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.

Bella's POV

I wake to the feeling of being watched.

My eyes flutter open and there he is, Dante, Sitting in a chair beside the bed like some kind of dark guardian angel who forgot the angel part. The early morning light from the window cuts across his face. He's still wearing yesterday's clothes but his suit jacket is gone and his shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows.

He looks tired but dangerous. Yet, beautiful in a way that makes my stomach flip. Did he not sleep all night?

I sit up too fast and the room spins. "I am sorry. I did not mean to oversleep. What time is it? I should-I can clean. I will clean the house and make breakfast and-"

The words tumble out before I can stop them because this is what I do. This is what I have always done. Wake up early, clean the house, make breakfast for Father and Elena and Clara before they even open their eyes. Scrub the floors until my knees ache. Wash dishes until my hands are raw. Stay quiet and useful and maybe, maybe they will not look at me with that expression that says I am a burden they wish they could discard.

I swing my legs off the bed and stand. "I will start with the kitchen. Do you take coffee or tea? I can make both. I am sorry, I should have asked last night what you-"

"Stop."

His voice cuts through my rambling like a knife. I freeze halfway to the door.

"You are not a servant here, Isabella."

I turn to look at him. He has not moved from the chair but something about his posture has changed. More alert. Like a predator that just noticed its prey trying to run.

"I do not understand."

"You are my wife. Not my maid."

The words sound strange. Foreign. Like he is speaking a language I should know but do not.

"But I need to-someone has to clean and cook and-"

"I have staff for that." He stands and the chair scrapes against the hardwood floor. The sound makes me flinch. "You will not clean my house. You will not cook my meals. You will not act like a servant in your own home."

Your own home. The words echo in my head but they do not make sense. This is not my home. This is a prison that looks like a palace.

"Then what am I supposed to do?" The question comes out smaller than I intended.

He walks toward me and I have to fight the urge to back away. He stops close enough that I have to tilt my head back to look at him. Close enough that I can smell his cologne mixed with something darker. Whiskey, maybe. And cigarette smoke.

"You are supposed to obey me." His voice is low and rough like gravel. "There are rules, Isabella. You will learn them now."

My heart hammers against my ribs. "What rules?"

"First. You do not leave this estate without me. Not to visit friends. Not for any reason. Do you understand?"

I nod because what else can I do?

"Second. You do not contact your family without telling me first. I will decide when and how. No surprises."

Something cold slides down my spine. "But my mother is sick. I need to know if she-"

"She is receiving the best care money can buy. I told you that. You will not contact them."

"That is not fair. I just want to know she is okay. I just want to-"

"Third rule." He steps closer and I back up instinctively. My spine hits the wall. I am trapped between expensive wallpaper and six feet four inches of muscle and menace. "You will attend all public events as my wife. You will smile. You will be gracious. You will play the doting wife, and you will make everyone believe you are happy to be married to me."

"I am not happy." The words slip out before I can stop them.

His eyes darken. "I do not need your happiness, Isabella. I need your obedience."

I should stay quiet. I should nod and agree and make myself small the way I always do. But something about being caged against this wall with this man who married me without even pretending to care makes something crack inside my chest.

"You cannot just lock me away and expect me to smile about it."

"I can do whatever I want. You signed the papers, remember?"

"I signed because you threatened to kill my family."

"Yes. I did." He says it like he is commenting on the weather. Like threatening to murder people is just another Tuesday for him. Which it probably is. "And now you belong to me. That means you follow my rules."

His face inches clos, his lips just an inch from mine. He is so close I can feel the heat radiating off his body. So close I can see the flecks of darker gray in his storm-cloud eyes. For a second I think he'll close the space between our lips so I turn my face away.

He makes a sound that might be a laugh but has no humor in it. "Look at me when I am speaking to you."

"No."

The word comes out as a whisper but it might as well be a shout. His whole body goes still.

"What did you say?"

"I said no." I force myself to meet his eyes even though every instinct screams at me to apologize and look away. "I do not want to look at you."

For a moment I think he might actually hurt me. His jaw clenches and something dangerous flashes across his face. Then his mouth curves into something that is not quite a smile.

"You do not seem to understand that you are now my wife… and that means I own you. Every part of you."

He leans in, his breath brushing my cheek. "So if I want to kiss you, Isabella, I can."

My breath catches. "What?"

"You heard me." He leans in until his mouth is inches from mine. Until I can see the stubble along his jaw and the way his eyes have gone darker. "I own you now, Isabella. Every part of you. Including this."

His thumb brushes across my lower lip and I jerk back but there is nowhere to go. I am already pressed against the wall.

"Do not." My voice shakes but I force the words out anyway. "Do not touch me like that."

"Like what?" His hand slides from my face down my neck, fingers trailing along my collarbone, down to my chest, dangerously close to the swell of my breast. "Like you are mine?"

"I am not yours. I am just-I am trapped here because you gave me no choice."

"You always had a choice." His hand drops away but he does not step back. "You could have let your family die. You could have walked away. But you did not."

"Because I am not a monster like you."

Something flickers across his face. Anger, maybe. Or something that looks almost like respect.

"No. You are not." His gaze drops to my mouth again and I see him track the way I press my lips together. The way my breath comes faster. "But you will learn to be if you want to survive in my world."

I shake my head. "I do not want to be in your world. I just want-"

"It does not matter what you want." He reaches past me and I think he is going to cage me in completely but instead his hand lands on the wall beside my head. "You are in my world now. My house. My bed. My wife."

"I did not ask for any of this."

"Neither did I." For just a second, something raw flashes across his face. "But here we are."

The way he says it makes me pause. Like maybe he is as trapped as I am. But that is ridiculous because he is the one with all the power. He is the one who forced me to sign those papers.

I try to slide away from him but he catches my wrist. His fingers wrap all the way around it with room to spare. He could break me so easily. But his grip is not tight. Not painful. Just firm enough to keep me in place.

"Where do you think you are going?"

"Away from you."

"That is not an option." He pulls me closer instead of letting me go. "You are my wife. That means you stay where I put you."

"I am not a possession you can just-"

"Yes. You are." His free hand slides to my waist and suddenly I am very aware of how thin my nightgown is. How his palm burns through the fabric, and my body reacts in a way it has never done before. My nipples harden, goosebumps dot my skin. The reaction is dizzying and confusing.

"You signed yourself over to me, remember? Body and soul."

"The contract did not say anything about my soul."

"No. But I am taking it anyway."

The words should terrify me. They do terrify me. But underneath the fear is something else. Something hot and wrong that makes my face flush.

He notices. Of course he notices. His eyes drop to my neck where I know my pulse is hammering visibly.

"You are afraid of me."

"Yes."

"Good." His thumb traces slow circles on my hip and I hate that my body reacts. That heat pools low in my stomach. "You should be."

"Then let me go."

"No." He leans in until his mouth brushes my ear. "I am going to keep you, Isabella. And one day you will stop fighting me."

"Never."

"We will see." His hand slides lower, fingers catching the hem of my nightgown. "But first, you need to understand something."

My breath stops. "What?"

"No one tells me no." His fingers trace the outside of my thigh through the thin fabric. "Not my enemies. Not my men." His hand slides higher and my entire body locks up. "And definitely not my wife."

"Stop." I try to twist away but his grip on my wrist tightens just enough to keep me still. "Do not do this."

"Do what? Touch what belongs to me?" His hand slides higher still, pushing the fabric up my leg. "You are mine, Isabella. Every inch of you."

"No. Stop. Please-" Panic claws up my throat and I do the only thing I can think of. I turn my face completely away from him and squeeze my eyes shut. "Please do not do this. Please."

His hand stops. Just stops completely.

The silence stretches so long I think maybe I have broken something. Then he makes a sound that might be a curse and steps back. The loss of his heat feels like being doused in ice water.

I open my eyes to find him staring at me with an expression I cannot read. Anger, yes. But something else too. Something that looks almost like frustration. Or regret.

"Get dressed." His voice is hard. Controlled. "We have a long day ahead." And then he's gone.

Dante's POV

The conference room overlooks the Chicago River. I picked this city for a reason. New York and Boston are overcrowded; Vegas is all show. Chicago has bones, history, and enough corruption for men like me to build empires.

My father was smart about it. Until someone got to him. Now I have to find out who that someone is before they get to me while fighting off other wolves that want his position.

I push the thought away because I have eight underbosses staring at me and waiting for an explanation I do not owe them.

"A wife." One of them leans back in his chair like he owns it. "Forgive me, Dante, but this seems sudden. Your father was killed six months ago. You take over, make enemies, and now you marry a girl whose father owes you money? It looks weak."

He is good-looking in a polished way I don't trust. Symmetrical. Safe.

"It is not your concern what I do. Any of you."

"Of course not." He spreads his hands. "But the other families will have questions. The Moretti girl is nobody. No connections. Unless-" He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Unless you are going soft, Boss."

The room goes silent. Even Luca, standing by the door, tenses. Going soft. The worst thing you can accuse a man like me of being.

I stand up slowly. I walk around the table until I am looming over him.

"Stand up," I say.

"Boss, I did not mean-"

"Stand. Up."

He stands. He is six feet tall, fit. He probably thinks he can take me in a fair fight. But I do not fight fair.

My fist connects with his nose before he can blink. The crunch of cartilage is satisfying. Blood explodes across his face and he stumbles back. I grab him by his expensive tie and pull him close.

"You think I am soft? You think marrying Isabella makes me weak?"

He tries to pull away but I do not let him.

"She is mine. That makes her valuable. And if I hear you or anyone else disrespect my wife again, I will do more than break your nose. Do you understand?"

"Yes," he gurgles, blood dripping. "I understand."

I let him go and he collapses into his chair. "Anyone else have questions? Good. Get out."

They leave quickly. Only Santino stays behind.

Santino stretches. "So. This wife of yours. Is she pretty?"

I think about Isabella. The fear in her eyes last night. The way she begged me to stop.

"She is mine," I say finally. "That is all that matters."

Santino grins. "So she is pretty. Good for you, cousin."

He leaves before I can throw something at him.

I finish my drink, looking out at the gray city. Somewhere down there, Isabella is locked in my house. I should feel nothing about that. Guilt is a luxury I cannot afford. But I keep seeing her face. The way she looked at me like I was a monster.

Maybe I am.

I head home to Lincoln Park. The house is quiet, filled with secrets my father left behind. I find Isabella in the library, curled up in a leather chair by the window.

I did not expect that. I expected her to be in the bedroom. Still crying. Still making herself small.

Instead she is curled up in one of the leather chairs by the window. A book in her lap. Her dark hair falling over her shoulder in waves that catch the afternoon light. She is wearing clothes someone must have brought her. A simple sweater and jeans that actually fit her properly. Nothing fancy. But on her it looks right.

She is biting her bottom lip. A habit I am starting to notice. She does it when she is concentrating. When she is nervous. When I touch her.

I lean against the doorframe and watch her. She traces her finger along the words as she reads. Like she is savoring each one. Her eyes move across the page slowly. Carefully.

Beautiful.

The thought comes unbidden and I push it away. I do not need her to be beautiful. I need her to be obedient.

But watching her like this. Unaware and unguarded. Something shifts in my chest.

She turns the page and sunlight catches her profile. Small nose. Soft jaw. Those ridiculous eyelashes that make her look younger than she is. Her skin is that warm olive tone that speaks of Mediterranean blood. Italian, probably. Or Greek.

Mine, something primal whispers in the back of my head.

I clear my throat.

She jumps so hard the book nearly flies out of her hands. Her head snaps toward me and those big brown eyes go wide with panic.

"I am sorry. I did not mean to-I found this room and I thought-I can leave. I am sorry. I should have asked-"

"Stop apologizing."

She closes her mouth so fast her teeth click together.

I push off the doorframe and walk into the library. It is one of my favorite rooms in the house. Floor to ceiling bookshelves. First editions I will never read. A fireplace that actually works. The chair she is sitting in belonged to my father.

"What are you reading?" I ask.

She looks down at the book like she forgot it was there. "Jane Eyre. I hope that is okay. I did not think-"

"It is fine." I stop in front of her chair. She has to tilt her head back to look at me. I like that. The way I tower over her. The way it makes her neck look long and vulnerable. "Do you like it?"

"I-yes. I have read it before but-" She stops. Starts again. "Yes. I like it."

"Good." I check my watch. Platinum. A gift from my father on my thirtieth birthday. Two years before someone murdered him. "Get your shoes. We are going out."

Panic flashes across her face. "Where?"

"Shopping."

"For what?"

"Your wedding dress." I watch her process this. Watch the color drain from her face. "The ceremony is tomorrow. You need something appropriate to wear."

"I do not-I cannot-" She stands up and the book falls to the floor. "I do not want to go shopping. I do not want a wedding dress. I do not want any of this."

"That is unfortunate."

"You already made me sign the papers. You cannot just-"

"I can." I step closer and she backs up until her legs hit the chair. Trapped again. "And I will. Now get your shoes or I will carry you out of here in bare feet."

"No." It comes out shaky but defiant. "No. I am not going."

There it is again. That word. No.

I smile because the situation is funny in a dark way only I can appreciate. "Isabella. Do you remember what I told you this morning?"

She swallows hard. I watch her throat move. "You said many things."

"I said no one tells me no." I reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. She flinches but does not move away. Cannot. "Not my enemies. Not my men. And definitely not my wife."

"This is insane." Her voice rises slightly. "You are insane. And I told you I'm not a dog-"

I bend down and lift her over my shoulder in one smooth motion.

She shrieks. Actually shrieks. "What are you doing? Put me down!"

"No."

I walk out of the library with her draped over my shoulder. She weighs next to nothing. I could carry her for hours and not feel it.

"Dante! Put me down right now!"

"No."

"This is-you cannot-" She starts kicking. Her small fists pound against my back. "Put me down!"

I carry her through the hallway. Past the staff who wisely look away. Down the main staircase. She is still kicking and hitting me and yelling.

"I will scream," she threatens.

"You are already screaming."

"I will scream louder!"

"Go ahead. No one will stop me."

She makes a sound of pure frustration and pounds her fists harder against my back. It does not hurt. If anything it is amusing.

Luca is waiting by the front door. He takes one look at Isabella dangling over my shoulder and his expression does not change at all.

"Car is ready, boss."

"Good."

"I hate you!" Isabella yells. "I hate you so much!"

"I know."

I carry her outside into the cold March air. The car is idling at the curb. Black SUV with tinted windows. Bulletproof. The only kind I drive anymore.

I set Isabella down on her feet and she immediately tries to bolt. I catch her around the waist and pull her back against my chest. She fits perfectly. Small and soft and trembling with rage.

"Let me go!"

"Get in the car, Isabella."

"No!"

I lean down until my mouth is at her ear. "You can get in the car willingly. Or I can put you in the car. Your choice."

She goes still. I can feel her heart hammering against my arm. Her breath coming fast.

"I do not want to go shopping," she whispers.

"I know."

"Then why-"

"Because you are going to be my wife this afternoon. And my wife will look like she belongs to me."

I open the car door and guide her inside. She goes without fighting. Probably because she knows fighting is pointless.

I slide in beside her and Luca gets behind the wheel.

Isabella presses herself against the far door. As far from me as she can get in the confined space. Her hair is messy from being carried. Her cheeks are flushed. Her eyes are bright with unshed tears.

She has never looked more beautiful.

"I hate you," she says again. Quieter this time.