CHAPTER 1: The Collection
DANTE
The woman in Dante's bed was still talking.
He couldn't remember her name Ashley? Amber? and he didn't particularly care. She'd served her purpose three hours ago, and now she was an inconvenience he no longer had the patience for.
"So I was thinking," she purred, trailing her fingers down his arm as he buttoned his shirt, "maybe we could get breakfast? There's this amazing place in Tribeca—"
"No."
Dante didn't look at her as he fastened his cufflinks platinum, engraved with the Moretti family crest. The same crest that had struck fear into men's hearts for three generations. The same crest that would be stamped on every transaction he made today, including the one waiting for him across the city.
"Oh." Her voice faltered. "Well, maybe dinner then? I'm free tonight—"
"You need to leave." He slipped his Patek Philippe onto his wrist. 5:47 AM. He had a collection to make at eight.
"But I thought—"
"You thought wrong." Dante finally turned to look at her, and whatever she saw in his eyes made her flinch. Good. He didn't have time for this. "Get dressed. My driver will take you wherever you need to go."
She scrambled out of bed, clutching the sheet to her chest like modesty mattered now. It would have been amusing if he'd cared enough to be amused. He didn't.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. Luca.
"Sì?"
"Buongiorno, fratello," his brother's voice came through, annoyingly cheerful for this hour. "The cars are ready. Romano is expecting us at eight."
"Good." Dante walked to the window, looking out over Manhattan. Somewhere in this city of millions, Marco Romano was probably drinking himself stupid, knowing what was coming. Knowing he'd gambled with Moretti money and lost. Knowing the price of that mistake. "I want what I'm owed."
"The girl is twenty-three, no criminal record, works part-time at a bookstore while taking online classes." Luca had done his homework, as always. "By all accounts, she has nothing to do with her father's debts."
"Then she should have chosen a better father."
"Dante—"
"I don't pay you to have a conscience, Luca. I pay you to have my back. Do your job." He ended the call.
The woman definitely not Ashley was dressed now, hovering by the door like a beaten dog waiting for permission to leave. She held out a card with her number on it.
Dante walked past her without taking it.
"Lock the door on your way out."
He moved to the bathroom, checking his appearance in the mirror with the precision of a man who understood that image was power. The scar through his left eyebrow courtesy of a Russian who'd thought he could cheat the Morettis caught the light. His suit was Brioni, custom-tailored in Milan. His shoes were Testoni, polished to a mirror shine.
Every detail perfect. Every detail controlled.
Just like his life.
Just like the girl he was about to collect.
Marco Romano had made the mistake of thinking Dante Moretti forgave debts. He didn't. Three million dollars was three million dollars, and when you couldn't pay in cash, you paid in other ways. Romano had a daughter. Young, healthy, educated enough to be useful.
She'd do.
Dante had offered Marco a choice: the girl, or a bullet. Marco had chosen to keep breathing. Smart man. Pathetic, but smart.
The transaction would be simple. He'd already had his lawyers draw up the papers all legal, all airtight. Isabella Romano would sign a contract as his "personal assistant" with terms so restrictive she might as well be his property. And if she refused?
Well. He'd never let a woman's feelings interfere with business before. He wasn't about to start now.
His phone buzzed again. Matteo this time.
"Boss, we're ready when you are. Six men, two cars. Romano's apartment is secured no one goes in or out without us knowing."
"Bene." Dante grabbed his jacket. "I'll be down in five minutes. And Matteo?"
"Yes, boss?"
"If the girl runs, break her legs. I need her alive, not uninjured."
"Understood."
Dante ended the call and took one last look around the hotel suite. The woman had left her perfume on the pillow, a sickeningly sweet scent that would probably linger for hours. He'd have the room stripped and cleaned.
He didn't like leaving traces.
And after today, Isabella Romano would understand that very clearly.
ISABELLA
"Papa, what did you do?"
Isabella's hands shook as she stared at her father, who looked like a corpse already gray-faced, hollow-eyed, swaying in her doorway like he might collapse at any moment.
"I had no choice," Marco Romano said, and that's when she knew. When you started with I had no choice, it meant you'd made the worst choice possible and were trying to justify it. "They would have killed me, Bella. You have to understand, they would have—"
"What. Did. You. Do."
He couldn't meet her eyes. "The poker game last month. I told you I won, remember? I told you we were going to be okay, that I could finally pay off some debts—"
"You lied." Of course he'd lied. He always lied.
"I was playing with Moretti money. I didn't know, I swear I didn't know who the stake was coming from, but when I lost—" His voice broke. "Three million dollars, Bella. I owe Dante Moretti three million dollars."
The room tilted.
Dante Moretti. Even she knew that name. Everyone in their world knew that name. Il Diavolo the Devil who ruled New York's Italian underworld with an iron fist and a taste for blood. The man who'd allegedly killed his own uncle for skimming profits. The man whose enemies disappeared and were never found.
"You gambled with mafia money?" Her voice was barely a whisper.
"I didn't know! But now he wants his payment, and I don't have it, I don't have anything—" Marco dropped to his knees beside her bed, grabbing her hands. His palms were slick with sweat. "He's coming today. This morning. He's coming to collect."
Isabella's heart hammered against her ribs. "Then tell him you need time. Set up a payment plan, sell everything we have—"
"It's already done."
The words hung in the air like a death sentence.
"What's already done?"
Marco's face crumpled. "I made a deal. To settle the debt. He's... he's taking you instead."
For a moment, Isabella couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't process what she was hearing.
"What?"
"He said you'd clear the debt. That you're worth three million to him. I signed papers, Bella. Legal papers. You're his now. His assistant, his property, whatever he wants to call it—"
Isabella ripped her hands away from him. "You sold me?"
"I had no choice!"
"YOU SOLD ME TO THE MAFIA LIKE I'M CATTLE!" The scream tore out of her throat, raw and agonized. "Your own daughter! To save your own miserable life!"
"Bella, please—"
"Get out." Her voice went cold. Deadly. "Get out of my room. Get out before I—"
She didn't finish. She couldn't. Because if she let herself feel the full weight of what he'd done, she'd shatter into a million pieces, and she couldn't afford to break. Not now. Not when a monster was coming to collect her like a debt.
Marco stumbled backward, tears streaming down his pathetic face. "I'm sorry. Dio, Bella, I'm so sorry—"
"Sorry doesn't change anything." She stood up, her legs somehow holding her even though her entire world had just collapsed. "What time is he coming?"
"Eight o'clock."
She looked at her phone. 6:15 AM.
Less than two hours. She had less than two hours of freedom left.
"Get out."
This time, he went.
Isabella stood frozen in the center of her room this tiny bedroom in this shabby apartment that had been her prison for years. But at least it had been her prison. Her space. Her life.
Now?
Now she belonged to Dante Moretti.
Her hands were shaking so hard she could barely hold her phone. She pulled up her contacts, scrolled to her best friend's name.
Gia.
The call went to voicemail.
"Gia, it's me." Her voice cracked. "Something's happened. Something bad. If you don't hear from me... if I disappear... don't look for me. Don't ask questions. It's too dangerous. Just—" A sob caught in her throat. "Just know that I love you. And I'm sorry."
She ended the call and stared at her phone.
Her mother. She should call her mother.
But what would she even say? Hi Mom, remember how you left Dad three years ago because he was a degenerate gambler? Well, he just sold me to the Italian mafia. Hope California's nice.
Isabella laughed, and it sounded unhinged even to her own ears.
She looked around her room. If she ran right now, could she make it? Could she grab her bag, climb out the fire escape, disappear into the city before eight o'clock?
As if in answer, her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
She answered it without thinking.
"Isabella Romano?" A man's voice. Deep, accented, unfamiliar.
"Who is this?"
"My name is Matteo. I work for Mr. Moretti. I'm calling to inform you that there are men watching your building. Front door, back door, fire escape, roof access. If you attempt to leave before Mr. Moretti arrives, you will be retrieved. Painfully. Do you understand?"
Her blood ran cold. "You're watching me right now?"
"We've been watching you since midnight. Mr. Moretti doesn't take chances with his investments. Eight o'clock, Miss Romano. Be ready."
The line went dead.
Isabella dropped the phone like it had burned her.
They were already here. Already watching. Already controlling her.
She walked to her window and looked down at the street. Sure enough, there was a black SUV parked across from her building. Tinted windows. Idling engine.
Trapped.
She was already trapped.
Isabella backed away from the window, her mind racing. She couldn't run. She couldn't hide. She couldn't call the police—they wouldn't help against the Morettis. Half of them were probably on the payroll anyway.
So what could she do?
She looked at her reflection in the mirror above her dresser. Wild green eyes. Tangled dark hair. Terror written across every feature.
No.
Dante Moretti might own her body, but he'd never own her spirit. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her broken. She wouldn't beg. She wouldn't cry.
She'd survive.
Isabella took a deep breath and started packing.
One suitcase. That's all she'd take. Clothes, toiletries, the few things that mattered—photos of her mother, her grandmother's necklace, the books she loved.
Her hands steadied as she packed. Purpose. She needed purpose to get through this.
At 7:45, she was dressed in jeans and a simple black sweater. Her hair was pulled back. Her face was clean. She looked like she was going to class, not being sold into slavery.
The suitcase sat by her door.
She sat on her bed and waited.
At 7:58, she heard car doors slamming outside.
At 7:59, heavy footsteps in the hallway.
At exactly 8:00 AM, her apartment door exploded inward.
DANTE
The door gave way on the second kick.
Dante didn't bother with knocking. He didn't need to. This was his city, his territory, and Marco Romano had forfeited any right to courtesy the moment he'd touched Moretti money.
His men flooded the apartment first six of them, armed and efficient, spreading through the small space like wolves through a henhouse. Matteo took point, his hand on the gun at his hip. Luca followed, his expression carefully neutral.
The apartment was pathetic. Peeling wallpaper, stained carpet, furniture that looked like it had been pulled from a dumpster. The smell of cigarettes and desperation hung thick in the air.
Marco Romano stood in the center of the living room, trembling like a leaf.
Good.
"Don Moretti," Marco stammered, dropping to his knees. "Please, I—"
"Shut up."
Dante walked past him without a glance, scanning the apartment with the cold assessment of a man who'd learned early that environments told you everything you needed to know about people.
Weak. Broken. Pathetic.
This was where his three million dollars had gone? Into this hovel, pissed away by this waste of oxygen?
"Where is she?"
"In—in her room, Don Moretti. She's ready, she's packed, she—"
"I didn't ask for a speech. I asked where she is."
Marco pointed with a shaking hand toward a closed door down the short hallway.
Dante nodded to Matteo. "Get her."
But before Matteo could move, the door opened.
And Isabella Romano stepped out.
Dante had seen the photos, of course. Had done his research. Twenty-three years old, five-foot-six, dark hair, green eyes. Pretty enough. The photos hadn't lied about that.
But they hadn't captured the way she held herself.
She stood in that doorway like a queen facing execution chin up, shoulders back, eyes blazing with a fury that made something cold shift in Dante's chest. Not fear. She was terrified; he could see it in the slight tremor of her hands, the rapid pulse at her throat.
But she wasn't cowering.
Interesting.
"Isabella Romano?" His voice filled the small apartment.
"You know who I am." Her voice was steady. Stronger than he'd expected. "Let's not pretend this is a social call."
Behind him, one of his men sucked in a breath at her tone. Luca shot him a warning look.
Dante studied her for a long moment. She met his gaze without flinching, and that cold thing in his chest shifted again.
Defiance. He'd have to break that.
"Your father owes me three million dollars," he said, his English carrying the accent of his Sicilian roots. "You are now worth three million dollars. The debt is settled."
"I'm not property."
"Tell that to your father." Dante gestured toward Marco, who was still on his knees, weeping. "He's the one who sold you. I simply accepted the payment."
Her jaw clenched. "I won't sign anything. You can't force me—"
"Can't I?" Dante crossed the distance between them in three long strides. She backed up instinctively, and he followed her into the hallway, crowding her against the wall. Up close, he could see the flecks of gold in her green eyes, could smell something clean and floral beneath the fear-sweat. "Let me make this very simple, piccola. You will sign the papers. You will come with me. You will do exactly what I tell you to do. Or..."
He let the word hang.
"Or what?" She tried to sound brave. Failed.
Dante leaned in close enough that his breath stirred her hair. "Or I put a bullet in your father's head right now, and then I take you anyway. Your choice."
The color drained from her face.
"You're a monster."
"Yes." He smiled, and it was not a kind expression. "So choose quickly. Do you sign the papers? Or do I kill him?"
For a moment, he thought she might spit in his face. The rage in her eyes was magnificent a living thing, hot and wild and utterly futile.
Then her shoulders sagged, just slightly.
"I'll sign."
"Bene." Dante stepped back, pulling the papers from his jacket pocket. "Luca, witness."
His brother materialized at his elbow, producing a pen. Dante spread the contract on the coffee table the one that looked like it might collapse under the weight.
Isabella approached slowly, like she was walking to her own execution. She didn't read the contract. Smart girl. Reading it wouldn't change anything.
She signed her name in a shaking hand.
Isabella Romano.
Worth three million dollars.
Now his.
"Excellent." Dante folded the papers and handed them to Luca. Then he turned to Marco, who was still on the floor, sobbing. "Your debt is paid, Romano. You're free."
"Thank you," Marco choked out. "Thank you, Don Moretti, thank you—"
"But if you ever try to contact her again—" Dante pulled his gun from his shoulder holster with casual ease, "—I will cut out your tongue before I kill you. Do you understand?"
Marco nodded frantically.
"Say it."
"I understand! I won't contact her, I swear, I swear on my life—"
"Your life is worthless." Dante holstered his gun. "Swear on hers instead."
He didn't wait for an answer. He turned to Isabella, who stood frozen by the coffee table, staring at her father with an expression that might have been hatred or heartbreak or both.
"Get your things. We leave in five minutes."
She didn't move.
"Now, Isabella."
Something in his tone must have penetrated, because she finally moved, walking mechanically to her room and emerging with a single suitcase.
One suitcase. That's all she was taking from her entire life.
Dante felt nothing about that.
"Matteo, take her to the car."
His enforcer moved forward, reaching for Isabella's arm. She jerked away.
"I can walk on my own."
"Then walk." Dante gestured toward the door.
She lifted her chin one more time, shot her father a look of pure venom, and walked out of the apartment without a backward glance.
Dante followed, pausing only to look at Marco Romano one last time. The man was still on his knees, crying like the pathetic waste of air he was.
"You should drink less, Romano," Dante said quietly. "The guilt is only going to get worse."
Then he left, leaving Marco to whatever hell his conscience would create.
ISABELLA
The hallway felt like a death march.
Six armed men surrounded her three in front, three behind. She was boxed in, herded like livestock toward the stairs. Her suitcase felt like it weighed a thousand pounds, but she carried it herself. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction of showing weakness.
The neighbors' doors were closed. Of course they were. No one wanted to witness what happened when the Morettis came calling.
Outside, two black SUVs waited at the curb, engines running. The morning sun was just starting to break through the buildings, painting everything in shades of gold and gray.
It should have been beautiful.
It felt like the end of the world.
"In the second car," one of the men said. Not the one who'd tried to grab her—Matteo, Dante had called him. A different one, younger, with kind eyes that seemed out of place in this situation.
Isabella climbed into the back seat. Immediately, men slid in on either side of her, boxing her in again. The doors slammed shut with a finality that made her stomach drop.
She was trapped. Really, truly trapped.
The first SUV pulled away from the curb. Dante must be in that one. Good. She didn't want to look at him. Didn't want to be near him.
Didn't want to think about the fact that he now owned her.
Then the door opened again, and Dante himself slid into the front passenger seat.
Her heart stopped.
He didn't look at her. Didn't acknowledge her at all. He just pulled out his phone and started typing, conducting business like he hadn't just destroyed someone's life.
The SUV pulled into traffic.
Isabella stared out the window, watching her neighborhood disappear. The bodega where she bought coffee. The library where she studied. The park where she used to meet Gia.
All of it, gone.
"Where are we going?" Her voice came out smaller than she'd intended.
Dante didn't look up from his phone. "Home."
"Where's home?"
"Sicilia."
The word hit her like a physical blow. "Sicily? As in... Italy?"
"Is there another Sicily I'm not aware of?"
"You're taking me out of the country?"
"Yes."
"I don't have a passport."
"You do now." He finally looked at her, those cold gray eyes meeting hers in the rearview mirror. "I had one made yesterday. You see, Isabella, I plan for everything. Every detail. Every contingency. Including whatever small act of defiance you're currently planning in that head of yours."
She said nothing.
"Let me save you some time," Dante continued, returning his attention to his phone. "You cannot escape. You cannot run. You cannot fight. I own you now, and the sooner you accept that reality, the easier your life will be. Are we clear?"
"Crystal."
The sarcasm in her tone made the man on her left tense. But Dante just smiled—that cold, terrible smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Good. Then we understand each other."
They drove in silence for another twenty minutes. Isabella watched the city pass by, trying to memorize it, trying to hold onto some piece of the life she was leaving behind.
Then the buildings gave way to highways, and the highways led to an airport. But not JFK or LaGuardia.
A private airport. Small hangars. No security lines.
And a massive private jet sitting on the tarmac, gleaming white in the morning sun.
"No," Isabella breathed. "No, I can't—"
"You can and you will."
The SUV stopped. The men climbed out. Matteo opened her door, and this time when he reached for her arm, she couldn't pull away fast enough.
His grip was iron.
"Let go of me!"
"Boss?" Matteo looked to Dante, who had climbed out of the front seat and was adjusting his cufflinks.
"Is she giving you trouble, Matteo?"
"Nothing I can't handle, boss."
"Then handle it."
Isabella tried to jerk free, tried to run, tried to do anything
Pain exploded across her jaw as Dante's hand connected with her face.
Not hard enough to break anything. Not hard enough to leave more than a bruise. But hard enough to shock her into stillness, hard enough to make her ears ring, hard enough to remind her exactly who had the power here.
"I said—" Dante's voice was soft, deadly, "—you will do exactly what I tell you. Did I stutter?"
Isabella tasted blood in her mouth. Her cheek throbbed. Tears burned behind her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.
"No," she whispered.
"No, what?"
"No, you didn't stutter."
"Good." He nodded to Matteo. "Put her on the plane."
This time, when Matteo pulled her forward, she didn't fight. She couldn't. The shock of being hit, the reality of her situation, the sheer overwhelming terror of it all it crashed over her like a wave, drowning her.
She let herself be dragged up the stairs to the jet.
The interior was obscene leather seats, mahogany panels, a full bar, seating for maybe twenty people. It looked like something out of a movie.
A very expensive prison.
Matteo deposited her in a seat by the window and immediately buckled her in. Like she was a child. Like she couldn't be trusted not to do something stupid.
He was probably right.
The other men filed in, taking seats throughout the cabin. Dante was the last to board, and he moved through the space like he owned it.
Because he did.
He owned everything. Including her.
He took the seat directly across from her, stretching out his long legs and loosening his tie slightly. Then he pulled out his phone again, ignoring her completely.
The engines started. The jet began to move.
Isabella pressed her face against the window, watching the ground fall away as they taxied toward the runway. This was it. Her last chance to see America. Her last chance to
The jet accelerated. The nose lifted.
And then they were airborne.
New York sprawled beneath them, getting smaller and smaller. The buildings, the streets, the lights all of it shrinking to nothing as they climbed higher and higher.
Isabella watched until it all disappeared into clouds.
And then she closed her eyes and made herself a promise.
Dante Moretti had bought her body. He'd bought her presence. He'd bought her obedience through fear and violence.
But her soul? Her spirit? The core of who she was?
That would never be for sale.
She'd survive this. She'd find a way.
And someday, somehow, she'd make him regret the day he ever took her.
The jet leveled off, heading east across the Atlantic.
Toward Italy. Toward Sicily. Toward whatever hell waited for her there.
Isabella kept her eyes closed and tried not to fall apart.
DANTE
Across from him, Isabella Romano sat with her eyes closed, her face turned toward the window.
She thought he couldn't see the tear that slipped down her cheek.
He saw it. He saw everything.
But he felt nothing.
She was an asset now. Three million dollars worth of payment. That's all she needed to be.
Dante returned his attention to his phone and the business that never stopped, even at thirty thousand feet.
The girl would learn. They always did.
And if she didn't?
Well. He'd broken stronger spirits than hers.