The silk felt like a second skin—cool, expensive, and suffocating. The clothes Dante had provided fit Julian with terrifying precision, hugging his slight frame in a way that made him feel exposed despite being fully covered. As the clock struck eight, the door was opened by two silent, stone-faced men who escorted him down the winding marble staircase to the formal dining room.
The room was lit only by candlelight. At the head of a table built to seat twenty sat Dante.
He looked devastating. In a charcoal waistcoat, with his sleeves still rolled up to reveal the dark vines of tattoos creeping toward his wrists, he was the image of lethal elegance. He didn't look up from his wine as Julian approached.
"Sit," Dante commanded, gesturing to the chair at his immediate right.
Julian sat, feeling like a child playing dress-up in the shadow of a king. The distance between them was mere inches, and the heat radiating from Dante's 6'4" frame was overwhelming.
"Why me?" Julian whispered, his voice trembling as a servant placed a plate of Sarde a Beccafico in front of him. "You have men to do your bidding. You have money. Why keep a student locked in your house?"
Dante finally turned his head. His grey eyes were unreadable, like the surface of a frozen lake. He set his wine glass down with a soft clink that sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room.
"Because the world I live in is gray, Julian," Dante said, his voice dropping to a gravelly low. "It is blood, ash, and betrayal. Then you walked into my sights. You are... vibrant. A splash of color on a dead canvas."
He reached out, his large, scarred hand covering Julian's small one on the table. Julian froze. Dante's skin was hot, his grip firm—a silent reminder that he could crush Julian's bones as easily as he held his glass.
"I didn't ask for a canvas," Julian bit out, trying to pull his hand away. Dante didn't let go. Instead, he leaned closer, his massive shadow swallowing Julian.
"You don't understand the mercy I am showing you," Dante hissed, his eyes darkening. "Outside these walls, my enemies would use you to get to me. They would tear you apart just to see if I'd blink. Here, you are safe. Here, you belong to me."
"I am not a possession!"
Dante stood up abruptly, the heavy chair screeching against the marble. He looked down at Julian, his height making him seem like a literal mountain of a man. The coldness in his expression flickered, replaced by a flash of raw, terrifying hunger.
"In Sicily, everything is a possession, piccolo," Dante rasped. He moved behind Julian's chair, leaning down so his lips were brushed against Julian's curls. "The land, the wine, the blood. And now? You."
He let go of Julian's hand, but the heat remained, branding him.
"Finish your dinner," Dante said, regaining his icy composure. "Tomorrow, you begin your new studies. You wanted to learn about Sicilian history? I am the only history that matters now."
As Dante walked out, his footsteps echoing through the vaulted hall, Julian looked down at his trembling hands. He had come to Italy to find himself, but in this house of shadows, he was terrified he was beginning to disappear.