The ballroom was a glittering ocean of wealth and power. I clung to Dante's arm like a life raft, my practiced smile feeling brittle on my lips. He guided me through the throng, a king moving through his court, introducing me to men with deceptively friendly smiles and cold, calculating eyes. I played my part, shaking hands and murmuring polite greetings, all while my mind was a frantic whirl of analysis, trying to separate the predators from the merely powerful.
Our first test came in the form of an older, kindly-looking couple, their faces etched with the easy confidence of old money. "Dante, my boy!" the man boomed. "And this must be the lovely bride we've heard so much about." The wife's eyes twinkled. "You must tell us, how did you two meet? It was all so sudden!"
I froze. We hadn't rehearsed this. My mind went completely blank. Before the silence could become awkward, Dante's hand tightened on the small of my back, a silent command to follow his lead.
He gave the couple a charming, almost boyish smile that was so out of character it was jarring. "It's a bit embarrassing, actually," he began, his voice smooth as velvet. "I was rushing to a meeting, and this beautiful woman wasn't looking where she was going. She spilled an entire latte down the front of my suit." He looked down at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a perfect imitation of affection. "I was ready to be furious. But then I looked at her, and I knew immediately she was someone special."
The couple was utterly charmed. I quickly recovered, playing along. "I was mortified! I thought he was going to have me arrested," I added, forcing a light laugh. "I offered to pay for the dry cleaning, and he insisted on taking me to dinner as compensation instead."
"And the rest is history," Dante finished, his gaze lingering on me for a beat too long. The couple cooed their approval and moved on.
As soon as they were out of earshot, Dante leaned in, his voice a low whisper against my ear. "Quick thinking." It was the first time he'd offered even a hint of approval, and the unexpected praise sent a confusing warmth through my chest.
The night wore on, a blur of champagne and forced smiles. At one point, while Dante was occupied in a hushed conversation, a young, slick-haired businessman approached me. He was handsome, arrogant, and clearly hadn't gotten the memo about who I belonged to.
"I don't believe we've met," he said, his eyes roaming over me in a way that made my skin crawl. "I'm sure I would have remembered a face like yours." He gave me a lazy smile. "How about a dance?"
Before I could formulate a polite refusal, a cold presence materialized at my side. Dante. He didn't even look at the man; his stormy eyes were fixed on me. "My wife," he said, his voice dangerously soft, "doesn't dance with other men."
The possessiveness in his tone was absolute. The young man's face paled, his arrogant smirk vanishing. "Mr. Russo. My apologies. I didn't realize—"
"You realize now," Dante cut him off. The man practically tripped over his own feet in his haste to get away.
I turned to Dante, annoyed. "I could have handled that myself."
He finally looked at me, his expression unreadable. "You're mine tonight, Ella. Act like it."
That word—*mine*—did something strange to my stomach, a nervous flutter that I hated myself for feeling.
Just then, a ripple of commotion went through the crowd near the entrance. A woman had arrived, and she was a vision. Tall, impossibly beautiful, and poured into a blood-red dress that commanded attention. People began to whisper, their eyes darting between the woman, Dante, and me.
"Who is that?" I asked, a knot of unease tightening in my gut.
Dante's jaw clenched, a muscle ticking almost imperceptibly. "No one important," he said, but the sudden tension in his body told a different story.
The woman in red began to move through the crowd, her destination clear. She stopped directly in front of us, her eyes, the color of dark chocolate, fixed on Dante.
"Dante. It's been a while," she said, her voice sultry and laced with a familiarity that grated on my nerves. Her gaze then slid to me, a slow, dismissive appraisal from head to toe. "And this must be the… new wife. How quaint."
"Sofia," Dante's voice was clipped, cold. "I wasn't aware you'd be here."
"Oh, I wouldn't miss this for the world," she purred. "Congratulations on your… marriage." The slight pause was a deliberate insult, a perfectly aimed dart. I suddenly felt plain, ordinary, a cheap imitation next to this woman's fiery confidence.
She reached out and placed a perfectly manicured hand on Dante's arm, a touch that was far too intimate. "Remember when we came to this gala together, Dante? Three years ago?"
Dante smoothly removed her hand from his arm. "That was a long time ago, Sofia."
Her venomous gaze turned back to me. "Did he tell you about us? We were together for two years. I was supposed to be the next Mrs. Russo." She smiled, a cruel, sharp thing. "But apparently, he's developed a preference for… simpler tastes."
The attack was direct, designed to humiliate me. My temper flared, but I held my tongue, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a reaction.
Before she could say more, Dante stepped partially in front of me, shielding me from her. "That's enough, Sofia," he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. "Ella is my wife. You will show her the respect that title commands, or you will leave."
It was the first time he had truly defended me, and the force of it stunned me. Sofia's eyes flashed with fury. She recovered quickly, her lips twisting into a fake smile. "Of course. Forgive me, *Mrs. Russo*." She spat the name like it was poison. As she turned to leave, she threw one last look over her shoulder. "Enjoy him while you can."
I was shaken. Dante took my arm, his grip firm. "Come on. You need some air." He led me through a set of glass doors onto a deserted balcony overlooking the glittering city skyline.
"Don't let her get to you," he said, his back to me as he stared out at the lights. "She's bitter."
"Were you really together for two years?" I asked, the question escaping before I could stop it.
"It was a business arrangement," he said, his voice tight. "Similar to ours."
"She didn't seem to think it was just business," I countered softly.
He was silent for a long moment, and his silence was all the confirmation I needed.
I leaned against the railing, the cool night air a balm on my heated skin. "This world of yours," I murmured, more to myself than to him. "It's exhausting."
He turned, surprised by my honesty. "You did well tonight," he said, and this time, it sounded like a genuine compliment. "Better than I expected."
"I told you," I said, looking away. "I'm a good actress when I need to be."
"Is that what you're doing now?" he asked, his voice dropping lower. "Acting?" He took a step closer, and I could feel the intensity of his gaze searching my face in the dim light. I couldn't answer, because in that moment, I honestly didn't know. The lines were starting to blur.
The moment was broken when Marco appeared at the door. "Mr. Russo, they're about to begin the speeches."
Dante's mask snapped back into place. "We should go back in." He offered me his hand. After a slight hesitation, I took it. His palm was warm and strong around mine.
He delivered a powerful, charismatic speech about the hospital's work, holding the entire room captive. I watched him, and for the first time, I understood why powerful men followed him. He concluded by raising his glass. "And to my beautiful wife, Ella, whose compassion inspires me daily." Every eye in the room turned to me. I smiled my practiced smile, my heart hammering.
After the speeches, the music started, a slow, romantic ballad. Dante led me to the dance floor. He placed one hand on the small of my back, sending a jolt through the thin silk of my dress, and took my hand with his other. We were close, too close, our bodies almost flush against each other.
"Relax," he murmured, his voice a low vibration against my ear. "Everyone is watching us."
I tried, but I was hyper-aware of everything about him—the clean, masculine scent of his cologne, the solid warmth of his chest, the sheer strength in the hand holding mine. We swayed to the music, and to my surprise, he was a graceful, confident dancer.
"You're trembling," he whispered, his lips brushing my temple.
"I don't like being the center of attention," I lied. The truth was, he was the one making me tremble.
"Get used to it," he said, his voice a soft rumble. "You're Mrs. Russo now."
Later, while Dante was pulled into a conversation with a senator, I slipped away to get a glass of champagne. I stood near a pillar, trying to blend into the background, when I overheard two men talking nearby.
"Can you believe Russo actually got married?" one said, his voice low. "Never thought I'd see the day."
"Poor girl probably has no idea what she's gotten herself into," the other replied with a grim chuckle. "He's killed more men than we've had hot dinners."
My blood ran cold.
"Remember that mess with the Irish in the warehouse district last month?" the first man asked. "I heard Russo handled it personally. It was brutal."
They both laughed, a sound that made me feel physically ill. I found Dante, my face pale. "I don't feel well," I whispered, and it was the truest thing I'd said all night. He took one look at my face, his expression hardening. He knew something was wrong. We made our excuses and left.
The car ride home was suffocatingly silent. "What happened?" he finally demanded.
"Nothing."
"Don't lie to me, Ella."
I looked at him, at his handsome, dangerous face illuminated by the passing streetlights. "I heard some men talking. About you."
His expression became stone. "What did they say?"
I hesitated, then plunged ahead. "They said you're dangerous. That you've… hurt people."
He didn't deny it. He didn't even flinch. "I am," he said, the two words a brutal confirmation. He turned to look at me, his gray eyes piercing in the darkness. "Did you really think otherwise?"
When we arrived at the mansion, I practically bolted from the car, desperate for distance. He caught my arm in the foyer, his grip firm. "Ella."
I turned, my heart pounding. He looked at me, his jaw tight, as if he were warring with himself over what to say. The moment stretched, thick with unspoken words. Finally, he just said, "Goodnight," and let me go.
I rushed to my room and leaned against the closed door, my body shaking. I looked at my reflection in the mirror. I was still wearing the emerald gown, still looking the part. But the lines were blurring so fast I couldn't see them anymore.
I had danced with the devil tonight. And the worst part? For a moment, held safe and strong in his arms, I had forgotten he was dangerous. I had forgotten this was all fake. I had forgotten everything except the treacherous feeling of safety I felt in his embrace. And that terrified me more than any threat Sofia could make, or any story of violence I could ever overhear.