Amara had never known silence could be so loud.
The car purred smoothly through the city streets, its leather seats cradling her trembling body, but the hush inside was suffocating. Only the sound of her pulse filled her ears—pounding, frantic, refusing to settle.
Dante sat beside her like a shadow given flesh. One arm draped lazily across the backrest, his fingers tapping against the leather as if he had all the time in the world. The other hand held a phone he wasn't even looking at. His attention was fixed on her. Always on her.
She tried not to meet his gaze, tried to fix her eyes on the passing lights outside the tinted glass. The city she knew felt impossibly far away now, blurring into streaks of gold and black as the driver ferried them toward some unknown destination.
I should jump. I should scream. Anything. Do something.
Her hand twitched against her lap, nails digging into her palm.
"Don't," Dante said softly, as if he'd plucked the thought from her head.
Her eyes shot to him. His lips barely moved when he spoke, but the weight of his words pressed down on her chest.
"Doors are locked. Windows bulletproof." He leaned just slightly closer, his breath warm against her ear. "If you try, my men will drag you back before your feet touch the ground."
Her stomach dropped. She glanced at the driver—expressionless, stone-like. In the front passenger seat, another man sat stiff, his hand resting casually on what she prayed wasn't a gun.
Dante smirked, catching her fear. "Smart girl. You know what happens to little mice who squeak too loudly?"
Her throat tightened. "You—you can't just—"
"Can't?" He laughed under his breath, a rich, low sound that made her shiver. "Dolcezza, the word doesn't exist in my world."
The car slowed. They were pulling into an underground garage, sleek black cars lined up like soldiers. The driver stopped before a private elevator. Dante moved first, unfolding his tall frame with deliberate grace. He extended a hand to her.
For a moment she thought it was a courtesy. Then she realized it was a command.
Amara hesitated. His gray eyes sharpened instantly, a warning glinting in their depths.
With a trembling breath, she placed her hand in his. His grip tightened—not painfully, but firmly enough to remind her that he could crush bone if he wished. He led her into the elevator, the doors sliding shut with a whisper that sounded like the sealing of fate.
The doors opened onto a world she had only ever seen in glossy magazines.
Floor-to-ceiling glass framed the skyline like a crown of lights. The walls were smooth stone, the floors polished wood, every piece of furniture an artful balance between minimalism and excess. A grand piano sat by the window as though waiting for its master to return.
Amara's breath caught, not with awe, but with unease. Everything gleamed too perfectly, as if untouched by human hands. It wasn't a home—it was a lair.
"This way," Dante said, guiding her deeper into the cavernous penthouse. He didn't release her hand until he pushed her gently into a high-backed chair at a long dining table.
Amara's nerves prickled. "What is this?"
"Dinner." He shrugged off his jacket, draping it over a chair. "You'll eat."
"I'm not hungry."
He turned, one brow arched. "You'll eat."
Something in his tone made her spine stiffen. His voice wasn't loud. He didn't raise it. But the authority in it left no room for argument.
A moment later, a servant appeared—a silent man in black, who set a tray on the table. Steam rose from plates of steak, pasta, bread still warm from the oven. The aromas curled into the air, rich and taunting.
Her stomach twisted. She hadn't eaten since breakfast, but she refused to give him that victory.
Dante sat opposite her, pouring himself a glass of wine. He lifted it, sipping lazily, watching her over the rim.
"Eat," he said again.
"I told you, I'm not—"
The scrape of his chair against the floor cut her off. He rose, moved to her side, and picked up a knife and fork.
Amara's breath caught as he leaned over her shoulder, his arm brushing hers. He sliced into the steak with unhurried precision, the blade gleaming in the soft light. Then he speared a piece, holding the fork before her lips.
Her face burned. "I said no."
Dante bent lower, his lips a whisper from her ear. "And I said yes." His voice sank lower, velvet laced with steel. "Defy me again, and you'll learn what happens to disobedient pets."
Heat surged through her body—not just fear, but something more treacherous, something she hated herself for feeling. His proximity, his command, the intimacy of it all—it was maddening.
Her lips parted despite herself. He slid the fork between them, his gaze locked onto her mouth as she chewed.
"Good girl," he murmured, withdrawing slowly, deliberately, as though savoring the sight of her submitting.
Amara swallowed hard, hatred twisting with humiliation. "You're sick."
His smirk curved like a blade. "And yet… you obey."
Dinner stretched into a battle of silence, punctuated only by the clink of cutlery. Amara refused to eat more, her defiance stiff, trembling though it was. Dante didn't press. He simply watched, drinking his wine, a predator biding his time.
Finally, she snapped. "Do you enjoy this? Trapping women? Playing god?"
His head tilted. "Playing? Dolcezza, I am god here."
Her hands clenched. "You're a monster."
The word sliced through the air like glass.
In an instant, he was behind her chair. His hand slammed flat on the table, rattling the plates, making her flinch. His other hand seized her chin, jerking her face toward his.
Her heart hammered as his eyes blazed down at her, molten steel.
"Say that again," he whispered, his voice deadly soft.
Her pulse raced, fear choking her—but pride forced her tongue. "You're. A. Monster."
For a beat, silence.
Then his grip shifted, his thumb brushing across her lower lip, tracing it with sinful slowness. He leaned down until his mouth hovered just above hers, so close she could taste the wine on his breath.
"Monsters don't kiss," he murmured darkly. "But I could make you beg one to."
The heat in his tone seared her, wicked and intimate. Her breath caught, shame flooding her body as an unwanted shiver coursed down her spine.
For one impossible moment, she thought he might close the distance, take her mouth with his and claim what fear had already stolen.
But just as suddenly, he released her, stepping back with deliberate cruelty.
The loss of his touch was dizzying.
"You'll learn, Amara," Dante said smoothly, straightening his cuffs as if nothing had happened. "I take what I want. When I want."
Later, he led her down a corridor lined with closed doors. At the end stood one that opened into a lavish bedroom: silken sheets, a view of the city, and a lock that gleamed ominously on the outside.
"This is yours," Dante said, gesturing inside.
Her jaw tightened. "A gilded cage."
His smile was sharp. "Better than a coffin."
She stepped inside, her heart pounding. He followed, leaning casually against the doorframe.
"Rest," he said. "You'll need it."
"For what?"
He smirked. "Tomorrow."
The word was a promise and a threat.
As he turned to leave, her desperation broke through. "Why me? Why not just kill me like—like him?"
Dante froze. Slowly, he turned back, his gaze unreadable.
"Because you interest me," he said simply. Then his smirk darkened, cruel and knowing. "And because of Elias."
Her blood turned to ice. "Elias?"
Dante's eyes glinted. "Your brother."
Her legs weakened. "How do you—"
"Stay quiet, dolcezza," he cut in, his voice like a blade sliding into silk. He stepped closer, towering over her, his words a whisper that burned her skin. "Or you'll learn exactly what happened to him."
The door shut behind him with a final click, the lock sliding into place.
Amara sank onto the bed, trembling, the name echoing in her ears like a curse.
Elias.
Her brother. Missing for months.
And Dante Moretti knew.