Liliana woke to the scent of coffee and gun oil.
For one disoriented heartbeat she thought she was still in her old bedroom, the one with the pale-pink walls and the crucifix above the door. Then pain flared between her thighs, sharp and undeniable, and memory crashed over her like cold water.
She was naked. The sheets beneath her were damp with last night's sins. A dull, throbbing burn radiated from the small of her back where he had carved his initials into her skin. When she shifted, the raw wounds pulled and she bit back a whimper.
The bedroom was flooded with winter-pale morning light. The crimson duvet had slipped to her waist. Bruises bloomed across her breasts like dark roses; fingerprints ringed her hips. Between her legs she was sticky, swollen, ruined.
And Dante Moretti was watching her from the doorway.
He leaned against the frame, shirtless, black suit trousers riding low on his hips. A steaming espresso cup rested in one hand; the other held a matte-black pistol he was cleaning with slow, intimate strokes of an oiled cloth. The morning light carved every line of muscle across his chest and stomach, the black-ink roses that crawled over his ribs, the faint white scars that told stories she didn't want to know.
His gaze tracked the exact moment she realized she was exposed.
"Good morning, wife," he said, voice still rough from sleep and sex. He took a sip of espresso, eyes never leaving her body. "Sleep well?"
She yanked the duvet up to her chin. The movement made the brand scream. "Don't call me that."
A faint smile curved his mouth. "You'll get used to it." He set the cup on the dresser, laid the gun beside it with reverence, and crossed the room in three silent strides.
She tried to scramble back. The headboard stopped her.
Dante sat on the edge of the bed, reached out, and tugged the duvet down to her waist again. Cool air kissed her nipples; they tightened instantly. His gaze darkened.
"Hands above your head," he ordered softly.
She glared at him through tears she refused to let fall. "No."
His smile vanished. He caught her left wrist, forced it up, and snapped a wide leather cuff around it before she could fight. The chain attached to the headboard rattled. He secured the right wrist just as fast.
In seconds she was stretched out beneath him, arms spread, breasts lifted, completely helpless.
Only then did he speak again.
"Every morning you wake up in this bed," he said, tracing one bruise on her collarbone with a single fingertip, "you will present yourself for inspection. If I like what I see, you get coffee and maybe an orgasm. If I don't…" He shrugged. "You don't."
He stood, walked to the foot of the bed, and looked his fill. She burned crimson under the scrutiny.
"Spread your legs."
She clamped her thighs together.
Dante sighed, the sound of a man whose patience had already been tried by lesser things than a defiant virgin. He gripped her ankles, forced them apart until she was completely open to him. Cool air hit the tender, abused place between her legs and she couldn't stop the broken sound that escaped.
He studied her like a collector admiring a new acquisition.
"Still bleeding a little," he murmured, almost tender. "Good. I like knowing I marked you inside and out."
He released her ankles but she didn't dare close her legs. Not yet.
From the nightstand he produced a small glass vial of clear oil and a folded white towel. He poured a few drops into his palm, rubbed his hands together, then began to massage the oil gently over the carved D.M. on her lower back. The touch was clinical at first, then softer, almost reverent. The oil cooled the burn, turned it into a slow, pulsing heat that arrowed straight between her legs.
She hated that her hips rolled involuntarily.
"Sensitive," he noted, approval thick in his voice. "Perfect."
When he finished, he wiped his hands on the towel and tossed it aside.
"Breakfast," he announced, as if he hadn't just chained and inspected her like property. He unhooked a silk robe the color of fresh blood from the back of the door and dropped it over her body without unfastening the cuffs. The fabric whispered across her nipples and she shivered.
He unchained her wrists, massaged the faint red marks with his thumbs, then pulled her upright. The robe gaped open; he didn't bother tying it.
"Come."
He led her barefoot through the penthouse. The floors were heated marble, but she still felt every step like judgment. The living room was stark, masculine, lethal: black leather, steel, a wall of screens showing security feeds. One screen froze her blood: her childhood bedroom, empty, the crucifix torn from the wall.
He noticed where her gaze had gone.
"I had it burned," he said conversationally. "Along with every photograph of you that ever existed outside this apartment. From this morning forward, the only record of Liliana Rossi is the one I keep between these walls. And between your legs."
He seated her at a glass dining table already set for one. Espresso, fresh berries, warm croissants. No plate for him.
He stood behind her chair, one hand resting possessively on her nape.
"Eat."
She didn't move.
His fingers tightened. "You'll need strength for what I have planned today."
Her stomach twisted. "Which is?"
A soft laugh against her ear. "First, a doctor. To make sure I didn't tear my new toy beyond repair." His thumb stroked the bite mark on her shoulder. "Then a jeweler. You'll wear my ring on your finger and my collar around your throat before the sun sets. After that…" His teeth grazed her earlobe. "I'm going to fuck you on every surface in this apartment until the only name you remember is the one carved into your skin."
He released her, stepped back.
"Eat, Liliana. You have twenty minutes."
He walked away, already on the phone in rapid Italian, voice clipped and lethal.
She stared at the untouched food.
Twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes to decide whether to swallow her pride with the coffee… or find something sharp and cut his throat while he wasn't looking.
She glanced toward the kitchen island. A block of knives glinted in the morning light.
Dante's voice drifted back from the hallway, calm and amused, as if he'd read her mind.
"Try it, amore. I'll enjoy punishing you twice as much."
She picked up the espresso with shaking hands and drank.