POV: Isabella
My wrist still bore the faint, ghostly imprint of his fingers.
I'd escaped the bedroom, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs, the sting of the slap still buzzing in my palm. I'd struck the devil. And he'd… let me. He'd captured my wrist, pinned me, and threatened me with a voice that promised dark, thrilling punishments. And then he'd released me.
It made no sense.
The mansion unfolded around me like a beautiful, silent labyrinth. Room after room of curated perfection: a formal living room with furniture no one sat on, a music room with a grand piano dusted and untouched, and a solarium filled with exotic, scentless flowers. Every window offered a breathtaking view of a world I could no longer touch. The gilded cage was vast, but a cage nonetheless.
My guards—a rotating pair of silent, suited men named Leo and Enzo—followed at a discreet distance. My shadow. My chain.
On the third day, I found the library.
It was on the second floor, tucked behind a heavy oak door. I pushed it open, and my breath caught. It was two stories high, with a wrought-iron balcony circling the upper level. Walls of dark mahogany were lined with thousands of books, their leather spines stamped in gold. A ladder on rails stood ready. The air smelled of old paper, polish, and quiet.
Here, the opulence felt different. It felt like knowledge, not just display. For the first time since I'd arrived, my shoulders relaxed slightly. I wandered the aisles, my fingers trailing over spines. History, philosophy, Italian poetry, and art monographs. This was a collection curated by a mind, not just a decorator.
I pulled a worn volume of Dante Alighieri's La Vita Nuova from a shelf—the irony not lost on me—and sank into a deep, cognac-colored leather armchair by the cold fireplace. For a few hours, I could forget. I could escape into the words of a different Dante, one who wrote of celestial love, not contract marriages.
"It's his favorite room too," a soft voice said.
I jumped, the book sliding from my lap. Sofia stood in the doorway, a tentative smile on her face. She was dressed in casual elegance—cashmere sweater, tailored trousers. She looked as if she belonged here, which, of course, she did.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," she said, coming in. She picked up the book and handed it back to me. "La Vita Nuova. The New Life. Appropriate."
"Or deeply ironic," I muttered, taking it.
Sofia took the chair opposite me. "He reads that one often. The Italian ones, especially. I believe that reading those poems connects him to our mother. She used to read to us in Italian."
The image was so disarming—a young Dante, listening to poetry—that I couldn't reconcile it with the man who'd pinned me to a door. "Why are you being nice to me?"
She blinked, surprised. "Because you're my sister-in-law. Because you're here, and you look so lost. And because," she sighed, "I know what it's like to feel trapped in this beautiful house."
Her honesty disarmed me. "You seem free."
"I have a longer leash," she corrected gently. "I can go out, but only with drivers, to pre-approved places. Marco has vetted all my friends. I run a charity foundation—it's my project, my purpose—but its board is filled with Salvatore associates. It's a gilded life, Isabella. But it's a life drawn in margins he approves." She leaned forward. "He does it because he's terrified of losing me. Our mother died. His fiancée, Alessia, was killed. He thinks if he controls every variable, he can keep the people he loves safe."
"He doesn't love me," I said flatly.
"No," she agreed. "But you're his. And in Dante's world, that's just as binding. He will protect what's his with the same ferocity. Try to see the difference between the jailer and an overly zealous guard dog.
It was a perspective I hadn't considered. I looked around the library. "He doesn't seem like a man who reads poetry."
"He doesn't seem like many things he is," Sofia said cryptically. "The monster is a costume, Isabella. A very convincing one, but a costume nonetheless. He wears it to rule. The question is, will you ever be allowed to see the man without it?"
She left me with that unsettling thought.
The days bled into a routine of silent exploration, reading in the library, and tense, solitary meals in my room, which I'd taken to having on a tray. I avoided Dante. He, in turn, seemed immersed in his empire, leaving early and returning late. I caught glimpses of him sometimes—striding through the foyer on the phone, his voice a low, commanding rumble, or working in his office, the door ajar, his brow furrowed in concentration.
On the seventh night—the final night before the contract's consummation deadline—a different kind of silence settled over the house. A waiting silence.
I requested my dinner in my room, as usual.
The housekeeper, a stern older woman named Greta, shook her head. "The Don requests your presence in the dining room, Signora."
"Tell the Don I'm not hungry."
She didn't move. "He was… specific."
Anger, hot and familiar, rose in my chest. This was about the deadline. This was a power play. Fine. Let him play his games. I wouldn't participate.
An hour later, there was a knock. Not Greta. I opened the door to find Marco, his expression unreadable.
"The Don is waiting for you to join him for dinner, Mrs. Salvatore."
"I've already eaten," I lied.
"You haven't." He said it with simple certainty. They were monitoring everything. "It would be advisable to come down."
"Or what? He'll drag me down?" I crossed my arms.
Marco's eyes held a hint of that same weariness I'd seen before. "Or he will come up. And the situation will become… more personal. Dining room is less intimate than a bedroom, sì?"
The threat was clear. I could have a confrontation in public or in private. Swallowing my pride, I pushed past him and walked down the grand staircase.
The formal dining room was a cavern of dark wood and crystal. A table that could seat thirty was set for two at one end. Dante sat at the head, still in his suit trousers and a crisp white shirt, open at the collar. He was reading a document, a glass of red wine beside him. He looked up as I entered.
For a long moment, he just looked at me. I'd thrown on a simple black dress, a small act of defiance in its plainness. His gaze traveled over me, lingering, but his expression gave nothing away.
"Sit," he said, nodding to the chair at his right hand.
I remained standing. "I would rather not be here."
"I didn't ask what you wanted." He placed the document down. "I am your husband. You will have dinner with me."
"I'm not your pet to be summoned for meals!"
"No," he agreed, his voice dangerously calm. "You are my wife. And wives occasionally dine with their husbands. It is a common courtesy, even in a marriage of convenience." He took a sip of his wine. "Sit. Now."
The air thickened. The few staff in the room had gone preternaturally still.
"I'd rather starve."
He moved then, so fast I barely registered it. One moment he was seated, the next he was standing, his chair scraping loudly. He didn't come to me. He simply stood there, the full force of his presence aimed at me across the polished table.
"You can hate me, Isabella. You can despise every breath I take. You can plot your vengeance in that clever mind of yours. But you WILL sit at my table. You WILL eat the food prepared in this house. You WILL acknowledge the reality of your situation." His voice was low, but each word was a hammer strike. "Tomorrow, the contract requires that you make a decision." And I will not have you making that decision from a place of childish rebellion and self-neglect. You will come to this table with a clear head and a body that isn't fainting from hunger. Now. Sit. Down."
It wasn't a request. It was an ultimatum that vibrated with a terrifying, possessive certainty. He wasn't just demanding my presence; he was demanding I care for myself—because I was his.
Trembling with a fury so potent it tasted like metal, I pulled out the heavy chair and sat. The moment I did, he resumed his seat, as if the tempest had never occurred.
A server immediately appeared, placing a plate of seared scallops in front of me. The aroma was exquisite. My stomach betrayed me with a quiet growl.
We ate in silence for several minutes. The food was, of course, perfect. The silence was agonizing, charged with all the things unsaid—the slap, the deadline, and the suffocating tension that seemed to pull tighter with every passing second.
"Sofia tells me you've been in the library," he said finally, his tone conversational, as if we were a normal couple.
"It's the only room in this museum that feels like it has a soul," I said, not looking at him.
"It's my favorite room," he admitted, and I remembered Sofia's words. He reads that one often. "You're welcome to any book you like."
"How generous. Do I need to request them in triplicate, or will the guards just frisk me on the way out?"
He set his fork down. "Your sarcasm is a shield. I understand it. But it grows tiresome."
"My imprisonment is tiresome!"
"This is not a debate!" he snapped, his control slipping again. He took a breath, visibly reining himself in. When he spoke again, his voice was measured but no less intense. "Tomorrow is the seventh day. Have you thought about your choice?"
The question hung between us, intimate and threatening. I stared at my plate, my appetite gone. "I've thought of nothing else."
"And?"
I looked up, meeting his dark eyes. In the candlelight, they were unreadable pools. "I don't know."
It was the truth. The defiance was still there, but so was the logic he'd forced down my throat. So was the memory of his grip on my wrist, the heat of his body caging mine, and the terrifying, unwanted thrill that had shot through me in that moment.
A ghost of something—satisfaction?—flickered in his gaze. "Honesty. Good."
He didn't press further. We finished the meal in that heavy, electric silence. When the dessert was cleared, he stood.
"I have business to attend to. You may retire." He paused, looking down at me. "Think well tonight, Isabella. The choice, as I said, is yours. But choose wisely. The consequences belong to both of us."
He left the room, leaving me alone at the vast table, surrounded by empty chairs and the echoing weight of his words.
I was a prisoner. But as I sat there in the silent, opulent tomb of a dining room, I realized the most confining cell wasn't made of limestone and wrought iron.
It was the cage of my choice, and it had a timer counting down to midnight.