Vivia Genovese POV

The whiskey had settled into a heavy, numbing fog behind my eyes.

My father had banished me from the ballroom, ordering the maids to drag me out for fresh air, mortified by my unladylike thirst.

I collapsed onto a cold stone bench near the rose bushes, watching the shadows lengthen and blur into the coming night.

Footsteps crunched on the gravel path.

My heart lurched against my ribs.

Dante?

I turned, hope flaring in my chest like a desperate flame.

But it wasn’t Dante.

It was Silas.

He had followed me. Of course he had.

"Look at you," Silas sneered, stepping out of the gloom and into the pale garden light. "Drunk before sunset. You look pathetic, Vivia."

Lola was with him, naturally. She hovered at his elbow like a poisonous moth, feigning concern.

"Oh, honey," she cooed, her voice dripping with saccharine pity. "Is the wine too strong for you? Maybe you should have stuck to juice."

"Get out," I slurred, hating the tremor in my voice. "This is Genovese land."

"I'm family," Silas said, crossing his arms over his chest. "I came to collect the dowry keys. The trucks never arrived at my storage facility."

"Because I sent them back here," I said, lifting a heavy hand to point toward the garage. "You get nothing."

Silas's face flushed a deep, angry crimson. "You bitch. You tricked me."

He marched forward, towering over me, blocking out the fading light.

"You think you're so smart," he spat, his saliva hitting my cheek. "You think because you wear Dante's ring, you matter? He's probably with a real woman right now. Someone who knows how to do more than just look pretty in a dress."

"I am your Aunt now!" I shouted, the alcohol fueling a reckless fire in my veins. "Show some respect!"

Silas threw his head back and laughed, a harsh, grating sound.

Lola joined in, a high-pitched titter that grated on my nerves.

"Aunt?" Silas mocked, leaning down until his face was inches from mine. "You're a placeholder, Vivia. A political pawn. Do you really think The Reaper touches you? Do you think he actually wants you?"

His eyes roved over me with disgust.

"You're a virgin who knows nothing about men. If you act like a whore with that bottle, I won't even take you back as a mistress when Dante inevitably discards you."

The words cut deep.

Not because I wanted him back.

But because the cold knot of fear in my stomach whispered that he might be right about Dante.

Was I just a pawn?

Was I truly alone?

The humiliation of the wedding, the cold and empty bed, the pitying looks from the guests—it all crashed down on me in a suffocating wave.

Hot, angry tears spilled over my lashes, tracking through the powder on my cheeks.

"Leave me alone," I whispered, my voice breaking.

"Cry," Silas taunted, reaching out. "That's all you're good for."

He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my flesh to shake me.

Suddenly, the atmosphere in the garden shifted. The air grew heavy, charged with a lethal static.

A shadow detached itself from the darkness of the trellis archway.

He moved faster than a man of his size had any right to move.

A hand—thick with muscle and scarred knuckles—shot out and clamped around Silas's wrist like a steel vice.

Silas gasped, his eyes going wide.

There was a sickening crunch of grinding bone.

"Who made my wife cry?"

The voice was a growl. Low. Vibration. Terrifying.

Dante.

He stood there, imposing and dark, still wearing his suit from the meeting. There was dust on his Italian shoes, and a spray of fresh blood on his crisp white cuff.

He didn't look at Silas.

He looked at me.

And his eyes were burning with a cold, focused rage that promised to incinerate the world.

Vivia Genovese POV

Silas paralyzed, his brain unable to process the sudden appearance of the monster he feared most.

Dante didn't let go of his wrist.

Instead, he twisted.

Silas screamed, his knees buckling under the pressure, forcing him to bow before us.

Dante shoved him away like he was a sack of garbage.

Silas scrambled back, clutching his shattered wrist, his face drained of blood.

With terrifying indifference, Dante turned his back on the threat.

He stepped into my space, his large body blocking out the world.

He reached out, his thumb brushing away a tear that was tracking down my cheek.

His touch was surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to the violence he had just displayed.

"Did he do this?" Dante asked, his voice quiet, dangerous.

I nodded, unable to speak.

Lola stepped forward, trying to salvage the situation.

"Oh, Don Moretti," she said, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. "It was just a misunderstanding. Vivia is just emotional because of the drink. We were trying to help her. As family. As sisters."

Dante's head snapped toward her.

His glare was physical. It struck her like a slap.

Lola flinched, taking a step back.

"Sister?" Dante repeated, the word dripping with disdain. "You are a parasite. Do not speak to my wife. Do not look at my wife. You are not worthy to breathe the same air."

He snapped his fingers.

Four soldiers materialized from the shadows of the garden.

"Take them to the Warehouse," Dante ordered, his tone bored. "Teach my nephew the cost of disrespecting the Don's wife. Family Law."

Silas's eyes widened in horror. "Uncle! No! It's me! Silas!"

"Fifty lashes," Dante said. "For every tear she shed."

The soldiers grabbed Silas and Lola.

Lola started screaming as they were dragged away into the darkness.

Silence returned to the garden.

Dante turned back to me.

He searched my face, taking in the way I was looking at him—with awe, and fear, and relief.

"I'm sorry I'm late, Tesoro," he whispered.

The endearment—Treasure—hit me in the chest.

I hit his chest.

It was a weak, pathetic hit.

"You left me," I sobbed, the alcohol amplifying my hurt. "You left me alone with them."

I hit him again.

He didn't flinch. He didn't catch my hands.

He took the blows, standing like a stone wall.

"I know," he said. "I had to secure the borders. There was a rebellion in the South. They thought the transition of power was a weakness."

He caught my fist gently in his hand.

He brought my knuckles to his lips.

His lips were warm.

"I burned their houses down," he said against my skin, his eyes locked on mine. "And every time I lit a match, I thought of you waiting for me."

He pulled me closer, until my body was pressed against the hard planes of his.

I could feel the gun in his holster. I could feel the rapid beat of his heart.

"I will never leave you unprotected again," he vowed. "You are mine, Vivia. And I protect what is mine."

I looked up at him.

The scary enforcer of my childhood was gone.

In his place was a man who looked at me like I was the only source of light in his dark, violent world.

My heart raced, not from fear, but from something entirely new.

"Take me home, Dante," I whispered.

He swept me up into his arms, carrying me bridal style toward the car.

"Gladly."