The red silk pooled around Elena's feet like spilled blood. She stood before the full-length mirror set into the wardrobe door, staring at a reflection she barely recognized. The dress was a masterpiece of calculated seduction: backless, plunging low to graze the curve of her spine, held up by fragile straps that bit into her shoulders. The front appeared almost modest until it clung to her breasts and waist with possessive precision, mirroring the man who had chosen it.
Elena lifted her left hand. The diamond ring caught the chandelier's light, scattering fractured rainbows across the room. It felt impossibly heavy, a cold anchor dragging at her finger.
She was no longer Elena Rossi, the starving art student scraping by in a crumbling apartment. She was a doll in an elaborate dollhouse.
But now she was a doll with a secret.
The conversation she had overheard through the vents still echoed in her mind, louder than her pounding heart: She has no idea about the bloodline… The heir to the Sicilian estate.
Dante Rossi didn't merely want a wife. He wanted ownership of her, of a legacy that apparently ran through her veins. A legacy her father had never mentioned, that her mother had carried to her grave.
Elena drew a steadying breath. The tight silk resisted, pressing against her ribs.
If he wanted a performance, she would give him one. She would wear the dress, the ring. She would sit at his table and smile. She had to survive long enough to uncover the truth and she couldn't do that from a dungeon cell.
A sharp knock sounded at the door.
It wasn't Dante's measured, terrifying rap. This was brisk, efficient like the knock of a staff.
"Enter," Elena called, surprised by the steadiness of her voice.
Maria bustled in. The housekeeper stopped short at the sight of Elena. Her usually hard, judgmental eyes widened fractionally as they traveled from the glittering diamond to the hem of the crimson dress.
"He has good taste," Maria muttered, closing the door. "And you clean up well. You look like a Rossi now."
The name sent ice through Elena's veins. "Is it time?"
"He's waiting." Maria stepped closer and adjusted one of the delicate straps, her rough fingers brushing Elena's skin. "A warning, child. Do not test him tonight. He's been on the phone with the Commission. His mood is volatile."
Elena met the older woman's gaze. "Does he hurt you, Maria?"
Maria snatched her hand back as though burned.
"He pays me," she said flatly. "In this world, protection is worth more than kindness. Come."
Elena followed her into the hushed corridor. The house felt oppressively silent, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath. They descended the grand staircase, Elena's hand trailing the smooth mahogany banister. She glanced down at the foyer and remembered her failed escape—the red blink of the security camera still watching from the wall.
I see you, it seemed to whisper. I always see you.
At the bottom of the stairs they turned left, entering a wing Elena had never seen. The dining room was vast and somber, its walls covered in dark green velvet that swallowed the light. A long ebony table stretched down the center, gleaming like black glass. It was set for twelve, yet only two places held silverware and crystal: one at the head, one immediately to its right.
Dante was already there.
He stood by the fireplace at the far end, back to the door, flames casting long shadows that stretched from him like dark wings. He swirled a glass of red wine with rhythmic precision.
"Don Rossi," Maria announced. "Your guest."
Dante turned.
The air seemed to vanish from the room.
He froze, gray eyes locking onto Elena. Slowly he lowered his glass, gaze traveling from her hair down the line of her throat, over the silk molding her hips, to the tips of her bare feet.
It was not admiration. It was hunger like the look of a starving wolf sizing up prey.
Heat flooded Elena's cheeks. She wanted to fold her arms across her chest, to hide, but she forced herself to stand straight. Rule one: Obedience. Rule two: Availability.
"Thank you, Maria," Dante said, voice low and rougher than usual. "You may leave us."
Maria dipped her head and retreated, pulling the heavy double doors closed.
They were alone.
Dante set his glass on the mantel and approached with deliberate, predatory steps. His polished shoes echoed in the cavernous space.
He stopped inches away. Elena had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. He smelled of whiskey, expensive cologne, and something electric like ozone before a storm.
"Turn around," he commanded.
She hesitated only a heartbeat before obeying.
His fingers brushed the exposed skin of her back. She shivered. His touch was cool against the room's warmth as he traced her spine from nape to the small of her back where silk resumed.
"Beautiful," he murmured, breath warm against her ear. "You wear my colors well, Elena."
"Red?" she asked, voice trembling.
"Blood," he corrected.
He turned her to face him again. His pupils were blown wide, gray irises nearly swallowed by black.
"Sit."
He pulled out the chair to his right. Elena lowered herself onto the cold wood; the thin silk offered no barrier. Dante pushed the chair in, his body briefly caging hers before he circled to the head of the table.
A side door opened. A young waiter in white entered silently, placed covered plates before them, poured wine, and vanished.
Elena stared at her dinner: filet mignon seared rare, flanked by roasted asparagus and truffle mashed potatoes. The aroma was exquisite, but anxiety knotted her stomach.
"Eat," Dante said.
He cut into his steak with surgical grace. Dark red juice pooled on the porcelain.
Elena reached for her water glass instead of the wine. The diamond clicked softly against crystal.
She eyed the meat—too red, too raw. It evoked the violence in her old apartment, the predator beside her.
"I'm not hungry," she whispered.
Dante paused mid-chew, swallowed deliberately, and set down his knife.
"We discussed this, Elena. You're too thin. You wasted away in that hovel. My wife does not look half-starved."
"I can't." She nudged the plate away. "My stomach hurts."
"It hurts because it's empty." His tone was patient, almost gentle and dangerously so. "Eat the meat. Iron. You need strength."
She shook her head. "Please. Just bread? Or salad?"
The temperature in the room seemed to plummet.
"You are testing me," he said softly. "On your first night as my wife."
"I'm not" Her heart hammered. "I'm simply not hungry for steak."
Dante rose. The scrape of his chair was jarringly loud.
Elena flinched, pressing back.
He rounded the table and loomed over her, shadow swallowing her plate.
"I gave you four rules, Elena. Do you remember the first?"
"Obedience," she breathed.
"Obedience."
He picked up her fork, speared a large piece of rare steak, and held it before her.
"Open."
The meat dripped a single crimson bead onto the pristine cloth. Humiliating like feeding a child.
"No."
His left hand flashed out, fingers clamping her jaw with bruising force, prying her mouth open.
He leaned close; she saw rage flicker in his eyes and beneath it, unmistakable arousal. Control intoxicated him.
"When I tell you to eat," he hissed, "you eat."
He shoved the fork between her teeth. Metal clinked. Rich, salty, metallic flavor flooded her tongue.
"Chew."
He released her jaw but hovered, threat implicit.
Tears stung Elena's eyes as she chewed and swallowed. The morsel sat like stone in her gut.
Dante smiled—dark, satisfied.
"See? Not so difficult."
He cut another piece.
"Again."
This time she opened without protest. Resistance was futile; he was stronger, faster. And Marco's safety hung in the balance.
He fed her bite by methodical bite steak, potatoes, asparagus. An intimate, perverse ritual: nurturing and domination intertwined.
When half the plate was empty, he finally set the fork aside.
"Good girl." He wiped a trace of sauce from her lower lip with his thumb, lingering, pressing lightly. The air crackled. Elena's breath caught; she braced for the kiss, the "payment" he'd mentioned.
Instead he withdrew and returned to his seat, resuming his own meal as though nothing extraordinary had occurred.
Elena sat rigid, hands trembling in her lap. He had stripped her of autonomy over the simplest act—eating. Violation without a single blow.
"So," Dante said conversationally, slicing his steak, "tell me about your art."
The shift left her reeling.
"My art?"
"Yes. I saw the canvas in your apartment. Dark. Chaotic."
"It was a storm," she said quietly.
"It was anger." He sipped his wine. "You have fire in you, Elena. I like that."
He leaned forward slightly.
"I've commissioned a studio in the west wing. North-facing windows with a perfect light. I've stocked it with everything you could need."
Elena looked up, startled. "A studio?"
"A bored wife is a dangerous wife." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "And I'm curious what you'll create when you're no longer starving. When you're mine."
He held her gaze.
"Paint me, Elena. Paint this house. Paint what you truly feel. No pretty flowers. I want your soul laid bare on canvas."
"I'll paint a cage," she said, the words escaping before caution could stop them.
"Then paint a cage." He shrugged. "So long as you understand you're the bird inside it."
He glanced at his watch.
"Dinner is over. I have business in the city. I'll be late. Return to your room and stay there."
He studied her plate.
"You did well tonight. Imperfect but well."
He approached again. Elena tensed.
Instead of force, he bent and brushed a kiss against her hair, lips warm.
"Sleep well, Mrs. Rossi," he whispered.
Then he was gone, heavy doors booming shut behind him.
Silence flooded back, thick and oppressive.
Elena rose on unsteady legs and left the dining room. The hallway camera blinked its red eye. She climbed the stairs, clutching the banister, weighed down by food and fear.
Her bedroom door stood unlocked, as promised. She stepped inside; the automatic lock clicked behind her.
Safe for now.
She crossed to the window and parted the curtain.
Below, Dante's black SUV idled in the drive. He emerged from the house flanked by guards, climbed in, and disappeared down the tree-lined lane, taillights swallowed by night.
He was gone.
Elena exhaled shakily.
As she turned toward the bed, movement caught her eye.
She froze, looked again.
The dogs paced near the back patio but beyond them, at the far end of the garden, the small service gate stood ajar. Just a sliver of darkness in the perimeter wall.
An oversight? A careless guard?
Or a trap?
Her gaze dropped to the window latch.
Earlier it had been sealed.
Now it hung loose, unengaged.
Dante was gone. Guards focused on the front. Dogs distant from the garden wall.
And the window was unlocked.
Too easy. Suspiciously easy.
Paint a cage, he'd said. As long as you understand you are the bird inside it.
But birds could fly.
She glanced at the diamond weighing her finger.
Stay, and she was his wife, his heir, his possession.
Flee, and…
She kicked off her heels. The red silk whispered to the floor.
She pulled on the black slacks and gray sweater from earlier, dressing with trembling haste.
She returned to the window and pushed the sash upward.
Cold night air rushed in, carrying the scent of rain and distant freedom.
Elena climbed onto the sill, looked into the void below.
There was a sturdy ivy-covered trellis a few feet to the right.
She didn't know if she would survive the drop, if the dogs would scent her, if guards waited in the shadows.
But she knew one thing with absolute certainty:
She would not sit meekly waiting for him to return and force another bite past her lips.
She reached for the ivy.
And jumped.