Chapter 4 A Debt in Blood

Ten Years Ago

Verona's East Side. Winter. Midnight.

The boy bled through the concrete.

Cold. Ragged. Seventeen.

And dying.

Dante didn't cry out. Not even when the blade ripped through his ribs. Not when the third gang member kicked him again, steel-toed boots grinding bone. Pain was normal. Bleeding was survival. Screaming only meant someone might come finish the job.

And in his world, no one ever came to save you.

Except-

Tonight, someone did.

---

A sharp beam of headlights cut across the alley.

Then a voice. Calm. Measured. Terrifying in how unfazed it sounded.

"That's enough."

The men paused. They turned. And froze.

Because Arthur Castille didn't raise his voice.

He didn't carry a weapon.

He simply existed-in a thousand-dollar coat and silk gloves, with eyes like obsidian and two bodyguards who never blinked.

Arthur stepped forward, looking down at the bloodied mess that was Dante.

"What's your name?" he asked.

The boy spat blood. "Go to hell."

A ghost of a smile touched Arthur's mouth. "You'll need a ride to get there."

He turned to his men. "Take him. He's mine now."

---

Present Day

Dante's Penthouse.

Selene sat on the edge of a leather chaise, legs tucked beneath her. She wore a silk robe-black, thin, and chosen by him. Her eyes followed the movement of his fingers as he poured her a drink, but her mind was still back in the hallway, in the memory of what she'd done.

She'd taken off her shirt for him.

Not because he forced her.

Because she wanted to.

And that terrified her more than anything.

Dante handed her the glass.

"You want to know why I protect you," he said quietly. "I'll show you."

---

He lifted his shirt.

It was the first time she truly saw the scar-faint, jagged, and brutal. Just beneath his left ribs. The exact place she had once been told her father saved a stranger's life.

"He found me broken. Bleeding out. I was seventeen. Hadn't eaten in three days. A gang jumped me when I tried to rob the wrong man. Your father didn't ask me who I was or what I'd done. He just said, 'This one's not dying today.'"

Dante paused, fingers brushing the old wound like it still ached.

"He stitched me up himself in the backseat of his car. I passed out halfway. Woke up in one of his safehouses. New clothes. Real food. And a note taped to the wall:

You owe me. Someday, you'll pay me back. With loyalty-not gratitude."

Selene's throat tightened. She'd never heard this version. Her father had been powerful, yes-but never violent. Never ruthless. And yet, he'd saved a future mafia king like he knew exactly what kind of man Dante would become.

"You loved him," she whispered.

"I respected him," Dante replied. "He understood the kind of loyalty you die for. And when he died..."

He looked at her now. "That loyalty passed to you."

Selene stared into her glass, the whiskey burning her throat.

"I don't know how to be like that," she said. "I don't know how to fight the way he did."

"No," Dante said, stepping closer. "But you will."

---

He sat beside her. The couch barely creaked beneath his weight.

"Let me make something clear, Selene," he said, his voice velvet and steel. "This isn't about seduction. I won't charm you. I won't make false promises. And I sure as hell won't play at being gentle."

She looked up at him. "Then what is it about?"

He leaned in, his lips close enough to graze hers without touching.

"It's about power. Mine. Yours. And what happens when we stop pretending one of us doesn't already own the other."

Her breath hitched.

"Are you going to kiss me?" she whispered.

Dante didn't move. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because I want you to beg for it."

Selene flushed.

And hated how much her body responded to those words.

---

"You're playing a dangerous game," she said.

He smiled, slow and dark. "I am the game."

She stood, hands shaking slightly, robe slipping off one shoulder. He didn't stop her. Didn't touch her.

"I'm not your toy," she said.

"No. You're my debt."

He stood as well. "And I intend to collect."