Dante's POV

The surveillance footage plays on repeat across three monitors mounted above my desk. I watch it over and over; it's of my father, Marco Valerio, walking into the St. Vincent warehouse at eleven forty-three p.m. on a Tuesday. Eight minutes later, he walks out supported by two men who are supposed to be loyal. He collapses on the steps. Dead before the ambulance arrives.

Cardiac arrest, the coroner said. Natural causes.

Bullshit.

I lean back in my leather chair and press two fingers against my temple where a headache has been building for the last six hours.

I have been running the Valerio syndicate for three months now. Three months of cleaning up messes, burying traitors, and watching my back every second of every day. The underbosses circle like sharks since the death of my father, they see an opportunity to rise and take up the position of my father. Half of them think I am too young. The other half think I am too ruthless. All of them want me dead.

But I will prove all of them wrong.

The door opens without a knock. Only two people in this building would dare come in that way.

Santino Valerio walks in first, my cousin, late twenties, curly black hair still damp from the rain outside. He shakes water off his leather jacket and grins like he just got back from a party instead of a debt collection. "You look terrible, cousin."

"You look wet," I say without looking up.

"It is Chicago in November. Everyone is wet." He drops into the chair across from my desk and props his boots on the armrest. "Luca and Matteo are on their way. They found Federico Moretti at some dive bar on the South Side. Guy was three drinks deep and begging for mercy before they even said your name."

I do not smile. "How much does he owe?"

"Three million. Give or take."

"Give or take what?"

"Interest. Late fees. The cost of my time tracking his pathetic ass across the city." Santino pulls out his phone and scrolls. "He offered the usual. Begging. Crying. Promising to pay next week. Then he got creative."

"Creative how."

"He offered his daughter."

I pause. My gaze shifts from the monitors to Santino's face. He is still scrolling, unconcerned, like he just told me the weather forecast.

"Which daughter," I ask.

"The older one. Isabella. Twenty-two. Works two jobs. Quiet. Keeps her head down." He glances up. "You want me to pull her file?"

I already have it.

Isabella Moretti. Born in Chicago. Raised in a house that should have been condemned years ago. High school graduate. No college. Two jobs, both minimum wage. No criminal record. No social media presence. No friends that we can track. She exists in the smallest possible way, like she is afraid someone will notice her if she breathes too loud.

I have been watching the Moretti family for three weeks now. Ever since Federico's name came up on a list of people my father met with days before he died. The Morettis are broke, desperate, and connected to something bigger. I just do not know what yet.

Santino leans forward. "You want me to tell Matteo to kill him? Send a message?"

"No."

"No?" He blinks. "Dante, this guy stole from us. He has been ducking payments for six months. If we let him walk, every lowlife in the city will think they can do the same. Especially since your father-"

"I did not say let him walk."

The door opens again. Luca Romano enters first, six-foot-three, shaved head, neck tattoos visible above his collar. He moves like a tank. Behind him, Matteo Greco steps inside, smooth and polished in a tailored gray suit. His blue eyes scan the room, calculating, always calculating.

Matteo has been my second-in-command since my father died. These are men I trust. Luca, Matteo, Sergio.

"Dante," Matteo speaks. "Federico Moretti sends his regards. And his groveling apologies. He offered his daughter in exchange for clearing the debt. Not as payment. As collateral. He says she will do whatever you want. Cook. Clean. Serve." He pauses. "Other things."

Santino snorts. "That is disgusting even for him."

Luca says nothing.

I stand and walk to the window. Rain streaks down the glass. Forty-three floors below, people move through their lives unaware that men like me decide whether they live or die based on numbers in a ledger.

"Bring her here," I say.

Matteo hesitates. "The girl?"

"Yes."

"Dante." Santino sits up straight. "You are not seriously considering this."

I turn to face them. "Federico Moretti owes me three million dollars. He also owes me answers. His daughter works two jobs to pay for a stepmother who treats her like garbage. She has no debt of her own. No reason to be loyal to him. If I take her, I take his leverage and teach her a lesson.

"Go now."

They leave. All three of them. The door closes, and I am alone again with the surveillance footage and the weight of eight months pressing down on my shoulders.

I pull up Isabella Moretti's file on my computer. There is a photo attached. DMV records. She stares at the camera with big brown eyes that tilt downward at the corners. Her expression is neutral, but there is something fragile in the way she holds her mouth. Like she is used to staying silent even when she wants to scream.

Her father is selling her to a monster. That is what he thinks I am.

He is not wrong.

Tomorrow, Isabella Moretti will walk into my world. She will be terrified. She will probably cry. And she will have no idea that I have been watching her for weeks, waiting for the perfect moment to pull her into the center of a war she does not even know is happening.

I pour another drink and watch the footage loop one more time.

My father is walking. Then he's dying. Gone.

Somewhere in this city, someone is laughing about it. Someone thinks they got away with murder.

They are wrong.

I will find them. I will make them pay. And I will do it slowly enough that they beg for the mercy I will never give.

But first, I need Isabella Moretti.

And tomorrow, I will have her.

Isabella's POV

"BOOM, BOOM BOOM," the knocks sound again and my heart pounding with every knock.

Go, Bella," my father urges me.

Clara nudges me forward.

What do they mean by I should go? I'm just as scared as any of them.

So even though my heart is like a drum in my chest, I walk down the stairs like I am walking to my own execution. Each step creaks. My legs shake. Clara watches me from the top with her phone out like she is about to record this moment for posterity. Dad stands by the door sweating through his wrinkled shirt. He will not look at me. He never looks at me when he is about to do something horrible.

The door opens before I reach the bottom step.

Three men walk in like they own the place. Maybe they do. Maybe my father gambled away the house too. I would not be surprised. The first man is tall with a shaved head and tattoos crawling up his neck. The second one is younger with curly black hair and a leather jacket. The third man wears a gray suit that probably costs more than my entire yearly salary from both jobs combined. His hair is dark blond and styled perfectly. He looks like he could sell you a luxury car or bury you in a shallow grave. Possibly both.

The one in the gray suit smiles. It does not reach his eyes. "Isabella Moretti?"

I nod because my voice stopped working somewhere around the third stair.

"I am Matteo Greco. We're here to collect the debt your father owes to the Valerio family."

Debt. Of course. My father gambles. My father loses. I pay. That is how our family works.

"I can work," I say quietly. "I will work off whatever he owes. I have two jobs already but I can find a third. I just need time."

Matteo's smile widens. "That is very admirable. But we are not here to discuss payment plans."

Dad finally speaks. His voice is thin and whiny. "She is a good worker. Very obedient. She will do whatever you need. She cooks. She cleans. She never complains."

He is describing me like I am a used appliance he found in his garage.

Elena appears at the top of the stairs. She clutches the railing like standing takes all her strength. Maybe it does. "Please," she says, her voice cracking. "Isabella understands. She wants to help her family. Do not you, Isabella?"

I stare at her. The woman who raised me. The woman I have worked myself into exhaustion for. The woman who called me ugly just hours ago.

"Of course," I hear myself say. "I want to help."

Clara giggles. Actually giggles. She leans against the wall and waves at me with her perfectly manicured fingers. "Bye, Bella. Try not to embarrass us."

Something inside me cracks. Not breaks. Just cracks. Like a window that gets hit by a rock but does not shatter yet.

Matteo gestures toward the door. "Shall we?"

I look at my father one more time. He is staring at his shoes. I look at Elena. She wipes fake tears from her cheeks. I look at Clara. She is already back on her phone.

None of them are going to stop this.

I walk toward the door on legs that do not feel like mine, following men I've never met while still in my nightwear - a black gown with robe to a car I've never seen. The man with the shaved head opens it. Cold air rushes in. Chicago smells like rain and car exhaust and something burning a few blocks away. The black car idles at the curb. It looks like something from a movie. Sleek and expensive and completely out of place on this street where cars have rust spots and cracked windows.

"Wait," Elena calls out. "Isabella. This is for all of us. You understand that, right? You are saving this family."

I do not turn around. If I turn around, I might scream. I might say things I can never take back. So I keep walking.

The man with the curly hair opens the back door of the car. The leather seats look soft. The interior smells like money. I slide inside and the door closes behind me with a heavy, final sound. The kind of sound that says you are not getting out until someone lets you out.

Matteo sits in the front passenger seat. The other two men get in. The engine purrs to life. We pull away from the curb and I watch my house disappear through the window. The flickering porch light. The cracked walkway. The place where I have spent twenty-two years trying to be small enough that no one would notice me.

No one speaks. The city slides past the windows. We leave my neighborhood and enter a different Chicago. The buildings get taller. The streets get cleaner. The cars parked along the curbs look like they have never seen a pothole. We drive through downtown where lights reflect off glass towers and people walk fast with their heads down. Then we turn onto a street lined with trees that probably cost more to maintain than my childhood home.

The car slows. We pass through iron gates that open automatically. A long driveway curves through landscaped grounds that look like something from a magazine. Then I see it. The house. Except 'house' is the wrong word. This is a mansion.

My stomach twists into knots. I wonder how long it'll take to clean a place like this. But I take a deep breath, I'll just have to wake up extra early and work super hard.

The car stops in front of massive double doors. The man with the shaved head opens my door. I step out onto cobblestones that are probably older than me. The air smells different here. Cleaner. Like even the oxygen is expensive.

"This way," Matteo says.

The inside of the house makes me want to apologize for existing. Marble floors. A chandelier that looks like it has a thousand crystals. A staircase that curves up to a second floor. Artwork on the walls that I recognize from textbooks. I suddenly feel very aware of my threadbare nightwear and robe, and the fact that I have not washed my hair in two days because I was too tired after my double shift.

We walk down a hallway lined with more artwork. Our footsteps echo. Every surface gleams. I count four security cameras before I stop counting. We stop in front of a dark wood door. Matteo knocks twice.

"Come in," a voice says from inside.

Matteo opens the door and gestures for me to enter.

I'm scared when I realize he would not be following me inside. Even though I don't know the man, the thought of meeting the person in charge of all this alone scares me more.

The office is huge. Floor to ceiling windows overlook the grounds. A desk sits in the center made from wood so dark it looks black. Bookshelves line one wall. A fireplace crackles on another. And behind the desk sits a man who makes every nerve in my body scream at me to run.

He is tall even sitting down. Broad shoulders. Dark hair pushed back from his face. A thin scar runs from his temple to his cheek like someone tried to kill him and almost succeeded. He wears a black suit that fits him like it was made specifically for his body. Which it probably was. His eyes are gray. Storm gray. The kind of gray that looks cold until you realize there is something burning underneath.

He is looking at me like I am a problem he needs to solve. What do I do? Curtsy? kneel? Bow?

I am definitely a problem.

"Isabella Moretti," he says. My heart is almost beating out of my chest right now.

I nod because my voice still is not working properly.

"Sit."

I sit in the chair across from his desk. The leather is soft. I perch on the edge because sinking back feels presumptuous. Matteo closes the door as he leaves. Now it is just me and this man who I assume is Dante Valerio. The man my father owes three million dollars. The man who everyone in our neighborhood talks about in whispers. The man you don't hear about except you're doing things you should not be doing.

He studies me for a long moment. I try not to fidget. I fail. My hands twist in my lap. I force them to stop.

"Do you know why you are here?" he asks.

"My father owes you money," I say quietly. "I am here to work it off."

"Work it off," he repeats. Something that might be amusement flickers across his face. "Doing what, exactly?"

"Whatever you need. I can clean. I can cook. I will work hard. I promise I will not be a problem." The words tumble out fast. Too fast. "Please do not hurt my family. They did not mean to-"

"Stop."

I stop. My mouth closes so fast my teeth click together.

He leans back in his chair. "Your father did not tell you."

"Tell me what?"

"You are not here to scrub my floors, Isabella."

Relief tries to flood through me but something in his tone stops it. If I am not here to clean, then why am I here? My mind races through possibilities. Each one worse than the last.

He reaches into a drawer and pulls out papers. He slides them across the desk toward me. "You are here to sign this."

I lean forward. The papers are thick. Official looking. Words swim in front of my eyes. I see phrases like "binding agreement" and "legal contract" and then I see two words that make my heart stop.

Marriage certificate.

Dante's POV

"What?" Her brown eyes almost pop from their sockets.

"It is simple." I say "You marry me. Your father's debt disappears. Your stepmother gets the treatment she needs. Everyone walks away happy."

Happy. The word tastes like ash in my mouth. No one walks away happy from deals with men like me. But she doesn't need to know that yet.

"Marry you." Her voice sounds broken already. Fragile. She's worrying her bottom lip between her teeth and I find myself watching the movement. Soft lips. Pink from the pressure. "I do not understand."

Christ, she's so small. Maybe 5'3" at most, the nightwear shows her small frame, that makes her look even younger than twenty-two. Dark hair falling over her shoulders like she's trying to hide behind it. Those big brown eyes tilted down at the corners, making her look perpetually sad and scared.

Like a frightened doe that wandered into a wolf's den.

"Yes."

"No." The word comes out as barely a whisper. Not defiance. More like a prayer that won't be answered. "No. I cannot. I do not even know you."

I smile because the situation is funny in a dark, twisted way only I can appreciate. This girl thinks knowing someone matters. "You do not need to know me. You just need to sign the paper."

"Why would you want to marry me? This does not make sense. You could have anyone. You could-"

"I do not need to explain my reasons to you." My voice drops lower because I'm done playing. "Your father made a deal. This is the deal. You sign, or I visit your family tonight and collect my debt another way. Do you understand what that means?"

She understands. I see it in those enormous eyes that keep darting away from my face, unable to hold my gaze for more than a second. Her hands twist together in her lap, fingers knotting and unknotting. Everything about her screams submission. Defeat.

It should disgust me. Weakness always has.

Instead, something tightens in my chest.

Her hands shake as she reaches for the pen. Small hands. Delicate. The kind that have never held anything more dangerous than a kitchen knife. I notice her nails are bitten down to the quick.

"If I do this, you will leave them alone?"

"I will clear the debt. Your stepmother will receive the best medical care money can buy. Your family will be untouchable as long as you are my wife."

"As long as I am your wife." She repeats it slowly, testing the words. Her voice cracks. "For how long?"

"As long as I decide."

"That is not fair."

I lean forward because I need her to see my face when I say this. "Do I look like a man who cares about fair?"

She shrinks back in the chair, making herself smaller. "No. I am sorry. I did not mean-"

"Stop apologizing."

"I am sor-" She catches herself, then her face flushes. Pink spreads across those soft cheeks, down her neck. I wonder how far that blush goes.

Fuck.

I watch her pick up the pen. It's one of my favorites-Italian, custom-made, worth more than whatever piece of shit car her father probably drives. She reads through the contract but I can tell she's not absorbing anything. Her eyes are glassy with unshed tears.

"What happens if I refuse?" she whispers.

"Your father dies tonight. Probably your stepmother too. Maybe your sister if she tries to be heroic. Which she will not, but the possibility exists."

"You would kill them."

"I would let nature take its course. Your father stole from me. That has consequences."

"He gambled it away. He is sick. He has a problem."

"He has many problems. You are about to solve the biggest one."

I watch her hand hover over the signature line. Part of me-a very small, very buried part-wonders if she'll actually do it. If she'll sign her life away for a family that clearly doesn't deserve her.

But she does.

Isabella Moretti. The handwriting is shaky, almost childlike. She sets the pen down and her hand is shaking so hard she nearly knocks over the inkwell.

"Done."

"That is it?" Her voice cracks and those big eyes finally meet mine for more than a second. They're swimming with tears she's desperately trying to hold back. "I am married now?"

"Not quite. We will have a ceremony. Small and private. Tomorrow afternoon."

"Tomorrow? I do not have a dress. I do not have anything." Panic makes her voice thin. She's started worrying that bottom lip again and I want to reach over and pull it free with my thumb.

I don't.

"That will be handled."

"I need clothes. My things."

"Everything you need will be provided."

She stands up because sitting seems impossible for her now. Her legs wobble and I watch her grab the edge of the desk to steady herself. Those delicate fingers pressing into the wood, knuckles going white.

"I do not understand why you are doing this. What do you get out of marrying me?"

I stand too, moving around the desk. She tilts her head back to look at me and I realize just how much smaller she is. The top of her head barely reaches my chest. I could snap her in half without trying.

Instead, I'm noticing the curve of her neck. The way her pulse flutters visibly at her throat. How her lips part slightly as she breathes, and how her nipples pucker underneath the black nightwear.

"You do not need to understand," I say quietly, stepping closer. Too close. "You just need to obey."

"I am not a dog." It comes out as barely a whisper, not defiance, more like she's reminding herself.

"No. You are my wife." I reach out and touch her chin, tilting her face up to meet mine. Her skin is impossibly soft. Warm. She's trembling under my fingers but she doesn't pull away. Can't, probably. "Welcome to your cage, Mrs. Valerio."

She licks her lips nervously and I track the movement like a predator.

Christ, I want to taste her.

The door opens and I force myself to step back. Business mode.

"Sir. The room is ready."

"Take her upstairs. Make sure she has everything she needs."

I watch Isabella follow my housekeeper out on unsteady legs. She looks back once, just before she disappears through the door. Those eyes meeting mine for a brief second before she drops her gaze to the floor again.

The door closes and I pour myself three fingers of whiskey. I down it in one swallow, feeling the burn.

I wait two hours before I go upstairs. I tell myself it's because I have work to do. Calls to make. Plans to finalize, but the truth is I'm not sure what I'm going to do when I open that door.

When I do, the room is dark except for the light spilling in from the windows. I spot her immediately-a small shape curled up on the floor beside the bed, not in it.

She's on the floor crying. Not loud, dramatic sobs. Quiet, broken sounds like she's trying not to disturb anyone. Like she's apologising for her tears.

I should leave. This is none of my concern. She signed the papers, the deal is done.

But I stand there in the doorway, watching her shoulders shake, listening to her try to muffle her tears in her hands.

I close the door and walk back downstairs. I give her another hour but when I return, she's still on the floor. Still crying.

Fuck this.

"Will you cry all night?"

She gasps and scrambles backward, her eyes wide and red-rimmed in the darkness. Her hair is a mess around her face, cheeks blotchy and wet. She presses herself against the bedframe, trying to disappear into it.

"I am sorry. I am so sorry. I did not mean to disturb you. I will be quiet. I promise. I am sorry-"

"Stop apologizing."

She clamps her mouth shut, but I can see her bottom lip trembling. Fresh tears spill down her cheeks.

I should feel nothing. A decent man would feel guilty for putting that look on a woman's face.

But I'm not a decent man. And what I feel isn't guilt.

I cross the room and she makes herself smaller, arms wrapping around her knees. Trying to protect herself from me.

"Get up."

"I am sorry, I just-the bed felt wrong, and I did not want to-"

"Get. Up."

She tries. Her legs won't cooperate. She's been sitting on that hard floor for so long they've gone numb. She struggles, that pink blush spreading across her face again.

I reach down and lift her.

She weighs nothing. Like a fucking bird in my hands.

The moment I touch her, she goes completely still. Not calm, frozen. Even her breath stops. Those big eyes lock on my face, terrified and something else.

I set her on the bed and she sits there, rigid, staring up at me. Her hair falls around her face in dark waves and I can smell her now-something clean and simple. Soap. Fear.

And underneath it, something sweet.

"You signed the papers," I say, my voice rough. "The crying does not change anything."

"I know. I am sorry. I should not have-"

"Why were you on the floor?"

She looks down at her hands. Always looking away. "The bed felt... it is too nice. Like it belongs to someone else. I did not want to ruin it. I am sorry."

"Stop saying you are sorry."

"I am-" She catches herself, then her face crumples. "I do not know what else to say."

Something in my chest tightens again. Harder this time.

"The bed belongs to you now. Everything in this room belongs to you." I sit down beside her and she tenses. "You belong to me. Do you understand?"

"Yes." It's barely a whisper.

I reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. She jerks but doesn't pull away. Her skin is still damp from tears.

"I do not keep broken things, Isabella. So stop crying."

"I will try. I am-" She stops herself before the apology. "I will try."

I should leave. This is already more than I intended.

But I don't leave.

Instead, I pull off my jacket and shoes. Her eyes go wide as I stretch out on the bed beside her, on top of the covers.

"What are you-"

"You cannot sleep. Neither can I. So we will not sleep together."

"I do not understand."

"You will learn that I do not explain myself often." I turn my head to look at her. She's frozen, sitting up against the headboard, staring at me like I've lost my mind. Maybe I have. "Lie down."

"I-where should I-"

"Next to me."

"But-"

"Isabella." My voice drops lower. "Lie down. Now."

She moves like a frightened animal, slowly lowering herself to lie on her side, as far from me as she can get while still being on the same bed. Her body is rigid, her breathing shallow.

I can feel the heat of her even through the space between us.

"Why are you doing this?" she whispers to the ceiling.

"Because if I leave you alone, you will cry all night on the floor and be useless tomorrow."

"I am sorry-"

"Stop."

Silence falls. I can hear her breathing, quick and nervous. The sound of traffic outside. The old house settling around us.

"You are afraid of me," I say. Not a question.

"Yes." At least she's honest.

"Good. You should be." I turn my head to look at her profile in the darkness. That small nose. Soft jaw. The curve of her mouth. "But I do not hurt what belongs to me. Remember that."

I should not want this. I should not want her.

But I do.