Chapter 3

"Belong to it?" My voice was barely a whisper, the sound seemingly swallowed by the vast, oppressive silence of his office.

Dante didn't blink. His gaze remained fixed on me, unyielding.

"I need a fiancée," he stated, his tone devoid of emotion.

The words hung in the air between us like toxic smoke.

I blinked, certain the stress had finally broken my hearing. "Excuse me?"

"A fiancée," he repeated, straightening his cuffs with lethal precision. "A respectable, civilian woman. Someone with no ties to the families. Someone innocent."

He studied me then, his eyes cold and calculating, as if he were assessing a piece of livestock at an auction.

"You fit the description."

I shot to my feet, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. "This is insane," I snapped, my fear momentarily eclipsed by disbelief. "I'm a journalist, Dante. I can't be your... property."

"Sit down."

The command was low, absolute, and vibrated in my chest.

I sat. Mostly because my legs threatened to give way beneath me.

"The Commission is pushing for a union," he explained, his voice dropping to a glacial chill. "They want me to marry the daughter of the Moretti family. It is a political move to check my power."

He walked around the desk, moving with the predatory grace of a panther.

"I will not be controlled. I need a reason to refuse them. A prior engagement."

He slid a manila folder across the polished mahogany surface.

"One month," he said. "You wear my ring. You attend family functions. You smile for the cameras."

"And in return?" I asked, my throat dry.

"You get your story," he said, meeting my eyes. "And you get to live."

I stared down at the folder. It wasn't just paper; it was a verdict.

I flipped it open.

The numbers on the first page made my breath hitch. They were staggering.

It was enough money to wipe out my student loans, pay off my parents' crushing mortgage, and buy the magazine I slaved for twice over.

But then I saw the clauses.

Non-Disclosure Agreement.

Exclusivity.

Total obedience in public.

And a final clause stating that any breach of contract would be handled by "internal family protocols."

I knew exactly what that euphemism meant.

I looked up at him. "This is a death sentence if I make a mistake."

"Then don't make a mistake," he replied smoothly.

He leaned against the desk, crossing his arms, muscles straining against the fine fabric of his suit.

"My protection is absolute, Elena. As long as you wear my ring, no one touches you. Not the Morettis. Not the Commission."

He paused, letting the silence stretch.

"But you have to sign. Now."

I looked at the pen. I thought about my empty bank account. I thought about my editor screaming at me for a scoop that didn't exist.

I thought about the adrenaline rush-the drug of breaking the biggest story in New York.

And I looked at Dante.

He was a monster. There was no doubting that.

But he was offering me the key to the kingdom.

I picked up the pen. My hand hovered over the paper, trembling slightly.

"Is it just a performance?" I asked quietly.

His eyes darkened, swirling with secrets I couldn't yet read.

"Everything in my life is a performance," he said.

I signed.

The ink flowed black and permanent against the white paper, sealing my fate.

Dante took the folder without a word.

He opened a drawer and pulled out a velvet ring box. He flipped it open.

A diamond of obscene size-large enough to be a weapon-glittered inside.

He took my left hand. His skin was warm, rough with calluses that spoke of violence.

He slid the ring onto my finger.

It was heavy.

It felt less like jewelry and more like a shackle.

"Welcome to the family, cara," he said.

His voice dropped an octave, vibrating through my bones.

"From this moment, you are mine. Do not forget it."