Lucia's POV
My breath stilled as the detective's gaze settled on me. His presence alone made the air feel heavier. I hadn't expected to walk into this—to see him standing there, looking at me like I was a puzzle he was trying to solve.
The worst part? He was close. Too close.
I forced myself to relax, to smooth out my expression, but it was too late. He had seen my hesitation, and now he was interested.
He smiled. "And who might you be?"
Dante didn't move, but I felt his presence shift like a predator sensing an approaching threat. His body was a barrier between me and the detective, but it wasn't enough to stop the weight of the man's scrutiny.
I swallowed. "Lucia," I said evenly.
The detective's eyes flickered, something unreadable flashing across his face before he nodded. "Lucia… You match a description I was given."
Dante's posture stiffened. "That so?" His voice was smooth, but I could hear the lethal edge beneath it.
The detective ignored him, keeping his focus on me. "I received a report about a woman being kept here. Against her will."
A pause.
I could feel the heat of Dante's gaze on me, waiting for my response. My heartbeat quickened, but I forced myself to think. I wasn't stupid. If I said the wrong thing, I wouldn't just be putting myself at risk—I'd be signing my own death warrant.
I wasn't free, but I wasn't exactly a hostage either. I was… paying for my father's sins. Dante had made that clear.
I let out a soft laugh, shaking my head. "I'm not a prisoner, Detective."
He arched a brow, unconvinced. "No?"
I shook my head again, forcing the smallest smile. "I'm a chef. Dante—Mr. Romano—hired me. He's… particular about security, which I guess could explain the misunderstanding."
Dante said nothing, but I could feel his eyes burning into me, watching my every move.
The detective's gaze didn't waver. "A chef, huh?"
I nodded.
Silence stretched between us before he reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a small, white card. He held it out to me.
"Just in case you find anything suspicious," he said smoothly. "Call me."
Dante's jaw tightened, but he said nothing as I hesitated before taking the card. My fingers brushed against the detective's as I did, and I knew it was intentional—a small, silent challenge directed at the man standing behind me.
Dante's patience was razor-thin, I could practically feel it, but he didn't react. Not yet.
The detective smiled, stepping back. "I'll be seeing you, Romano."
Then he turned, making his way toward the exit.
The moment the door closed behind him, the tension in the room snapped.
Dante turned to me, his expression unreadable, but his silence was deafening.
I didn't wait for whatever storm was brewing beneath the surface. I turned and walked away, gripping the detective's card tightly between my fingers.
The mansion was too quiet.
I found myself in the kitchen, half-listening to the rhythmic sound of the maid scrubbing dishes. She was older, her face worn with time and something heavier. Regret, maybe.
She glanced at me as I poured myself a glass of water. "You shouldn't have spoken to him," she murmured.
I looked up. "The detective?"
She nodded, drying her hands with a rag. "This place… it's filled with death and pain. Men like him don't come here to save anyone."
I exhaled slowly. I didn't need her to tell me that. "It's the Mafia," I said. "What else should I expect?"
The maid's lips pressed into a thin line. "More than you can imagine."
She didn't say anything else. Just went back to scrubbing the dishes, her shoulders tense.
I lingered for a moment before leaving, the echo of her words following me.
I wasn't sure why, but instead of going to my room, I stopped outside Dante's office. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was something else.
Either way, I stepped inside—and walked straight into something I wasn't prepared for.
Dante was standing in the center of the room, his expression cold and merciless, a gun aimed at a man who was on his knees, his face bloodied and bruised.
Dante's finger was on the trigger.
I took a step back. He didn't even look at me.
"This is what happens to traitors," he said, his voice low and dangerous.
Then—
The gunshot echoed through the room.
I gasped, stumbling back as the man collapsed, lifeless.
Dante finally turned to me. His gaze was unreadable, but there was something dark in it. Something I didn't want to understand.
I turned and left without a word.
I didn't realize where I was going until I found myself back in the kitchen.
The maid was still there, wiping down the counters with slow movements. She looked up as I entered, her tired eyes meeting mine.
I swallowed hard. My voice was barely a whisper. "You were right."
She didn't look surprised. Just sad.
"This place is filled with death and pain," I murmured.
She exhaled, setting down the cloth. "Now you understand."
My hands were still trembling when I reached my room. No matter how many deep breaths I took, I couldn't shake the image from my mind—the lifeless body, the metallic scent of blood, the cold detachment in Dante's eyes.
I pressed my palms against my temples, willing the memory away. But the gunshot still echoed in my ears, a harsh reminder of where I was and who I was dealing with.
I had just started to convince myself that I was alone when the door to my room swung open.
Dante.
He just walked in like he owned everything—including me.
I sat up quickly. "What—"
"Take off your clothes."
My heart slammed into my ribs. "What?"
His eyes darkened. "Now."
I didn't move. I couldn't.
Dante's command still echoed in my ears, wrapping around me like invisible chains. As if I was just something to be unwrapped and used.
I wanted to laugh. Or scream. Maybe both.
Instead, I sat frozen, my body refusing to obey. Every muscle in me tensed as he stalked closer, like a predator tired of waiting for its prey to submit. When his fingers gripped my chin, tilting my face up to his, my pulse slammed against my ribs. I refused to look afraid. But he saw through me. I could swear he did.
Then he kissed me.
It was nothing like the stolen kisses from childhood stories, the kind that whispered of romance and slow-burning desire. No. This kiss was a claim, a forceful, bruising reminder that Dante Romano took what he wanted.
And right now, he wanted me.
I felt the heat of his mouth, the demanding pressure of his lips, but I refused to yield. My hands balled into fists against the sheets, my entire body rigid as I willed myself not to react.
Not to give in.
Not to lose the one thing I still had left—control over myself.
Then—
BANG!
The gunshot tore through the room like a thunderclap. I jumped, instinctively flinching away as my ears rang with the raw violence of it. My heart pounded so hard it felt like it might burst.
The bullet had struck the wall, inches away.
I felt his eyes on me, watching, and waiting for my reaction. Fear crawled up my spine, but I buried it beneath layers of stubborn defiance.
Then he did something worse.
He lifted the gun and pressed the hot barrel against my skin.
Pain seared through me like a brand. A hiss escaped through my clenched teeth, but I didn't scream. I wouldn't scream.
I wouldn't give him that satisfaction.
Tears pricked at my eyes, but I blinked them away, refusing to let them fall. If he wanted to see me break, he'd have to do worse than this.
His breath was warm against my ear, as he whispered.
"Never step into my office without permission again."