The jeweler's atelier was hidden behind an unmarked steel door on the top floor of a SoHo building that officially didn't exist. Dante's hand never left the small of Liliana's back as they stepped out of the private elevator. The ring on her finger felt heavier than gold, as though the ruby itself were drinking the light.
Inside, the space was pure opulence wrapped in menace: black velvet walls, spotlights that turned diamonds into knives of fire, and a single velvet chaise the color of arterial blood. A man waited in the center of the room—thin, silver-haired, dressed in charcoal cashmere. His eyes were the pale, watery blue of a man who had measured throats for decades and never once blinked.
"Maestro Ricci," Dante greeted, voice warm with the respect men like him rarely gave anyone.
Ricci inclined his head. "Signor Moretti. The piece is ready."
He gestured to a black lacquered box on a pedestal. Dante's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on Liliana's spine.
"Show her."
Ricci opened the box with the reverence of a priest unveiling a relic.
Nestled on midnight silk lay the most beautiful and terrifying thing Liliana had ever seen.
A collar.
Not a choker, not jewelry in any sane definition. A collar.
Three inches wide, crafted from blackened platinum so dark it swallowed light. The front was set with a single flawless black diamond the size of a man's thumbnail. From it hung a delicate, unbreakable ring—meant for a leash. The inner band was lined with whisper-soft black leather so it wouldn't chafe… much. Along the outer edge, in tiny, perfect script, were engraved the words:
Liliana Moretti
Proprietà Esclusiva di Dante
And beneath that, smaller still:
Per sempre.
Forever.
Liliana's breath caught. She took one involuntary step back and collided with Dante's chest.
"Try it on," he murmured against her temple.
Ricci lifted the collar with both hands, the way one might hold a crown. Dante swept her hair aside, exposing her throat. The metal was cool, heavier than it looked. The click when it closed sounded louder than a gunshot in the silent room.
A perfect fit. Not tight enough to choke—yet—but impossible to forget.
Dante turned her to face the mirror.
The woman staring back looked like a stranger: pale, wide-eyed, lips swollen from last night, bruises blooming beneath the silk robe like dark jewels. And around her throat, the collar gleamed like a promise and a prison.
Dante's reflection appeared behind her. His hands settled on her shoulders.
"Look at you," he said softly. "Finally wearing what you were born for."
Ricci produced a second, smaller box. Inside lay a matching leash—thin, braided black silk with a platinum clip. Dante took it without looking away from her reflection.
He clipped it to the ring at her throat.
The weight was light. The meaning crushed her.
Ricci bowed and retreated, leaving them alone with the mirrors and the silence.
Dante tugged once, gently. Her body obeyed before her mind could protest, stepping closer until her back met his chest.
"On your knees, amore."
The plush carpet was soft beneath her knees. The leash kept her exactly where he wanted her—close enough that the fabric of his trousers brushed her cheek.
He didn't unzip. Not yet. He simply looked down at her, thumb stroking the collar, tracing the engraved letters.
"Say it," he commanded.
Her voice came out a cracked whisper. "I'm yours."
"Louder."
"I'm yours, Dante."
He smiled—slow, satisfied, devastating.
"Good girl."
He unclipped the leash but left the collar locked. It would never come off again unless he willed it. A tiny hidden mechanism required a magnetic key he now wore on a chain against his heart.
He lifted her to her feet, turned her, and kissed her—not the brutal claiming of last night, but something worse. Slow. Reverent. Possessive. His tongue traced the seam of her lips until she opened for him, helpless. When he pulled back, her lips were swollen, her breath ragged.
"Time to go home," he said.
In the elevator down, he kept one hand curled around the back of her neck, thumb brushing the edge of the collar. The guards pretended not to see.
Back in the penthouse, he led her straight to the bedroom.
The St. Andrew's cross waited.
He stripped the robe from her body in one fluid motion, let it pool at her feet. Then he walked her backward until the polished wood met her spine.
He bound her facing the cross—wrists high, ankles spread, body stretched taut. The collar forced her chin up; she couldn't hide.
From a drawer he produced a slim remote. With a soft click, the cross rotated 180 degrees, turning her to face the room—face the mirror that covered one entire wall.
She watched her own reflection: naked, collared, trembling, the brand on her lower back livid against pale skin.
Dante stepped behind her, fully dressed, the contrast obscene.
He didn't speak. He simply let her look.
Minutes passed—five, ten, twenty. The only sound was her breathing and the faint hum of the city far below.
Then he moved.
His hands started at her throat, fingers tracing the collar, then slid down—palms cupping her breasts, thumbs circling nipples until they ached, then lower. Over her belly. Between her thighs.
He didn't enter her. He just held her open with two fingers while his thumb found her clit and began a slow, merciless rhythm.
She was sobbing within minutes, hips jerking against the restraints, trying to chase the pressure.
"Please—"
"Please what?"
"Please let me come."
He stopped.
She cried out in frustration.
He waited until she sagged, then started again. Slower. Lighter. Never enough.
Edge after edge after edge.
By the time the sun bled orange across the windows, she was a wreck—tears streaking her face, body shaking, voice broken from begging.
Only then did he unzip.
He took her right there against the cross—slow, deep strokes that dragged over every raw nerve inside her. One hand fisted in the leash he'd reattached, pulling her head back so he could bite the junction of neck and shoulder, right above the collar.
When she came, it was violent, shattering, a scream that tore her throat raw.
He followed seconds later, buried to the hilt, pulsing inside her, branding her again from the inside.
Afterward, he unchained her, carried her to the bed, and laid her down gently. He cleaned her with a warm cloth, applied more ointment to the carved initials, then pulled her into his arms.
She was too exhausted to fight the way her body curled into his.
His lips brushed the shell of her ear.
"Sleep, wife," he whispered. "Tomorrow we start teaching you how to use that pretty mouth for something other than begging."
Her last coherent thought before darkness took her was that the collar no longer felt cold.
It felt like it had always belonged there.