Chapter 3 Banquet

As they stepped into the next room, the atmosphere shifted. Heavier. Darker. All eyes turned.

Suits filled the room, powerful men gathered around low tables, smoke curling into the air from expensive cigars. The lighting was dim, except for the soft, sultry glow on the stage at the far end, where strippers danced to the slow thump of bass-heavy music. It was an odd blend, business and pleasure, wealth and depravity.

Ariella's heels clicked softly against the marble as she moved beside Dante, her hand still in his. Conversations lowered to murmurs, then resumed when everyone had gotten their fill of watching her, measuring her, judging her. Some smirked. Others just looked confused. No one smiled kindly.

Dante didn't acknowledge the stares. He led her straight to the front where the heavyweights sat, all older men in sleek black and gray, gold watches glinting under the low light. She recognized none of them, but they all looked like they could buy a country and burn it down in the same day.

They sat. Dante at the head of the table. Her at his right.

A crystal glass of dark liquor was placed in front of him without a word. One of the men raised an eyebrow at her. "You bring your little bride to the table now, Romano?"

Dante didn't look at the man. "She sits where I sit."

No one questioned it again.

Ariella sat still, stiff. The scent of cologne, whiskey, and money soaked the air. She tried not to stare at the naked woman grinding against a pole just a few feet away, tried to pretend this was normal.

Tried to breathe.

But deep down she knew-this wasn't just a dinner.

This was a message.

She belonged to Dante now.

Even here.

Especially here.

Ariella stayed quiet, her eyes scanning the faces at the table. Every man here oozed power. Their conversations were coded, clipped, masked behind business jargon and veiled threats. Even without understanding everything, she could tell this wasn't a regular meeting. This was strategy. Territory. Control.

And money. Always money.

The women kept moving through the room like shadows-laughing too loudly, touching too freely. One of them brushed past Ariella's chair, bending over with a smirk that was all too intentional. Her perfume was strong, her body nearly bare.

Ariella shifted slightly in her seat.

Dante noticed.

He didn't speak, but his hand tightened on Ariella's thigh-a silent warning, or maybe a promise. Possession. A reminder she wasn't invisible, not here, not next to him.

One of the men at the far end of the table chuckled. "Didn't think I'd ever see you bring a girl to the table, Romano."

A few more joined in-some amused, others skeptical.

"She's not just a girl," Dante said smoothly, swirling the wine in his glass without looking away from the man who'd spoken. "She's my wife."

The table quieted. Like a pin had dropped.

Ariella felt the stares now, more piercing than before. Some looked surprised. Others clearly didn't know how to react.

"She's young," someone muttered under their breath.

"She's mine," Dante replied, sharp and final.

No one dared say another word about it.

Ariella swallowed hard, fighting the heat crawling up her neck. She wasn't sure if she wanted to thank him or throw her wine in his face.

Instead, she just sat there. Still. Silent. Trapped.

Ariella sat quietly beside Dante, her presence barely acknowledged now that the business discussion had resumed in full force. The men at the table spoke in low tones, voices gruff and confident, numbers and threats tossed around like casual banter. She didn't understand most of it, but what she did catch chilled her-mentions of shipments, territory, payoffs. Power was currency here, and everyone at that table was filthy rich in it.

The strippers moved like silk and smoke under the low lighting, their bodies twisting to the rhythm of the music thumping through the walls. One slid across Dante's side of the table, heels clicking against the glass as she dropped low and flipped her hair, arching toward him with a flirtatious smirk.

Ariella stiffened.

Dante didn't stop her.

He didn't even flinch.

He simply leaned back in his seat, eyes following the dancer with quiet detachment-like she was just another detail in a world he owned. His fingers tapped against his glass of bourbon, and when the woman leaned closer, his hand brushed her hip briefly, signaling nothing... and everything.

Ariella looked away, jaw clenched.

The men around the table laughed and cheered as another dancer joined in, and one of them slapped her ass like it was the most normal thing in the world. Champagne bottles were popped. Smoke curled in the air. It was chaos laced with seduction-and Ariella was stuck in the middle of it, sitting like porcelain in a room full of wolves.

"You get used to it," a voice murmured beside her.

She turned. It was one of the wives-older, beautifully cold, and draped in designer chains like they were armor.

"The girls. The games. The blood on their hands," she added, sipping from her glass. "You either become one of them... or you survive by pretending none of it touches you."

Ariella swallowed, trying to ignore the sound of Dante's low chuckle at something the stripper whispered in his ear. Her stomach turned.

But she didn't leave.

She sat straighter, crossed her legs, and reached for the glass in front of her.

If this was her new world-of champagne and sin, of silence and survival-then she would play her part.

And maybe, one day, become just as dangerous as the man who owned her.

Ariella excused herself quietly, slipping away from the table while the music and laughter masked her exit. The hallway outside the banquet room was dimly lit and lined with abstract artwork-cold, soulless, expensive. She walked briskly, heels clicking against the marble floor as she made her way toward the restroom. The air felt lighter out here, but only slightly. Her head was spinning, heart tight in her chest.

She paused in front of the mirror, gripping the edges of the sink. Her reflection stared back-flushed cheeks, guarded eyes, lips pressed into a thin line. The dress Dante chose for her clung too tight. Everything about tonight felt like a costume, and she was still trying to remember who she was underneath it.

A faint creak behind her.

She froze.

The door didn't click shut behind her.

Slowly, she turned-and her heart sank.

It was one of the men from the table. Slick hair. Snake smile. He had been watching her all night. She felt his gaze long before he ever followed her. Now he was standing in the doorway, eyes raking over her like she was a piece of meat on display.

"Didn't mean to startle you," he said smoothly, stepping inside. "Place like this... it's easy to get lost."

Ariella's spine straightened. "You're in the wrong room."

He chuckled, taking a step closer, hands in his pockets. "Am I?"

Her pulse kicked up. She backed away a little, eyes darting to the door.

"You're Dante Romano's little secret," he murmured. "Funny how he parades you in here like a trophy, but lets you sit silent while the rest of us talk."

He took another step forward, and Ariella could smell the liquor on his breath. "He doesn't deserve something as soft as you."

"Get out," she said, voice sharp.

He smiled wider. "What's he gonna do if I don't?"