CHAPTER 6
It wasn't a warm laugh. It was the kind of laugh that made flowers wilt and small animals seek shelter. It was brief, barely a breath, but it was unmistakably real.
"You know what I like about you, Franco? You don't pretend to be a good man. Most people who sit in that chair try to convince me they're victims of circumstance. They plead. They bargain. They cry." He walked back to the table, his steps soundless on the stone floor. "You just shrugged and offered me your daughter like you were returning a sweater that didn't fit."
"It didn't fit. Isabelle never fit. That's rather the point."
Dante placed his hands flat on the table and leaned forward. Close enough that Franco could smell his cologne—something cold and green, like winter forests and bad decisions.
"Here's what's going to happen. You're going to sign a contract. The debt will be cleared—not forgiven, cleared—upon the legal marriage of myself and your daughter. She will become my wife in every sense that matters. Her assets, her income, her future, her body, her time, her obedience—all of it becomes mine."
"And if she refuses?"
"She won't be given the opportunity to refuse." Dante straightened. "I don't make offers, Franco. I make arrangements. Your daughter will come into my custody. If she cooperates, the transition will be smooth. If she doesn't..." He shrugged, a gesture so elegant it was almost beautiful. "I have people who specialize in difficult transitions. People who enjoy their work."
"Kidnapping." Franco said the word without flinching. Without hesitation. Without a single flicker of paternal concern. "You're talking about kidnapping my daughter."
"I'm talking about collecting an asset. You're the one who put her on the table. Don't go squeamish on me now. It would ruin the one thing I genuinely like about you."
Franco considered this. He thought about Isabelle. Her ridiculous taco earrings. Her nervous laugh. The way she'd looked at him when she was twelve years old, still hoping for something he'd never been able to give. He thought about Elena, about his sons, about the life he'd built on the foundation of his first wife's death.
His expression didn't change.
"I'm not squeamish," he said. "I'm just clarifying the terms. Will the kidnapping be traumatic? I only ask because she's very dramatic. She'll probably cry. Fair warning."
Dante stared at him for a long moment. Then he shook his head slowly, something almost like wonder crossing his features.
"You're genuinely remarkable. I've met serial killers with more attachment to their families."
"Serial killers are amateurs. They let emotion cloud their judgment." Franco reached for the contract that Marco had produced from somewhere—the man was like a violent magician—and began flipping through the pages. "I prefer to keep things professional."
He scanned the document with the same casual attention he might give a menu. Paragraphs about marital obligations. Asset consolidation. Legal guardianship. Every word was a cage, meticulously constructed, and his daughter was about to walk right into it.
"Section four, subsection C," Franco said, tapping the page. "This bit about shared assets. Does that include her current savings? She probably has a 401(k). She's always been responsible like that. Irritatingly responsible."
"It includes everything."
"Wonderful. And the debt clearance—that happens immediately upon the marriage, yes? Not some vague 'eventually' situation? I know how you underworld types like to leave loopholes."
"The debt clears the moment the marriage certificate is signed."
"Lovely." Franco pulled a pen from his inside pocket—a Montblanc, very tasteful—and signed his name with a flourish. "I think this is the beginning of a beautiful arrangement."
Dante picked up the contract. Inspected the signature. Placed it back in the leather folio with the care of someone handling a religious artifact.
"One more thing," he said.
"Anything. Within reason. I've already given you my daughter. What's left? My cat? She has a sensitive stomach, you wouldn't want her."
"Your daughter's favorite flower."
Franco blinked. "What?"
"Her favorite flower. Her favorite food. The name of her first pet. The thing that makes her cry. The thing that makes her laugh when she's trying not to. Her childhood fears. Her adult ambitions. The name of the boy who broke her heart. The name of the friend who put it back together." Dante leaned forward, and his eyes were no longer slate. They were flint. They were winter. They were the moment before something terrible happens. "If I'm going to own your daughter, Franco, I'm going to own every piece of her. Every detail. Every weakness. Every secret. You're going to tell me everything you know. And when I'm done, she won't just be my wife. She'll be my creation."
Franco stared at him. For the first time all evening, he felt something that might have been unease. Not fear for Isabelle—never that. But something about the way Dante spoke, the quiet intensity of it, the almost sensual pleasure he seemed to take in the concept of total ownership...
This man wasn't just a criminal. He was an artist. And Isabelle was about to become his canvas.
"I don't know," Franco admitted. "Her favorite flower. I don't... I don't know. Peonies, maybe? She mentioned peonies once. Or was it gardenias? She was twelve. I wasn't paying attention."
Dante's smile returned. Colder. Sharper. The smile of a man who'd just had a suspicion confirmed.
"Then I'll discover it myself." He closed the folio with a soft, final snap. "I've always enjoyed research. The discovery phase is my favorite part. All those layers to peel back. All those secrets to uncover. By the time I'm done with her, I'll know her better than she knows herself. And she'll know nothing about me at all."
Franco rose from his chair, straightening his flamingo tie. "Well. This has been remarkably productive. Should I expect a wedding invitation, or is this a private affair?"
"It will be handled. You'll be notified when it's done. Until then, you'll say nothing to her."