Elena sat in her father's study, the weak afternoon sunlight straining through half-drawn curtains. The dust still hadn't settled after Vittorio's visit—both literally and in her mind. His warning had been polite, almost courteous, but beneath every word had been the crackle of menace.
"The D'Angelos will have what belongs to them, Signorina Marcelli."
Her fingers drummed restlessly on the leather armrest of her father's chair. She had inherited the room, the house, and the debts—but not his power, not his shield. Massimo Marcelli's name had once meant something in Verona. Now it was a weight chained to her, dragging her deeper into waters she barely understood.
Vittorio's last look—measured, almost pitying—had been a knife to her pride. He expected her to cower, to yield. But Elena had lived abroad too long, grown used to choices, to freedom. If the wolves were circling, then she would face their leader directly.
Her decision crystallized with a suddenness that startled her. She stood, pacing the length of the study. The floorboards groaned softly beneath her steps, echoing like whispers.
There was only one way forward: Dante D'Angelo.
The name tasted bitter, yet electric, on her tongue. She remembered him only faintly from Verona's social gatherings long ago—a figure who spoke little but commanded entire rooms with silence. If Vittorio was the polite hand of the family, Dante was the shadow they all obeyed.
Elena pulled the telephone closer. Her hand hovered before she finally dialed the number Vittorio had left on the slip of paper. It rang once, twice. On the third, a smooth male voice answered.
"Signorina Marcelli." No greeting, no name given—only certainty that they knew exactly who called.
Elena's throat tightened, but her voice emerged steady. "Tell Dante D'Angelo I accept his invitation."
A pause, long enough to make her wonder if she had been presumptuous. Then: "Tomorrow. Nine o'clock. The Palazzo D'Angelo. Do not be late."
The line clicked dead.
Elena replaced the receiver slowly, her heart pounding in her ears.
The Palazzo.
Everyone in Verona knew of it—an old Renaissance villa on the hill, restored and guarded, where rumors of midnight dealings and whispered bargains never ceased. To be summoned there was to step inside the lion's den.
For the rest of the evening, unease gnawed at her. She tried to eat but could barely swallow. Tried to read her father's ledgers again but found her eyes skimming uselessly. Every creak of the house reminded her she was being watched.
That night, she stood before the mirror, studying herself. Dark hair falling loose about her shoulders, eyes shadowed from lack of sleep. Not the girl who had left Verona years ago, but not yet the woman who could face men like Dante D'Angelo.
She pressed her palms to the cold marble counter. "You will not break me," she whispered to her own reflection.
And for the first time since her father's death, she almost believed it.
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The road that led to the Palazzo D'Angelo curled like a serpent up Verona's northern hill, cobblestones slick from an evening rain. Elena's taxi labored up the incline, its headlights cutting through the mist that clung to the city's ancient walls.
Through the window, she saw Verona sprawled below—its terracotta roofs glistening, the Adige River reflecting fractured light. The sight should have been beautiful, a homecoming view, but tonight it felt like the glitter of a trap closing around her.
Her driver said nothing, though she caught the way his eyes flicked nervously to the rearview mirror. Locals did not speak lightly of the D'Angelos. To deliver a Marcelli to their gates was not an enviable task.
When they rounded the last bend, the Palazzo emerged from the fog—a fortress disguised as a Renaissance jewel. Wide marble steps rose to carved doors framed by Corinthian columns. The façade was pale stone, its windows glowing amber like watchful eyes. Too elegant to be a prison, too fortified to be a home.
Two guards in tailored suits stood at the gates. No weapons visible, but their posture radiated violence waiting to be unleashed.
The taxi braked to a halt. Elena's heart thudded, but she forced her spine straight as one guard stepped forward. He opened her door without asking.
"Signorina Marcelli," he said, his voice low, rehearsed. "We've been expecting you."
Elena lifted her chin and stepped out, her heels clicking against wet stone. She refused to let them see her tremble.
The guard didn't escort her so much as flank her, as though she were a package being delivered. The great doors opened without sound, revealing a marble-floored atrium lit by chandeliers that dripped crystal like frozen rain.
The air inside was colder than she expected, scented faintly of old wood and something sharper—gun oil, perhaps. She felt every gaze upon her: staff in dark uniforms, their movements precise, each glance a reminder that she was prey wandering into a predator's lair.
At the far end, a man awaited. Not Dante—she knew instinctively. This one was older, heavyset, with thinning silver hair and a ring that glittered obscenely as he gestured for her to follow.
"This way, signorina. The padrone is expecting you."
The corridor stretched long, lined with portraits of D'Angelos past. Men with severe faces, women with eyes sharp as blades. The weight of centuries pressed down with each step. Elena wondered if her father had ever walked these halls—or if his dealings had kept him to shadowy rooms, never here, where the wolves dined openly.
They reached a pair of double doors, carved with intricate vines and roses. The man knocked once, then pushed them open.
"Signorina Marcelli."
The room beyond stole her breath.
It was not a boardroom nor a throne room, but something in between. A long table of dark oak, polished until it shone like obsidian. Velvet drapes drawn half-open revealed the city lights glittering far below. Candles flickered in silver holders, their flames struggling against the weight of shadows.
And at the far end—seated, not rising—was Dante D'Angelo.
Her first sight of him was a blow she hadn't braced for.
He wore black, the suit cut sharply across broad shoulders, the shirt open at the collar. His posture was relaxed, one hand resting on a glass of deep red wine, as if he were at leisure in his own home—which, of course, he was. His eyes, however, were not relaxed. They were fixed on her with a stillness that pinned her in place, assessing, dissecting.
The man beside her spoke again, formal: "The Marcelli heir."
Dante's gaze didn't shift. "Leave us."
The doors closed with a finality that made Elena's breath catch. She was alone. Alone with him.
For a moment, silence reigned, heavy and deliberate. He let it stretch until her pulse roared in her ears, until the urge to speak nearly broke her. Then, finally, his voice slid across the distance—low, smooth, dangerous.
"You came."
Elena swallowed hard, summoning steel into her spine. "You made it clear I had little choice."
The corner of his mouth twitched—not a smile, more the shadow of one. He gestured to the chair across from him.
"Then sit. And let us decide if choice still matters."
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Elena hesitated only a second before crossing the polished floor. The room felt larger with each step, as though Dante's presence bent the space around him. When she lowered herself into the chair opposite, the wood was cold against her palms, grounding her.
For several long moments, he said nothing. He simply watched her—head tilted slightly, wine glass balanced in his hand, eyes so unreadable she hated herself for wondering what they saw in her.
Finally, he spoke.
"You look like him."
The words struck like a slap.
"My father?"
Dante swirled the wine lazily. "Massimo. The same eyes. Though yours have more fire. His, toward the end, had only fear."
Elena's jaw tightened. "If you brought me here to insult him—"
"Insult?" Dante's brows arched, his voice calm as velvet. "No. I state facts. I respected Massimo. He played a dangerous game far longer than most men survive. But all debts come due, Elena."
Her name in his mouth was unsettling. Too intimate, as though he claimed some right to it.
"I know about his debts," she said. "That's why I'm here. To settle them, and be done."
At that, Dante's mouth curved slightly—more shadow than smile.
"You think it's that simple? That a signature on paper will make wolves forget they've scented blood?"
He leaned forward now, resting his forearms on the table. The movement was unhurried, predatory.
"Tell me—did you believe you could return to Verona, touch Massimo's fortune, and remain untouched by the world he served?"
Elena forced herself not to flinch.
"I came to close his estate. Nothing more. Whatever business you had with him died with him."
Dante's gaze sharpened. "Careful."
The word slid out like a knife. Not raised in volume, not shouted—but carrying weight enough to silence her.
He set down the glass.
"You don't yet understand where you sit. This city, Elena, is not governed by the laws you studied in school, nor by the signatures you hope to collect from lawyers. It is governed by power. By the families who hold it. Your father's debts were not numbers in a ledger. They were promises. Oaths. And you, his blood, inherit both the name and the weight."
Her throat felt tight, but pride kept her from lowering her eyes.
"So you mean to threaten me into paying his price."
Dante chuckled, low, as though genuinely amused.
"Not threaten. Offer. You see, I'm not unreasonable. I recognize strength when I see it. You defied me in public, at the café. Most would not dare. You sit here now, unguarded, and you do not cower. Massimo's debts may drown you, but your fire could yet keep you afloat. If you learn when to burn, and when to bow."
Elena's pulse pounded. His words were not simply threats—they were a challenge. A test.
She leaned forward, her voice steady.
"And if I refuse to bow at all?"
The silence that followed was suffocating. Dante's eyes, dark as obsidian, locked on hers. Slowly, deliberately, he rose from his chair.
The movement was fluid, predatory, like a panther uncurling from rest. He came around the table—not rushing, not looming, simply moving closer. Each step echoed. Elena's body screamed at her to retreat, but she remained seated, nails biting into her palms beneath the table.
He stopped just behind her chair, close enough that she felt the warmth of his presence. He bent slightly, his voice brushing her ear like smoke.
"Then, Elena Marcelli… Verona will eat you alive. And I will not be the one to save you."
Her heart hammered traitorously, a mix of terror and something else—something she despised herself for feeling. Heat crawled up her neck, not from shame but from the dangerous pull in his tone.
She turned sharply, forcing herself to look up at him.
"You don't scare me."
Dante studied her face, inches away, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he smiled—a real smile this time, though it held no warmth.
"Not yet."
He straightened, retreating a pace, but the air he left behind still hummed with tension.
"Think carefully, Elena. You have until our next meeting to decide: will you bleed with the wolves, or be their feast?"