The rain had started softly, tapping against the glass like fingernails against a coffin lid. I had learned over the years that nights like this, quiet and meaningless on the surface, always carried danger. But nothing had prepared me for the one that would change everything.
My heels clicked against the marble floor of the reception hall, echoing louder than they should have. I tried to keep my head high, to look confident, but the truth was that confidence had never been my armor. It was a flimsy mask I wore over my fear, and tonight, it would be stripped away.
The room smelled of polished wood, expensive cologne, and the faint bitterness of cigarettes. Every man in the room turned when I entered, their eyes measuring me, calculating my worth—or lack of it. I wanted to shrink, to disappear into the shadowed corners, but the security man at the door had already made sure there was nowhere to hide.
Then he appeared.
Dante Moretti didn't announce himself. He didn't need to. Power had a presence, and his filled the room before his feet even touched the floor.
Black suit. Dark hair slicked back. Eyes sharper than knives. He looked like a man who had never doubted his right to take what he wanted—and perhaps, he had never been denied.
"Here she is," someone muttered, voice cracking.
Dante's gaze landed on me, and the room fell silent. Not because anyone ordered it—but because silence was a tool he wielded effortlessly. One look from him, and people stopped breathing without realizing it.
I swallowed. My name felt heavy on my tongue. "Elena," he said, and it wasn't a question. It wasn't even a greeting. It was ownership, subtle but undeniable, like the faint pressure of a hand on your shoulder, claiming you before you even knew it.
My heart skipped. I hated it. I hated him. And yet, every instinct in me warned that this man would be the last I would ever fight.
"Move her to the west wing," he commanded softly, almost lazily, yet it carried the weight of an order backed by absolute certainty.
I froze. "I'm not going anywhere with you."
Dante's lips twitched—not quite a smile, not quite anything human. He stepped closer, and suddenly the distance between us didn't exist.
"You are," he said. "Whether you know it or not."
The men around me shifted uncomfortably. They had expected resistance, perhaps even defiance—but they weren't prepared for the quiet, lethal calm that emanated from him.
I clenched my fists at my sides. "Why me?" I demanded, my voice trembling even as I tried to keep it steady.
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he studied me like a scholar examining an ancient artifact. His eyes roamed over me—every expression, every detail—and I felt stripped bare under that gaze.
"Because," he finally said, voice low, "you're the only one who doesn't belong anywhere else."
I didn't understand. I couldn't. And I wasn't sure I wanted to.
The hands of the men around me closed on my arms. Gentle, careful, but firm. They guided me through the hall, past the towering portraits of men and women whose eyes seemed alive, as if judging me for stepping into this world.
Dante followed silently. Close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from him, but distant enough to remind me of the power he held over everything—and everyone—in this room.
The west wing was a sprawling labyrinth of polished hallways and heavy wooden doors. When I was finally led into a room, it was empty except for a single chair in the center. No windows. No distractions. Just me, the chair, and the quiet hum of electricity in the air that made my skin tingle.
Dante didn't enter immediately. Instead, he waited, leaning against the doorframe like a predator assessing prey. My chest tightened. I wanted to run, but the door behind me was locked. My pulse thundered.
"Sit," he finally said.
I refused.
"Sit," he repeated, voice calm, but now every syllable carried a sharp edge.
I obeyed, though it felt like betrayal. Every step toward that chair was like walking into a trap I already knew I couldn't escape.
Dante moved closer, each step deliberate. "You are going to learn many things tonight," he said, circling me slowly. "You are going to learn who holds the power, who makes the rules, and why survival depends on knowing the difference."
I shivered—not entirely from fear. His presence, magnetic and terrifying, seemed to reach into me in ways I didn't understand.
"Will you let me go?" I asked, finally. My voice was smaller than I wanted.
"You will go when I allow it," he said, tilting his head slightly, a question and a statement all at once.
I looked away, but couldn't. His eyes found mine no matter where I turned. And I realized—horribly—that I didn't want to look away. Not entirely.
The room seemed smaller with each passing second. My thoughts raced, but every plan I made was anticipated. He was always a step ahead. I hated it. I hated him.
And yet… I didn't.
Dante stopped in front of me, so close that I could feel the heat radiating from his body. He bent slightly, close enough to whisper, yet his voice carried as if meant for the room itself.
"You will learn to obey," he said softly. "Not because I demand it. Because it will keep you alive. And because you will want to."
The words were poison, sweet and terrible all at once. I wanted to scream. I wanted to fight. I wanted to run. But I was trapped—not just by the room, or by his men, or even by him—but by the strange, terrifying certainty that my life had just ended… and yet, in some way, it had also begun.
I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to steel myself. When I opened them again, Dante was still there, unmoving, watching, waiting.
"Tomorrow," he said, his tone final, "you start learning. And if you survive, you might begin to understand just how deep this world goes."
I swallowed hard. "And if I don't?"
His lips curved slightly, almost imperceptibly. "Then it will be your choice to regret."
A shiver ran through me—not entirely fear. Something darker, something intoxicating. A pull I couldn't name.
The storm outside raged, lightning illuminating the room in quick bursts. Every flash of light seemed to carve him into sharper relief, more real, more inevitable.
And in that instant, I realized one undeniable truth: I was no longer just Elena.
I was property, pawn, and perhaps… prey.
But I was also something else—something I didn't understand yet.
And the man in front of me… was my world now.The silence stretched after that realization, heavy and suffocating, like the pause before something shattered.
Dante straightened slowly, the space between us widening just enough for me to breathe again—but the relief was an illusion. His presence lingered, clinging to the air, pressing against my skin even when he wasn't touching me.
He turned his back on me without warning.
The gesture was shocking.
Men like him didn't turn their backs on threats. Or prisoners.
"Take her upstairs," he said to the shadows near the wall. "Room stays locked. Food, water. No contact."
My heart slammed painfully against my ribs. Upstairs meant deeper into his territory. Further from anything familiar. Further from escape.
I stood abruptly. "You can't just lock me up like this."
He paused at the door but didn't turn around. "I can," he replied calmly. "And I will."
Two guards appeared as if summoned by his voice alone. They didn't grab me this time. They waited—patient, impersonal—until I moved on my own.
That frightened me more than force would have.
I followed them out, my legs shaky but determined not to collapse. The corridor felt colder now, the lights dimmer. Somewhere beyond the thick walls, thunder rolled, deep and ominous.
We climbed a wide staircase that curved upward like the spine of some massive beast. The mansion—or whatever this place truly was—felt endless. Every turn revealed another hallway, another closed door, another reminder that this empire wasn't built for people like me.
It was built to contain them.
The guards stopped in front of a door at the far end of the upper floor. One of them opened it, gesturing me inside.
The room was… not what I expected.
It wasn't bare. It wasn't cruel. It was large, elegant, almost painfully luxurious. A king-sized bed with dark sheets. A seating area by a tall window reinforced with discreet bars. Soft lighting. Neutral colors.
A prison dressed as comfort.
"This is where you'll stay," one guard said flatly.
"For how long?" I asked.
He didn't answer.
The door closed behind me with a soft click that echoed louder than any slam. I rushed to it, twisting the handle, pounding once—twice—before forcing myself to stop.
Panicking wouldn't help.
I backed away slowly, my breathing uneven, and took in the room again. Someone had prepared it. Thought about what I might need. Clothes hung neatly in the wardrobe—my size. Shoes. Toiletries.
That realization sent a chill through me.
He had planned this.
I moved to the window, pressing my palm against the glass. The city sprawled below, glittering with lights, alive and uncaring. Somewhere out there was the life I'd been dragged away from. My mother. My apartment. My mistakes.
And somewhere in this building was a man who controlled everything I could see.
Hours passed—or minutes. Time lost meaning. I sat on the edge of the bed, replaying every word, every look, every subtle shift in Dante's expression. I tried to piece him together, to find a weakness, a crack I could exploit.
There was nothing obvious.
A soft knock broke the silence.
I flinched.
The door opened, and a woman stepped inside. She was older than me, her expression neutral but not unkind. She carried a tray of food.
"Eat," she said simply, placing it on the table.
"I'm not hungry."
She met my eyes. "You will be."
Before I could argue, she left, locking the door behind her.
I stared at the food. My stomach twisted painfully, betraying me. Reluctantly, I took a few bites. It tasted better than it had any right to.
That night, sleep came in fragments. Every sound jolted me awake. Every shadow seemed to move. At some point, exhaustion won, and I drifted into a shallow, restless sleep.
I dreamed of eyes in the dark. Watching. Waiting.
Morning arrived without sunlight. Thick curtains blocked the day, leaving the room in a perpetual twilight. I sat up slowly, disoriented, then remembered where I was.
And who owned this place.
The door opened again, this time without a knock.
Dante stepped inside.
He looked different in daylight—or whatever passed for it here. Less shadowed, more real. Still dangerous. Still composed.
"You slept," he observed.
"I didn't have a choice," I replied.
"No," he agreed. "You didn't."
He moved through the room like he belonged there—because he did. He stopped near the window, glancing briefly at the city below before turning back to me.
"Today," he said, "you learn the rules."
I crossed my arms. "And if I refuse?"
He studied me for a long moment, something unreadable passing through his eyes.
"Then you'll learn them the hard way."
My jaw tightened. "You keep saying I belong here. That I don't have a choice. But you haven't told me what you actually want from me."
Dante stepped closer, stopping just out of reach.
"I want you alive," he said quietly. "Unbroken. Aware."
"That's not an answer."
"It is," he replied. "Just not the one you're looking for."
I exhaled sharply. "You don't even know me."
His gaze flicked over my face. "I know enough."
"That I'm scared?" I challenged.
"That you're stubborn," he countered. "That you're observant. That you haven't begged yet."
His lips curved faintly. "That tells me more than you realize."
I hated that he was right.
"You have two choices," Dante continued. "You can fight me at every step, make your stay here miserable, and draw attention you don't want. Or you can learn. Adapt. Survive."
"And freedom?" I asked.
He didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he leaned in just enough for his voice to drop, low and dangerous.
"Freedom," he said, "is earned."
Something in his tone sent a shiver down my spine. Not fear alone. Something heavier. More complicated.
He straightened. "Get dressed. Breakfast downstairs."
I hesitated. "And if I don't?"
His eyes darkened. "I won't ask again."
After he left, I stood there for a long time, staring at the closed door.
This was the beginning.
Not of escape.
But of something far more dangerous.