POV: Dante
She slept in the chair.
I watched her for most of the night, a pale, proud figure curled in the wingback, her face turned away. The defiance was etched into her posture even in sleep. It should have angered me. This disobedience, this rejection of the bed and of me, occurred on our wedding night. Instead, it fascinated me.
I'd expected tears. Begging. Or a cold, broken submission. I'd prepared for all of it.
I hadn't prepared for Isabella Romano.
She'd stood her ground last night, her green eyes flashing with a fire that was worth more than her father's five-million-dollar debt. She'd called me a jailer. She'd thrown my choices back in my face. And she'd looked at me, truly looked at me, not at the Don, not at Il Diavolo, but at the man. She'd seen the calculation, and she'd challenged it.
No one challenged me.
And no one had made me feel the need to explain myself in years. Yet I'd found myself laying out the brutal logic of my world, wanting her to understand it wasn't just about ownership. It was about survival. Her survival.
She was an unpredictable variable. In my life, variables were either controlled or eliminated.
I couldn't eliminate her. The thought, even as a mere strategic option, caused a strange, unpleasant tightening in my chest.
So, control.
The first light of dawn filtered through the windows, painting her in shades of gray and gold. She stirred, a soft sigh escaping her lips. I closed my eyes, feigning sleep, listening.
She uncurled herself stiffly, with a small gasp of pain as she straightened her neck. She looked at the bed, at my still form, her expression a war of confusion and lingering anger. She stood, the oversized robe dwarfing her, and padded silently into the bathroom.
I rose, moving to the window. Central Park was a misty oasis below. My empire, awake and humming. And now, at its center, a spark of chaos named Isabella.
When she emerged, showered and dressed in her clothes—simple jeans and a sweater, a deliberate rejection of the wardrobe I'd had delivered—I was at the small table by the window, dressed in trousers and a fresh white shirt, sleeves rolled up, reviewing security reports on my tablet. A breakfast cart sat between us: pastries, fruit, and coffee.
"Sit," I said, without looking up. "Eat."
She hesitated, then sat, perched on the edge of the chair. She poured a cup of coffee, black, and sipped it, her eyes wary over the rim.
"We need to establish rules," I began, setting the tablet down. "For your safety and the security of this family."
She set her cup down with a sharp click. "More rules? I thought the contract covered everything."
"The contract is a legal framework. These are practicalities." I met her gaze, holding it. "You will not leave this property without an escort. Marco or two of my men will accompany you, always."
"So I'm under house arrest."
"You're under protection. Until I am certain you understand the threats and how to navigate them, you will not be alone in public. Second," I continued, cutting off the protest I saw forming on her lips, "you will not contact anyone from your previous life without my prior knowledge. I will provide your phone. All communications are monitored."
Her face paled. "My father? Mrs. Chen?"
"You may speak with your father. You may speak with your father on a supervised line at scheduled times. It is for his safety as much as yours. The old woman… we will assess." The Chen name carried weight in certain circles. I needed to know which connections were important before allowing any association.
"Assess," she repeated, the word dripping with venom. "You'll assess my friends."
"Third," I pressed on, my tone leaving no room for debate, "you will attend certain events with me. Galas, dinners, and family gatherings. You will act as my wife. With grace and loyalty. In return, you will have access to funds, the house, and whatever you desire within reason. You may pursue your art. I will even purchase a gallery for you, if that is your wish."
I saw the flicker in her eyes at that—the dream, offered like a poisoned apple. She wanted it. She hated that she wanted it from me.
"And what if I refuse?" she asked, her voice low. "What if I walk out that front door right now and just keep walking?"
I leaned back in my chair, studying her. The morning light caught the green in her eyes, turning them to fractured sea glass. "Then you would be dead before you reached the park."
She flinched but held my gaze. "You'd kill me?"
"I wouldn't need to. Viktor Volkov has men watching this house. They've been waiting for a weakness. Is a lone woman really fleeing from the formidable Dante Salvatore? She wouldn't make it three blocks before she disappeared. And then they would use her to try and break me." I leaned forward, my voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Is that what you want, Isabella? To be a weapon used against me? To be tortured in some warehouse because you wanted to make a point?"
Fear, real and visceral, flashed across her face. Good. She needed to be afraid. Not of me, but of the world I lived in. Fear would keep her alive.
She stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. "I need air."
"The terrace is through those doors."
"I need real air. Not your… curated atmosphere." She turned and walked toward the bedroom door.
"Where do you think you're going?" My voice stopped her, a whip crack in the quiet room.
"To the garden. Or the street. Wherever isn't this room with you."
"You will be escorted."
"I don't want an escort!" she shouted, the control snapping. She yanked the bedroom door open.
I was across the room in seconds. Not running. A few swift, long strides. My hand shot out, palm flat against the heavy wood, slamming it shut before she could step through. My body caged hers against the door, not touching her, but close enough that she could feel the heat and the implicit threat.
"The rules are not a negotiation," I said, my voice calm, deadly.
She spun around, her back against the door, her chest heaving. Her eyes blazed with fury, inches from mine. "Get away from me."
"Or what?" The challenge was out before I could stop it. I wanted to see what she would do. This fire… it was intoxicating.
Her hand came up, fast.
I saw it coming. I could have stopped it easily. I chose not to.
The slap connected with my cheek, a sharp, stinging blow that snapped my head to the side. The sound echoed in the silent room.
A profound silence followed. No one had struck me since I became Don. The shock wasn't in the pain, which was minimal, but in the sheer, breathtaking audacity of it. My blood roared, a primal urge to dominate surging to the fore.
Slowly, I turned my head back to face her. Her eyes were wide now, with terror and triumph. She'd done it. She'd crossed a line.
I moved. My hand shot out, capturing her wrist in a vise-like grip before she could pull away. I pushed it back, pinning it against the door above her head. My other arm braced beside her, trapping her completely. Her breath hitched, her pulse hammering against my fingers.
I leaned in until my lips were a breath from her ear. She trembled, a fine, violent shaking that betrayed her bravado.
"Do that again," I murmured, my voice a low, dangerous hum that vibrated through both of us, "and I'll show you what happens when you test me."
She was terrified. But she didn't look away. Her green eyes, swimming with unshed tears, locked on mine with a pure defiance, unbreakable spirit.
"You want me to be afraid of you," she whispered, her voice trembling but clear. "I am. But I will still hate you. I will still fight you. Every single day."
Something broke open inside me. The fortress walls began to crack. This wasn't just defiance. It was a declaration of war. And God help me, I wanted to conquer every inch of her.
The chemistry between us wasn't just anger. It was a live wire, sparking in the tiny space between our bodies. Her scent—soap and fear and something uniquely her—filled my senses. Her lips were parted, her breath coming in quick gasps. My gaze dropped to them.
For a heartbeat, I wanted to crush my mouth to hers, to kiss her until that hate turned to something else, to consume the fire she threw at me and make it my own.
I released her wrist and stepped back, the sudden distance feeling like a physical loss.
She sagged against the door, rubbing her wrist, her eyes never leaving mine.
"The rules stand," I said, my voice back under iron control, though my blood still sang. "You will have an escort today. Marco will take you wherever you wish within the city. You will be home by six."
I turned and walked back to the table, picking up my tablet. A dismissal.
I heard the door open, then close softly behind her.
I stood there, alone in the room that still crackled with the energy of our confrontation. My cheek still burned where her hand had landed.
A slow smile, one I didn't bother to suppress, touched my lips.
Isabella Romano thought she was fighting her jailer.
She had no idea she was challenging her husband.
And for the first time in a long, cold decade, I felt truly, dangerously alive.