The silence in the office was a living thing, taut and vibrating between Elena and Dante like a wire drawn to breaking. She sat on the hard wooden chair, fingers clamped around its edges until her knuckles blanched. Her leg throbbed in rhythm with her pulse—a hot, relentless drumbeat.
Dante Rossi did not look at her. He wrote on, the scratch of his fountain pen the only sound in the room. Calm. Composed. Everything she was not.
To him, she was merely an acquisition—a damaged piece of furniture awaiting repair.
The door clicked open.
A short, balding man hurried in, clutching a black leather medical bag. His rumpled suit carried the sharp scent of antiseptic and stale tobacco. He looked less like a hospital physician and more like someone who patched wounds in dimly lit basements.
"Dr. Aris," Dante said without raising his eyes. "You took your time."
The doctor flinched. "Traffic, Don Rossi. The storm's flooding the lower streets."
"Fix the girl," Dante ordered, flicking his pen vaguely in Elena's direction. "And be quick. I want to go home."
Dr. Aris turned to her. His eyes held a flicker of kindness, tempered by nerves. He knelt beside the chair and opened his bag.
"Let me see," he murmured.
He reached for the torn denim stuck to the wound with dried blood.
"This will hurt, miss."
He peeled the fabric away.
Elena inhaled sharply through clenched teeth. Pain flared white-hot up her thigh. She squeezed her eyes shut but refused to cry out. She would not give him the satisfaction.
The doctor examined the gash. Glass had sliced deep, through skin and into muscle.
"Needs stitches," he said. "Ten, perhaps."
"Do it," Dante replied.
"I'll numb it first," the doctor said, reaching for a syringe.
"No."
The single word froze the doctor's hand. Elena's eyes flew open. Dante had set down his pen. He was watching her now, gray eyes unreadable.
"Sir?" the doctor stammered. "It's deep. The pain—"
"She needs to learn about consequences," Dante said softly. "She fought my men. Broke a vase. Now she pays."
He leaned back, steepled his fingers, and met Elena's gaze.
"Besides," he added, voice dropping to a velvet murmur, "I want to see how tough she is. Her father was a coward. I need to know if the daughter is the same."
Hatred surged through Elena, nearly eclipsing the pain. He was testing her and treating her like an experiment.
"Just do it," she told the doctor, chin lifted despite the tremor in her voice. "I don't need his charity."
The doctor glanced between them, swallowed, and nodded.
"Grip the chair," he whispered.
He cleaned the wound with alcohol. It burned, sharp and biting, but it was nothing compared to what followed.
The needle pierced her skin.
Elena bit her lip until she tasted blood. Fingernails gouged the wood. Her body locked rigid.
One stitch.
She exhaled shakily through her nose. Tears pricked her eyes, but she held them back.
Two.
Dante rose.
He rounded the desk and loomed over her and the kneeling doctor.
"Look at me," he commanded.
Elena kept her eyes shut.
"Look at me, Elena."
The order was iron. Slowly, she opened them.
His face filled her vision close enough to reveal flecks of silver in the gray.
"It hurts, doesn't it?" he asked quietly.
"Yes," she whispered.
"Good," he said. "Remember this pain. Every time you fight me, every time you try to run, this is what waits. Pain is the best teacher."
He brushed a tear from her cheek with his thumb. The touch was gentle, calloused, possessive and utterly confusing.
"Finish it," he told the doctor.
The remaining stitches blurred into agony. Elena fixed her gaze on a hairline crack in the plaster and poured herself into it, detaching mind from flesh.
"Done," the doctor said at last, snipping the final thread. He bandaged the wound swiftly with gauze and tape.
Dante tossed a thick roll of cash onto the desk.
"Get out."
The doctor snatched bag and money and fled.
Elena slumped, exhaustion crashing over her as adrenaline ebbed. She was cold, shaking.
"Can I go home now?" she asked, voice small, knowing the answer.
Dante laughed. He retrieved a long black wool coat from the rack.
"You're going home," he said. "Just not to that rathole."
He draped the heavy, warm coat over her shoulders. It swallowed her frame, carrying his scent.
"Stand."
She pushed upright. Her leg buckled. Dante's arm snaked around her waist, steadying her with effortless strength. For a moment her body pressed against tailored granite.
"I can walk," she muttered, pushing weakly at his chest.
"Don't be stupid." He didn't release her. Instead, he swept her into his arms, bridal style.
"Put me down!" Her fists beat feebly against him.
"If I do, you'll fall, rip the stitches, and we'll repeat this," he said calmly. "Do you want that?"
She stilled, head falling back in defeat.
He carried her from the office, down the clanging stairs, across the warehouse floor. Men below paused to stare at their Don cradling the girl. Dante ignored them.
Outside, the storm had softened to a steady drizzle. A sleek limousine waited.
The driver opened the door. Dante slid inside without setting her down, settling her on his lap.
"Move me," she mumbled into the coat.
"No," he said. "The leather's cold. You're shivering."
He tucked the coat around her like a blanket. The gesture and tender from the same man who had watched her suffer was calculated, she realized. Safety offered only to be withdrawn later.
The car glided forward, leaving the industrial district for the northern hills where the untouchable lived.
Elena watched city lights recede, each passing streetlamp another mile from her old life—her art, her freedom, even her traitor father.
"How long?" she asked into the shadowed interior.
"How long what?" His arm rested along the seat back; his fingers toyed idly with the coat's collar.
"Until the debt is paid?"
Silence. She felt his chest rise and fall against her side.
"Fifty thousand is substantial for someone with no skills," he said. "You cook?"
"A little."
"Clean?"
"Yes."
"Then perhaps a few years."
"Years?" She sat up, wincing, face inches from his. "Decades of my life for his mistake?"
"The law of the harvest, Elena," he whispered. "You reap what is sown. Your father sowed debt. You are the crop."
"I'll run," she vowed. "I'll find a way."
He smiled—terrifying in the half-light.
"Many have tried. None succeeded. My reach is long. And if you run, I will find you. When I bring you back, you will not reside upstairs. You will live in the cellar."
The car turned onto a private drive. Iron gates swung open. Ancient oaks lined the winding ascent.
At the crest stood the estate—a fortress of dark stone, turrets piercing the sky, ivy veining the walls. Floodlights revealed high barriers, cameras, patrolling guards with dogs.
Elena's heart plummeted. A prison masquerading as a palace.
The limousine halted before grand oak doors. A fountain masked the distant growl of dogs.
Dante stepped out, pulling her with him. He set her down but kept a vise grip on her arm.
"Welcome to the Rossi Estate."
The doors opened onto a vast foyer of black-and-white marble gleaming beneath a crystal chandelier. A sweeping staircase rose between ancestral portraits—severe men with Dante's eyes.
Staff lined the walls—maids in crisp uniforms, suited men who looked more like enforcers. They bowed as one.
"Don Rossi."
He ignored them, hauling Elena toward the stairs.
"Take her to the East Wing," he barked at the stern older woman who approached—Maria.
"Yes, Sir." Maria's gaze held pity and judgment. "Come, child."
Elena stared at the staircase, then the open front door. The driver still blocked it.
Panic surged. Up those stairs lay surrender.
"No," she whispered.
She jerked free, surprising him and bolted.
Pain screamed in her leg, but she ran for the door, for freedom, for the tree line beyond the gravel.
"Stop her!" Dante roared.
The driver lunged. Elena rammed her shoulder into his gut, shoving past into the night.
Heavy footsteps thundered behind her.
Then a weight struck from the side, not a man, but a beast. A massive Doberman pinned her to the gravel, paws on her back, snarling hot breath against her neck. Trained to hold, not kill.
Elena froze.
"Off!" Dante's command cracked.
The dog obeyed instantly, sitting back.
Elena lay gasping in mud, leg ablaze, stitches likely torn.
Polished shoes appeared.
Dante seized the coat's collar and hauled her upright. He spun her to face him. Fury etched his features; a vein throbbed at his temple.
"I warned you," he snarled, shaking her once. "No escape."
"You want games? You want to run like a child? Then I'll treat you like one."
He dragged her back inside, her feet skidding across marble.
"Maria!" he bellowed.
The housekeeper paled.
"Sedative."
"No!" Elena shrieked. "No drugs!"
He hauled her upstairs. She fought, kicking, clawing the banister, grasping at paintings. He pried her fingers free.
He flung her into a room at the hall's end, opulent with a four-poster bed and velvet drapes, yet the windows wore decorative iron bars.
Elena scrambled back against the bed.
Dante blocked the doorway.
Maria appeared, syringe in hand.
"Hold her."
He advanced. Elena seized a bedside lamp and swung.
He caught her wrist, twisted until she dropped it. The lamp shattered.
He bore her down onto the mattress, pinning her thrashing limbs with his weight.
"Do it."
Maria swabbed her arm.
"No, please!" Elena begged, staring into Dante's eyes. "I won't run again, I promise!"
"Too late," he whispered, face inches away. "You chose the hard way."
He nodded.
The needle pricked.
Elena struggled a few seconds more, but warmth flooded her veins, heavy and inexorable. Limbs turned to lead.
Dante's face blurred above her—anger softening into cold curiosity.
"Sleep, Elena," he murmured, voice distant.
Her eyes closed. Her body slackened.
The last sensation: his fingers brushing wet hair from her forehead.
The last sound: the door slamming, the deadbolt sliding home.
Darkness claimed her.