I woke late the morning after the gala, my body heavy with exhaustion, my mind a tangled mess of emerald silk, flashing cameras, and the chilling memory of two men laughing about murder. A crisp white envelope had been slipped under my door. Inside, a single sheet of heavy cream paper held a stark, typed message: *My office. 10 AM. -D.*
A glance at the clock sent a jolt of panic through me. It was 9:45. I scrambled out of bed, throwing on the first respectable clothes I could find—a pair of simple black trousers and a cream-colored blouse. I was a wife, but I felt like an employee about to be reprimanded.
I knocked on the heavy ebony doors of his office and entered when I heard his clipped "Come in." He was exactly where I knew he would be, seated behind his massive desk, fingers flying across his keyboard. He didn't look up. It was the same power play as our first meeting, designed to remind me of my place. I stood there, waiting, my hands clasped tightly in front of me.
Finally, the typing stopped. He looked up, his gray eyes cool and assessing. "Sit."
I sat in the now-familiar leather chair, my back ramrod straight. He watched me for a moment before pulling a single typed document from a folder.
"We need to establish some ground rules for your time here," he said, his voice devoid of any warmth. "For clarity and to avoid any... misunderstandings."
He began to read from the list, his tone flat and non-negotiable. "Rule one: You will not leave this property without my express permission and a full security detail."
"I'm not a prisoner," I started, the protest automatic.
He cut me off instantly. "You are a target," he said, his voice sharp. "My wife is a vulnerability my enemies would be eager to exploit. This is for your protection."
He continued down the list. "Rule two: You will have no unapproved contact with anyone from your old life. All calls on the phone I provided will be monitored."
"You can't do that! I have to talk to Sarah, to Mia—"
"Your niece's mother is on the approved list. Anyone else is a security risk." He was completely unmoved. "Rule three: You will attend all social and business functions I require of you. There will be no excuses. Rule four: You will not enter my private wing or this office without a direct invitation. Rule five: You will not ask questions about my business, my associates, or my daily activities."
He went on. There were eight rules in total, each one a steel bar in the cage he was building around me, each one methodically stripping away another piece of my freedom.
When he finished, I couldn't stay seated. "These aren't rules, Dante. This is a manual on how to control me."
"Yes," he agreed without hesitation. "Control is necessary for your safety and for the stability of my organization."
I stood, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. "I signed a contract to pay a debt. I didn't sign away my soul."
He rose to his feet as well, effortlessly towering over me, his presence sucking the air from the room. "You signed everything, Ella," he said, his voice dangerously soft. "Perhaps you should have read the fine print more closely."
The tension between us was a physical thing, crackling in the space between us. I was so angry, so utterly powerless, that the only words I could find were the truest I had ever spoken to him. "I hate you."
A flicker of something—not surprise, not anger, just cold acknowledgment—passed through his eyes. "Good," he said, his voice flat. "That makes this easier." He sat back down, picking up his pen. "You're dismissed."
I spent the rest of the day fuming, a tiger pacing its cage. I decided to test the bars. I walked down the long driveway, heading for the front gates, just to see what would happen. Before I was halfway there, two guards materialized, blocking my path.
"Mrs. Russo, you can't go any further."
"I'm just going for a walk," I argued, knowing it was futile. They were polite, but their bodies were immovable walls. Defeated, I stormed back to the house and used the internal phone to call his office.
"I want to go for a walk," I said the moment he answered. "Outside the gates."
"No," was his only reply.
"Just to the end of the road and back, I need some air—"
"No," he repeated, his voice tight with impatience. "I'm in a meeting." He hung up.
I slammed the phone down, my frustration boiling over. Fine. If I couldn't go out, I would explore in. Fueled by a surge of rebellion, I made my way to the east wing—his forbidden territory. The main door to his private suite was locked, but I found a side door that led to a state-of-the-art gym. Perfect. I needed to hit something.
I found a pair of boxing gloves and went to work on a heavy bag, pouring all my anger, fear, and frustration into every punch. I ran on the treadmill until my lungs burned. I was just finishing when Marco appeared in the doorway, his expression a mixture of sympathy and firmness.
"Mrs. Russo, this area is..."
"I know," I cut him off, breathing heavily. "Off-limits. Just like everything else."
That evening, Dante came home early, which was unusual. He found me in the library—technically part of his private wing. I was curled in an armchair, pretending to be absorbed in a book on stoic philosophy.
"What are you doing in here?" he asked, his voice tight.
I didn't look up. "Reading."
"I believe this room was on the list of places you are not to enter."
"It's a library," I retorted, finally meeting his gaze. "Books are meant to be read. Or do you just keep them for decoration?"
He approached slowly, his eyes narrowed. "I gave you rules for a reason, Ella."
"And I'm not good with cages," I shot back, my chin held high.
We stared at each other, a silent battle of wills. I expected him to order me out, to call a guard. Instead, he surprised me. He sat in the armchair opposite mine.
"What are you reading?" he asked again, his tone different now. I showed him the cover. A flicker of surprise crossed his face. "You read philosophy?"
"I'm not stupid, Dante, despite what you seem to think."
"I have never thought you were stupid," he said, his voice quiet. There was a long pause. "Keep the book. But ask me next time."
It was a small concession, but it felt like a monumental shift. I didn't know what to make of it. His next words were even more surprising.
"Have dinner with me tonight. In my study."
I was suspicious, but I agreed. It was better than eating alone in that mausoleum of a dining room. The meal was informal, served on trays in his study, a room that felt more personal and lived-in than the rest of the house. We ate in silence at first, but it was a less hostile silence than before.
Then, he started asking questions. He asked about my old job. Why kindergarten? I found myself opening up, just a little, telling him how much I loved working with children, how rewarding it was to see their faces light up when they learned something new. I told him I'd had to resign when I signed his contract, and a pang of loss hit me as I said the words out loud.
He listened. He actually listened, his gaze focused and attentive. When I finished, he was quiet for a moment. "My mother was a teacher," he said softly.
It was the first piece of personal information he had ever shared. A tiny glimpse of the human being beneath the monster. It was disarming.
Just then, his phone rang, a harsh, intrusive sound. He glanced at the screen, his expression instantly hardening. "I have to take this." He stepped onto his private balcony, speaking in rapid, angry Italian. I couldn't understand the words, but his tense posture and clipped tones spoke volumes. When he came back inside, the brief warmth between us was gone. The cold, ruthless boss was back.
"I have to go out," he said, his voice flat. "Business." He left without another word.
I was alone again, my mind reeling from the emotional whiplash. He was almost nice, almost human, and then in a flash, he was ice again. Hours later, I heard a commotion downstairs. I crept out onto my balcony and looked down into the main foyer. Dante was back, flanked by Marco. He looked furious, and as he moved under the light, I saw it. A dark, wet stain on the cuff of his white shirt. Blood. My stomach dropped. A stark, brutal reminder of who and what he was.
I couldn't sleep. The image of the blood was burned into my mind. Around 2 AM, I heard a faint noise from downstairs. Curiosity, a dangerous and foolish impulse, got the better of me. I crept down the silent hallways and found him in the main kitchen. He was leaning against the counter, a glass of whiskey in his hand, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He looked exhausted, older, the weight of his world pressing down on him.
I must have made a sound, because he turned, startled. "What are you doing up?"
"Couldn't sleep," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "You?"
"Same."
The silence that fell between us was different this time. It wasn't hostile or tense. It was just… tired. Shared weariness in the dead of night.
"Are you okay?" The question slipped out before I could stop it.
He looked at me, genuine surprise in his eyes. "Why would you care?"
I was honest. "I don't know," I admitted. "But I do."
He studied my face for a long moment, his gaze intense. "Go back to bed, Ella," he said, but his voice was softer than I had ever heard it. It wasn't an order. It was almost a request.
I left, turning at the doorway to look back. He was still watching me go.
Back in my room, I lay in bed, my thoughts a chaotic mess. The rules, the coldness, the blood on his shirt—that was the monster. But the man in the library, the son whose mother was a teacher, the exhausted figure in the kitchen—that was someone else.
He had built walls around himself that were higher and thicker than the ones keeping me in this house. But tonight, in the darkness of the kitchen, I had seen a crack in that wall. And foolishly, dangerously, a part of me wanted to know what was hiding behind it.