The music was louder now. Slower. Heavier. The kind that made people move without thinking.
Mila and Elena were already half-naked, dancing in front of Dante's men like it was the only thing they knew how to do. The men laughed, threw down money, and whispered things into their ears while tugging at their dresses.
Aria didn't move.
She stayed where she was in the corner of the room, hands by her side, eyes forward. Like a statue. But not one built to be admired.
She didn't shake her hips. She didn't smile.
She just stood there.
Eventually, the two men stood up, tossed some cash on the couch, and left with Mila and Elena ,both girls giggling like it was just another night.
The door shut.
Now it was just her and him.
Dante Moretti.
He sat there on the couch, still leaning back, legs wide, cigarette in his hand, watching her like she was a puzzle he wasn't in a rush to solve.
He didn't speak right away.
His eyes moved from her face, to her arms, to her legs, then back up again. Not in a sleazy way , but like he was inspecting something rare.
And then he spoke, low and casual.
"Non balli?"
(You're not dancing?)
Aria didn't answer. Her chest rose slowly. Her hands were cold. She wanted to speak but didn't trust what might come out.
He raised a brow, amused. "Sei muta?"
(Are you mute?)
She bit her cheek but still said nothing.
He laughed softly , not mocking, more… surprised.
He took another drag of his cigarette and tilted his head.
"Come ti chiami?"
(What's your name?)
Still nothing.
So he looked at her properly now.
And she was… breathtaking.
Not the loud, obvious kind of pretty. Not glitter and fake lashes. No.
She had this quiet beauty.
Natural. Real.
Big brown eyes, wide but alert, framed with thick lashes that looked too full to be fake. Her skin was golden-toned, glowing softly under the dim lights.
Her pink lips were slightly parted, pink and cracked from stress.
Her hair was dark, loose, messy like she'd fought someone off before they touched it.
The black dress they shoved her into clung to her figure , curves in all the right places ,but he could see it wasn't her. She wasn't trying to show off.
She looked tired, but not in the way the other girls did. Not… used up.
More like someone who hadn't slept.
And most of all , she looked clean.
Clean body. Clean energy. Clean soul.
That alone made her stand out in this place like she didn't belong. And that fascinated him.
"Tu non sei come le altre," he murmured.
(You're not like the others.)
He leaned forward now, resting his elbows on his knees.
"Hai paura di me?"
(Are you afraid of me?)
Still, she didn't answer. But her jaw tensed. He noticed.
And God, she was brave. Stupid maybe. But brave.
She didn't look away. Didn't cry. Just stared at him like she was planning to run or maybe stab him if he got too close.
Dante smiled to himself.
"Interessante."
(Interesting.)
Then he nodded once, flicked his cigarette into the tray, and said something that made her heart skip:
"Tutti fuori. Lei resta."
(Everyone out. She stays.)
The silence between them stretched too long.
Dante stood slowly, towering over the table now. His cigarette was out. His patience? Getting there.
He walked toward her , calm steps, but something tight in his jaw. Something ticking behind his eyes.
Aria didn't flinch.
He stopped in front of her. Close. Too close. He was tall , way taller than he looked sitting. And broader. Solid like a wall, dressed in blackl.
Her head tilted up just enough to look him in the eyes.
That's when he said it.
"You don't talk to me, I might kill you."
Cold. Direct. No emotion.
Aria's expression changed instantly. Her lip curled slightly , not out of fear, but anger. Disgust. And then… she spoke.
"Yes. Kill me. I'd rather die than expose my body to you."
His brows lifted. Surprise flickered in his eyes.
She spoke English. And not just that , she meant every damn word.
Then came the laugh.
Low. Real. Almost... entertained.
He stepped back slightly, running a hand through his hair.
"Well shit," he said, smirking. "Good. I hate speaking Italian all the time anyway. Never really learned it right."
He sat back down on the couch, legs wide again, one arm thrown over the backrest like he wasn't planning to move anytime soon.
Then he motioned toward her lazily.
"Dance."
Aria narrowed her eyes. "I'm not a dancer."
Wrong answer.
Dante stood again , this time fast.
He crossed the space between them in two steps and grabbed her by the neck , not hard enough to choke, but hard enough to shake her.
She gasped, her hands flying up to grab his wrist, but she didn't cry or beg. Her glare was sharp, wild, burning.
"There's nothing you can do to make me dance." she snapped, breathless.
He froze.
Still holding her.
Just… stared at her. Like he couldn't decide whether to slap her or kiss her.
That fire in her chest? It didn't go out.
She meant it. She was scared, yeah , but not broken. Not like the others.
Dante's lips parted slightly. He leaned in slow, eyes locked on hers. Aria turned her head away, jaw clenched in disgust.
His mouth brushed her chin , soft, just a touch , and he dragged his tongue along the skin gently.
Aria flinched. Her whole body jerked in disgust, but she didn't scream. Didn't cry.
She just glared harder.
Dante's voice was low. Gravelly.
"You'll be mine."
~~~~~
Years ago: Beginning Of Arias Misery.....
Naples, Italy – 2019
Rione Sanità, one of the oldest slums in Naples. Cracked walls. Faded laundry flapping from tiny balconies. Smell of damp cement, old cigarettes, and cheap perfume. The kind of place people don't look back at once they leave. She didn't cry.
She stood there, staring at the grave like it was a stranger's , a name on stone, not her mother.
The cemetery was nearly empty, quiet except for the crows and that one old man sweeping leaves with a bent back. Aria's arms hung stiff at her sides. She hadn't spoken in hours. Her cheeks were dry, but her throat burned.
Maria Bellini.
Beloved Mother.
1975 – 2019.
A liar's stone.
She was never "beloved." At least not by the world. Just another name in the slums , another woman who sold her body and died in some drug-infested room. But she was Aria's mother. That had to mean something. A gust of wind blew dust across the marble. Aria didn't flinch. She didn't say goodbye. Just turned, hands shoved in her threadbare hoodie, and walked away.
Present Day – Five Years Later
The plate in her hand clattered against the edge of the counter, but she caught it fast. Her boss glared. She didn't care.
"Table five," he barked.
"I know," Aria muttered, grabbing two forks and a jug of water.
The small trattoria sat on a cramped street in Centro Storico, the heart of the old city ,where tourists liked to pretend it was still
charming. The truth? The tiles were cracked, the kitchen stank of grease, and the chef had anger issues. But it paid. Barely.
Aria weaved through the tables, delivering food with the kind of polite half-smile that didn't invite conversation. She wore a plain black dress, apron tied too tight, hair stuffed in a messy bun. Some customers looked at her like she was invisible. Others… didn't. She ignored both.
By 8pm, the rush started dying. By 9:30, she was scrubbing tables while her manager chain-smoked outside. The mop water turned gray fast , like always. Her arms ached, but she didn't complain. No one cared anyway.
10:04 PM – Rione Sanità
By the time she got off the tram and stepped back into her neighborhood, the city had shifted.
It was dark, and the streetlights flickered like they were scared too. The old buildings leaned against each other like they were drunk. Paint peeling, shutters broken, windows cracked but never fixed.
Aria walked with her bag hugged close, her eyes forward.
The corner shop blasted some loud Italian pop song. A group of guys laughed near the alley. Probably high. A fight broke out a block away I she could hear the yelling. But no one looked twice. This was normal here.
Then she saw them , the women. The same women who used to call her mother "sister."
They stood outside in fishnets and too much makeup, puffing on cigarettes, talking fast in Neapolitan slang. One of them winked at a car rolling past.
Aria's stomach twisted, but she didn't stop walking.
"Hey, piccola Bellini," one of them called out with a grin. "You look more like her every day."
Aria didn't answer. Just kept walking, faster now.
The worst part? That woman wasn't wrong. She did look like her mother. Same long legs. Same dark hair. Same sharp cheekbones that men used to comment on in all the wrong ways.But Aria wasn't her mother. She would never be her.
She climbed the stairs to her building , a decaying mess of crumbling walls and stained tiles , and unlocked her door. Small room. Peeling walls. One mattress. A dusty kettle. But it was hers.
She locked the door, dropped her bag, and sat on the floor. Lights off.
Just her. Silence. And a hundred thoughts she didn't want to think. She didn't turn on the lights.
The dim moonlight coming through the cracked window was enough. Aria sat with her back against the wall, knees pulled up, her chest rising and falling slow like she was holding something in. There was always something to hold in.
The silence was heavy, but familiar. No TV. No voices. Just the occasional honk from a car down the road or the echo of someone yelling three buildings away. Probably a drunk. Maybe worse. She didn't care. This was her routine.
Home. Quiet. Pretend the world outside didn't exist.
Because if she started thinking too much , about the bills she couldn't pay, the leering men at work, or that stupid comment earlier about looking like her mother , she'd start unraveling. And she'd worked too hard to keep herself together.
She stared at the ceiling.
Her stomach growled. She hadn't eaten since morning. There was instant pasta in the cupboard. She didn't move. Not yet.
Outside, the streets of Rione Sanità kept moving. The slum never really slept ,.it just shifted personalities. Morning was for kids and groceries. Afternoon was noise. Night? That was when the real things came out.
Prostitutes leaned against rusted railings, heels clicking against broken pavement. Motorcycles buzzed past, the riders not bothering with helmets or traffic rules. Music blasted from a second-floor window , some reggaeton remix full of bass and nothing else.
Aria glanced out her window, half-closed with an old shutter that creaked when the wind hit it wrong. She saw the usual crew on the street corner. Girls she knew by name, even if she didn't talk to them anymore.
They laughed. One lit a cigarette. Another adjusted her bra strap like it was part of her routine.
Just another night. But something felt off.
There was a van parked across the street that hadn't been there before. Not flashy. Not clean either. Just… out of place. Two men stood near it, leaning against the side, talking low. She couldn't hear them, but she didn't need to. They didn't look like customers.
One of them looked up suddenly , not directly at her, but in her direction.
Aria flinched, stepping away from the window and pulling the shutter closed.
Her chest was tight now. Not panic. Not yet. Just… a feeling. The same kind of instinct that kept her safe all these years. You grow up in Rione Sanità, you learn to feel danger before it knocks.
She rubbed her arms and sat back down on the mattress.
Maybe it was nothing. But something in her gut whispered otherwise. And Aria Bellini always listened to her gut.
Rione Sanità – 6:07 AM
Aria pulled her hoodie over her head and stepped outside. The morning air was cold and sour, like damp trash and leftover cigarette smoke. She zipped her hoodie up tighter, then locked the door behind her.
The streets were quieter than they'd be in two hours , just the way she liked it. But as soon as she turned the corner, she saw her.
Giulia.
She was leaning against a graffiti-covered wall with a cigarette dangling between two chipped nails, her mascara smeared, lips still red from the night before. Her dress was wrinkled, one strap falling off her shoulder, and her heels looked like they'd barely survived the pavement.
She hadn't changed since they were thirteen. Just older. Just… worn.
"Aria?" she called, raising her brows. "È davvero te?"
(Is that really you?)
Aria nodded slowly, trying not to let her face twist. "Sì, Giulia."
(Yes, Giulia.)
Giulia walked over, her heels clicking with that same ghetto strut she always had , hips swinging like the world owed her something and she was gonna collect it in full.
"Dio mio," she said, taking a drag from her cigarette. "Guarda te , ancora con quei vestiti da brava ragazza. Cos'è, lavori ancora in quella topaia di ristorante?
"
(My God. Look at you — still with those good girl clothes. What, you still working in that dump of a restaurant?)
Aria didn't flinch. "Sì. È onesto."
(Yeah. It's honest.)
Giulia rolled her eyes and leaned in closer, smoke curling between them. "Onesto non ti compra scarpe, bella. Vieni con noi stanotte. Uno di quei tipi con la Mercedes chiede sempre di una nuova. E sei nuova nuova."
(Honest doesn't buy you shoes, babe. Come with us tonight. One of those guys with a Mercedes keeps asking for a fresh one. And you? You're brand new.)
Aria met her gaze flat and unbothered. "Sto bene con quello che faccio."
(I'm fine with what I do.)
Giulia laughed, like it was the funniest thing she'd heard all week. "'Fine'? Dai, Aria. La tua mamma non ha fatto storie, e ha vissuto meglio di noi tutte. Fai la santa, finirai uguale."
('Fine'? Come on, Aria. Your mom didn't make a fuss, and she lived better than all of us. You act like a saint, you'll still end up the same.)
That hit a nerve. Aria stiffened, then gave her a look colder than the morning air.
"Non sarò mai come lei."
(I'll never be like her.)
Giulia's smirk faded for a second. Just a flicker. She looked Aria up and down, then clicked her tongue.
"Vedremo."
(We'll see.)
Aria walked away without another word. She didn't look back and didn't breathe until she was half a block down.