Se connecterIsidora Moretti always appeared to be a chess player, overseeing her family’s massive enterprise and grappling with the city’s menacing mafia clans. Her father orders her to marry the Vescari heir, and she discovers that theirs is not romance that would involve love-it is of power and obedience. Declining could be her last word so she thinks of an escape-engagement, a lie she is betting would work. She teams up with Dante Romano,the boy who beats her every time in school. He is good looking, cold, smart and has chased the same deal she wants. He often mocks her stubborn ways and never offers real help. Still, he oddly agrees to act as her fiancé. The agreement sees only looks, no real feeling involved. It may mean just a clever contract. Business agreement looks clean, no feelings. But Dante seizes Isidora at the engagement party and kisses her in front of the city. Everything becomes upside down. Rivalry and obsession — everything seems to blur. Others soon witness Isidora as Dante’s Achilles’ heel. In another world, weakness is a weapon. Maybe they both have this tilt, not just one side. With threats growing closer-in business offices ,back alleys, and mob hits, both find they need to stand up together. As they fight, they come closer and closer, and each threat reduces the boundaries they’ve constructed between them on their feelings. As danger narrows in on Isidora, Dante’s left to contemplate the sacrifices he’ll make just to keep her safe. He’ll do anything he can to protect her, to make her his, even if it’s damaging everything in his path. In the end, the promises they’ve made, no matter how unserious, appear to be the only thing they can reasonably believe.
Voir plusThey did not declare the rehearsal dinner. No invitations would be sent out weeks in advance, and no public venue would be explained to anyone who did not already know how to listen closely. It lived as did every part of Dante’s world. By implication. By loyalty. By warning. I found out where it would be only hours before we left. “You trust me,” Dante said, adjusting the cuff of his jacket with the calm he would muster in meetings that have rearranged whole territories. “I do,” I replied. And I meant it. The restaurant was perched above the river, old stone and glass, and the sort of place that pretended to be neutral ground, though, when it had its own memories of every negotiation ever said under its chandeliers. Guards were lurking in the shadows. Not obvious. Not hidden. Quietly moving, always rotating, and always watching. As I stepped out of the car, the weight of the ring on my finger felt different from what it had that morning. Public. Inside, conversations softened. Eyes
One of the first things I observed was the silence. Not the empty kind. The managed kind. The kind that only existed because people were at their appointed spot, exactly the way they were supposed to be. I perched on a low platform in an entirely new private salon, the windows sealed, the door guarded on both sides. Somewhere further beyond the walls, men rotated shifts with careful timing. I could hear boots occasionally—murmured voices. Radios clicked once and went quiet again. Romantic, if you didn't know better. “Lift your arm,” the woman said gently. I did. She twisted the tape measure around my shoulder, cautious not to yank. Her hands were professional. Detached. She didn’t ask me how I felt or if I was excited. She did not call me bride. She made me like a thing to be managed, in a way. “How long will this take?” Dante asked from beside the window. “Ten minutes,” she replied. “Five,” he corrected calmly. She nodded and worked faster. I looked at him. That way, nothing abou
I still woke again later, not in terror or to be hurt this time, but instead because Dante moved next to me. The mattress sank slightly. His arm wrapped around my waist like his body reacted before his mind did. “You still here?” he murmured. “Yes.” “Good.” I smiled faintly at the ceiling. “That was not a question.” “No,” he said. “It was confirmation.” I faced him, slow and careful, still feeling, but no longer weak. His hand skimmed across my hip, warm and sturdy. Now entirely awake, eyes opened, he observed me like he would whenever he imagined that I might vanish if he blinked. "You look different," I said. He raised a brow. “Different how?” “Less armored,” I replied. “Like you forgot to put something back on.” “That only happens with you.” “That sounds dangerous.” “It is.” I moved closer and rested my head on his shoulder. “Then why do you continue it?” “I see you anyway,” he said. “Armor, armor or not.” I traced just a minute line slowly along his chest with my fingertip,
Morning came without urgency. Light was soft and delicate and entered the room like permission was asking for it, sliding along the edge of the bed and the curtain before it landed in front of us. It was light that wasn’t asking questions. No alarms. No expectations. I lay there still for a long time, listening to Dante breathe beside me. Slow. Controlled. Awake. He never closed his eyes, which is to say, he was awake before me. It wasn't restlessness. It was vigilance which had become so ingrained as to look like it wasn't an effort at all. He never once hesitated in his breathing. Even in slumber, he used the space intentionally, like a man who had realized, as an early child, that unconsciousness was a danger. My body felt heavy, not from injury, but from that same kind of heavy after intensification. A deep soreness lay numb beneath my skin: dry, warm, and throbbing. The warmth was slow, opening as I shifted, duller and slower. It made me think of last night, but it didn’t hu
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