The library carried the scent of old leather, cured tobacco, and the dry, dusty aroma of centuries-old paper. It was like a heavy, masculine fragrance that clung to the air like the man standing before the fireplace.
Elena stepped into the room, her feet sinking into the thick Persian rug. Warmth from the fire caressed her skin, a sharp contrast to the chill that had settled in her bones since waking in this house.
Dante Rossi watched her approach. He offered neither smile nor greeting. He simply stood, one hand in the pocket of his tailored black slacks, the other cradling a crystal tumbler of amber liquid. Cigar smoke coiled around him like a gray serpent, briefly veiling his face before drifting toward the coffered ceiling.
"Close the door."
His voice was low, scarcely louder than the crackle of the logs, yet it carried across the vast room with effortless authority.
Elena hesitated. The open door behind her was her only link to the hallway, to the illusion of freedom. Closing it felt like sealing herself in a crypt.
"I said, close the door, Elena."
She turned and pushed the heavy oak panels until they met with a soft, final click. The lock did not engage, but she knew it was irrelevant. In this room, his word was the only lock that mattered.
She faced him again, arms crossed tightly over the oversized gray sweater he had provided—flimsy armor against the man before her.
"I'm here," she said, lifting her chin. "What are the rules?"
Dante took a slow sip of whiskey, his storm-gray eyes tracing the nervous movement of her throat. He crossed to the massive mahogany desk that dominated the room and set his glass on a leather coaster.
"Sit," he said, gesturing to the stiff-backed chair opposite him.
Elena approached but remained standing, hands gripping the chair's carved back.
"I prefer to stand."
Dante sighed like a sound of mild exasperation, as though dealing with a stubborn child.
"Sit down, Elena. I do not like looking up when I conduct business. And this is business."
The silence stretched, taut and brittle. Her defiance lasted five seconds, ten. Then the image of her father asleep in that gray cell flashed behind her eyes.
She moved around the chair and sat.
Dante gave a single nod of approval. He settled into the high-backed leather chair behind the desk, opened a drawer, and withdrew a single sheet of paper. He placed it precisely in the center, facing her.
"Do you know what this is?"
Elena leaned forward. The page was creased, stained with a faint ring of coffee or whiskey. The handwriting was frantic, almost illegible.
"It looks like a loan agreement."
"It is a promissory note," he corrected. "Read the bottom."
Her gaze dropped to the signature she had seen countless times like the one on permission slips, report cards, birthday cards.
Marco Rossi.
And beneath it, in smaller, neater script:
Collateral: Elena Rossi. Transfer of ownership effective immediately upon default.
The air left her lungs in a rush. Seeing it in ink made it irrevocably real. This had not been a drunken outburst. It had been deliberate.
"He signed this?" she whispered. "Before he even came home?"
"Three days ago," Dante confirmed. "He was at my table, down forty thousand. He believed his luck would turn. He offered you as collateral to stay in the game."
Dante leaned back, steepling his fingers.
"He lost. Marco always loses."
Elena stared at the signature until the letters blurred. Her father had wagered her like a cheap trinket.
"So I'm worth fifty thousand dollars?" Her voice sounded hollow even to herself.
Dante made a soft, dismissive sound.
"The debt has grown. Interest compounds quickly on high-risk loans. Then there are collection costs—the fuel for the vehicles, the men who entered your apartment, the doctor who stitched your leg, the clothing, the food."
He lifted a calculator, tapped several keys, and turned the display toward her.
"Fifty-five thousand, four hundred and twenty dollars. And counting."
The number stared back at her, impossible. She earned twelve dollars an hour at the campus coffee shop.
"I can work," she said quickly. "I'll get another job. I'll pay every cent. Just let me go, and I'll send payments every month."
Dante's laugh was low and humorless.
"A check from barista wages? It would take decades for the principal alone, while interest ballooned. You would die indebted."
He rose and rounded the desk, leaning against its edge so he loomed over her.
"No, Elena. Money holds no interest for me. I could buy this city three times over. What I require is value. And you will repay the debt in trade."
"Trade?" She pressed deeper into the chair. "What kind of trade?"
Dante took her hand. His fingers were warm, callused. He turned it palm-up, studying her long, artist's fingers.
"You are going to be my wife."
She jerked her hand away.
"We've been over this. I will not marry you. It's insane."
"It is not a legal marriage," he said, waving off her protest. "I have no need of state sanction. I need the appearance of stability like a woman on my arm at galas, a hostess for dinners, a face for the Rossi name that signals tradition and legitimacy to the world."
He circled her chair slowly, his voice shifting from one side to the other.
"You will play the role. You will smile. You will wear the dresses provided. You will stand beside me and gaze at me with practiced adoration. In exchange, I deduct one thousand dollars from the debt for each successful public appearance."
Fifty-five appearances. The math was swift and brutal.
"And in private?" Her voice trembled. "When the doors close?"
Dante stopped behind her. She felt the heat of him against her back. He leaned close, breath stirring the fine hairs at her nape.
"In private," he murmured, "you are mine."
A shiver raced down her spine.
"Does that mean… sex?"
He straightened and returned to face her. Something unreadable, hunger tempered by restraint and flickered across his features.
"I do not take what is not freely given," he said quietly. "I am not a rapist, Elena. I am a businessman. If you come to my bed, it will be because you choose it."
"I will never choose it."
His mouth curved in a faint, predatory smile. "Never is a very long time. You live in my house, sleep in my sheets, breathe my air."
He began to pace.
"These are the rules. Listen carefully; I will not repeat them. Infractions are punished severely."
He raised one finger.
"Rule one: Obedience. When I issue a command, you obey without argument, without hesitation."
A second finger.
"Rule two: Availability. No locked doors. No hiding. When I call, you come, day or night."
A third.
"Rule three: Loyalty. You speak to no police, no rivals. You pass no messages. You are a Rossi now. My enemies are yours. My secrets are yours. Betrayal has consequences."
He lowered his hand.
"Rule four: Exclusivity. No lovers, past or present. Your body, your attention, your time all belong solely to me until the debt reaches zero."
Tears stung her eyes. It was ownership, plain and brutal.
"And if I break a rule?"
Dante turned to the fire, gazing into the flames.
"Interest accrues faster. The debt grows. For severe breaches…"
He glanced back at her.
"I send a piece of Marco in a box. A finger. An ear. Perhaps more."
She gasped. "You wouldn't."
"Try me."
The words landed like stones in deep water.
Elena slumped in the chair, utterly cornered.
"Fine," she whispered. "I accept. I'll work off the debt. I'll play the part."
Dante's smile was cold triumph.
"I knew you were intelligent."
He returned to the desk and opened a small velvet box. From it he withdrew a ring like a magnificent teardrop diamond on a platinum band that caught the firelight like captured ice.
"Stand."
She rose on unsteady legs.
"Left hand."
She extended it, trembling.
He slid the ring onto her finger. It fit perfectly.
He held her hand up, admiring the stone against her skin.
"This is not a gift," he said softly. "It is a brand. It declares you untouchable. Anyone who lays a hand on you answers to me."
His gaze locked with hers.
"Do not remove it. Ever. If I see this finger bare, I will assume you have resigned and Marco will pay the penalty."
The ring weighed like lead.
"I understand."
"Good."
He released her and drained the last of his whiskey.
"Dinner is in one hour, in the main dining room. Wear the red dress."
He set the glass down with finality.
"And Elena?"
"Yes?"
"Fix your face. You look like a victim. Tonight you are a queen. Queens do not cry."
He turned his back, dismissing her.
Elena lingered a moment, staring at the broad line of his shoulders. Hatred burned in her chest, hotter than the fire behind him.
She left the library. In the hallway, chandelier light struck the diamond, scattering cold sparks.
She was sold. Branded. Claimed.
But a new thought took root—sharp, dangerous.
He wanted a wife. A perfect façade.
She would give him one. She would be flawless, indispensable.
She would earn his trust.
And when his guard slipped, she would find the key to her cage.
In her room, she opened the wardrobe and withdrew the red dress silk, backless, designed for seduction.
She held it against herself in the mirror.
Tonight she would not cry. Tonight she would arm herself.
As she began to undress, a faint sound reached her like a voice, muffled, coming from the vent high on the wall.
She froze, then dragged a chair beneath it and listened.
Dante's voice, traveling through the ducts from the library below.
"…yes, she accepted. No, Lorenzo—she doesn't know. She believes it's about the money… She has no idea about the bloodline, no idea who her mother truly was."
Elena's heart stopped.
Her mother had died of cancer when she was six. A florist. Ordinary.
"Keep the file buried," Dante continued. "If she discovers she's heir to the Sicilian estate, she becomes dangerous. Right now she's just a frightened girl. I need her to stay that way."
The call ended.
Elena climbed down, legs giving way until she sat hard on the carpet.
The room tilted.
It had never been about the debt. Or Marco's gambling. Or even a convenient wife.
He was hiding something about her mother. An inheritance. A bloodline.
She stared at the ring. It was not merely a shackle, it was a gag, keeping her silent and ignorant in plain sight.
Fear ebbed, replaced by icy fury.
He thought her a pawn.
But if his words were true, she might be the queen.
She rose, took the red dress, and straightened her spine.
She would wear it. She would smile across his dinner table.
She would play his game flawlessly.
But now her goal had sharpened.
She would uncover who she truly was.
And then she would reduce Dante Rossi's empire to ash.