Dante
The dream begins in darkness, thick and damp, stone walls cold enough to leech the heat from my bones. I find her there, in the flicker of candlelight, chained to the wall like something precious and dangerous all at once. Her hands are bound above her head, silver links biting into pale wrists. She is breathtaking, even in captivity, maybe especially so.
My Ophelia. My undoing, my obsession.
She looks at me with those almond-shaped hazel eyes, sharp and unyielding, full of fire and loathing and something I can't name. Her lips, plum red, lush, parted in a silent challenge, demand to be kissed, bitten, ruined for anyone but me. Her hair is a waterfall of gold over her bare shoulders, tumbling against the white of her corset. The stays cinch her waist tightly, accentuating the elegant curves of her body, the long, trembling line of her legs sheathed in silk stockings. Even in chains, she's proud, back straight, chin high, daring me to come closer.
I want to be angry. I want to punish her for betraying me, for making me feel weak. But when I step closer, what rises up instead is hunger, a dark, helpless need that gnaws at me in waking and sleeping alike.
I run a hand through her hair, letting the strands slip through my fingers, admiring the contrast of gold against my palm. "You're as beautiful as ever, princess," I murmur, my voice rough with longing and frustration. "Even in chains. Especially in chains."
She glares at me, her eyes flashing. "You're a monster," she spits. "I hate you."
I smile, slow and dangerous, savoring the heat in her voice. "You always say that, Ophelia. Yet here you are, still haunting me. Still driving me mad."
She pulls at her restraints, the movement making her body strain against the corset, her breath coming faster. "Let me go, Dante. Or are you so weak you need chains to keep me near you?"
I step closer, crowding her against the wall, my hand finding her jaw, tilting her face up to mine. "I need you near me, yes," I whisper, letting my thumb run along the edge of her lower lip. "But chains aren't what bind you to me. You know that."
She tries to look away, but I won't let her. I force her to meet my gaze, to see the hunger and the ache she's put there. "I should hate you," I say, my voice barely more than a growl. "But I can't. Not when you look at me like that. Not when you make me want to ruin you and worship you all at once."
She bares her teeth, defiant. "I will never belong to you."
I lean in, my mouth brushing her ear, my breath hot on her skin. "You already do. Even when you hate me. Even when you fight. You're mine, my Ophelia."
She shudders, and I can't keep from running my hands down her arms, over the bruises left by the chains, down to her waist, feeling the warmth of her body, the tremble of her need and rage. I want to kiss her, God, I want to taste the fury and longing on her lips. I want to mark her, claim her, make her say my name like a curse and a prayer.
She never yields. She never begs. She only burns, her hate and desire tangled together, a snare I walk into willingly, night after night.
I wake up, sheets tangled under me.
She's everywhere. In my dreams, in the shadows of every room, in the ache beneath my skin, I can't scrub clean. I see her even when I close my eyes, her hair shining like gold in candlelight, her lips parted in challenge and invitation, the proud line of her back as she tries to walk away from me. I can't stop thinking about her. I don't want to. The more I try to forget, the more I hunger for a glimpse, a scrap, some proof that she's real and not some fever that's claimed me for its own.
I find myself searching. For her scent in crowded rooms, for the echo of her laughter in a stranger's voice, for anything that could lead me back to her. Every woman I pass is a disappointment. None are her. None have that dangerous defiance, that wild, wounded pride. My Ophelia, mine, even if she never says it aloud, even if she hates me for it.
Alessandro de Rossi, the infamous kingpin, lifts his glass to toast a new alliance. The conversation turns, as it always does, to family. Someone passes a photograph of a daughter, lost for decades, miraculously found.
I smile. It's her. Ophelia. The girl who burns in my dreams, the woman who haunts my waking hours, the one I've been searching for without even knowing her name.
The rest of the evening is a blur. All I see is that photograph, all I hear is the echo of her voice, the softest gasp in the dark, the wordless challenge in her stare. When I found out she is De Rossi's daughter, i started plotting. I made her into a bargaining chip, a secret, a prize. Mine.
I won't let her slip away. I won't let her belong to anyone but me. No matter the cost. And just as I planned, I corner Alessandro after dinner, my voice cold and certain. "I want to marry her," I tell him. "You'll make it happen one way or another. You know what I can offer."
His eyes narrow, measuring me, but I see the calculation, the greed, the silent agreement that passes between men like us. He knows my name, my power, what I could offer, or what I could threaten. He knows this alliance benefits him. I made sure of it. He agrees to it. I know it's wrong, but it doesn't matter how she feels, not now. I'll have her. I'll make her see that she belongs with me. I'll tear down anyone who stands in my way, even her father. Especially her father. The obsession is a fire in my veins, an oath I can't break.
She will be mine. Whatever it takes.
Ophelia
The meeting is set in a private room of an old-world restaurant, all dark wood and velvet curtains, the kind of place that feels heavy with secrets. I sit across from the man who is supposed to be my father, Alessandro de Rossi. He's impeccably dressed, every inch the mafia patriarch, his gaze sharp enough to cut glass. For a moment, I just stare at him, searching for any resemblance, my eyes, his jaw, the shape of his hands on the table.
He doesn't waste time on small talk.
"You are a de Rossi," he says, his accent crisp, his words a verdict. "Your mother kept you from me, but now that you are found, you will take your place in this family."
The words sit heavy in my chest, but before I can process them, he continues, "There are obligations. You will marry into the Valenti family. The wedding will be arranged with their eldest son."
The world stops. I blink, certain I misheard. "Excuse me?" My voice is sharp, incredulous. "You find me after all these years just to marry me off? Is that all I am to you, a bargaining chip?"
His eyes harden. "You will do as you're told. The Valenti alliance is necessary."
I push my chair back, rising to my feet, my hands shaking with anger. "So that's it? You drag me out of my life and shove me into another, just so you can make a deal? Is that why you really wanted to meet me?"
He doesn't flinch. "You are my daughter. This is your duty."
I scoff, crossing my arms. "What if I say no?"
For a moment, silence stretches between us. Then he leans forward, voice lower, more dangerous. "If you refuse, I will not hesitate to take everything you love. Your grandparents they raised you, yes? It would be a shame if anything happened to them. You are a de Rossi, Ophelia, and you will do what must be done."
My blood runs cold. I glare at him, fighting the urge to scream, to cry, to throw something, anything, to stop this from happening. I feel trapped, powerless, my choices stripped away before I ever had a chance to make them.
"I hate you," I whisper, tears stinging my eyes. "You're a monster."
He only shrugs, unmoved. "You will thank me, one day, when you understand what it means to protect family."
I turn away, fists clenched, my heart thundering. I want to run, to disappear, but I know now, there's nowhere left to hide.