Dining with the Monster

​005

T​he heavy iron gates of Don Vincenzo Valerius’s sprawling estate opened quietly like the jaw of a giant hungry beast. Outside, rain fell in cold, hard sheets, turning the dark city streets into a mirror of flashing red and blue lights. But inside these high stone walls, everything was silent, locked away from the rest of the world.

​I sat in the back of the black SUV beside Dante, my hands folded tightly over the silk skirt of the modest dress he had bought for me. My heart hammered against my ribs like a caged bird.

​Dante reached out, his warm, heavy fingers wrapping over my cold knuckles. He didn't say a word, but the firm pressure of his grip was a silent reminder: Stay calm. I am here.

​The vehicle came to a smooth stop under the grand stone porch. One of the armed security guards opened the door, holding a large black umbrella against the wind. Dante stepped out first, extending his hand to help me down.

​As we walked up the wide marble steps, my eyes scanned everything. I wasn't just a terrified girl anymore; I was a survivor collecting details. Two heavy-set guards flanked the massive oak doors, their hands resting casually near the holsters beneath their tailored suits. They didn't blink. They didn't twitch. They moved like statues carved out of cold stone.

​The heavy doors swung open, and we stepped into a foyer so large it felt like a museum.

​Massive crystal chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling, casting sharp, cold light across the polished floors. But what caught my attention were the family portraits lining the dark wood-paneled walls. I kept my gaze steady as we walked past them, observing the way the people in the photographs stood.

​In every single picture, Don Vincenzo stood right in the center. Everyone else including a pale, beautiful woman with sad eyes who looked remarkably like Dante stood slightly turned toward him, their shoulders tense, their smiles forced. It was a house built on fear, where affection was just another weapon.

​"Dante," a deep, raspy voice echoed through the vast hall.

​We stopped at the base of the grand double staircase. Standing there, leaning heavily on a silver-headed cane, was Don Vincenzo Valerius himself. He wore a dark velvet blazer, his silver-streaked hair combed back neatly, and his dark eyes fixed on us with a heavy, calculating stare.

​"Father," Dante greeted, his voice smooth, cold, and entirely devoid of warmth. He stepped half a step in front of me, subtly shielding me with his broad shoulder. "You wanted us here. We came."

​Don Vincenzo’s gaze slid past Dante, locking directly onto me. I felt a cold shiver crawl up my spine, but I forced my breathing to stay even. I kept my head bowed just enough to look respectful, playing the part of the quiet, harmless girlfriend Dante had claimed I was.

​"So this is the little bird you flew across the city to protect," Vincenzo murmured, taking two slow steps down the marble stairs. His cane clicked sharply against the floor. "Look at me, child."

​I lifted my chin slowly, meeting his dark, predatory eyes without flinching.

​"What is your name, my dear?" he asked, stepping close enough that I could smell his expensive cologne mixed with the faint scent of cigar smoke.

​"Lyra, sir," I answered, keeping my voice soft and steady.

​"Lyra," Vincenzo tasted the name on his tongue, rolling it around like a bitter pill. "An unusual name. Tell me, Lyra, where did my son pull you out of? Dante usually keeps his distance from fragile things. What makes you different?"

​My mind raced. I couldn't mention Cross Manor. I couldn't mention Victoria. I had to invent a past that sounded real enough to satisfy a mafia boss, but boring enough that he wouldn't bother digging deeper.

​"I worked in a bookstore downtown, Mr. Valerius," I said, offering a small, hesitant smile that looked completely natural. "Dante came in to pick up a rare journal. We bumped into each other. I didn't know who he was until weeks later."

​Vincenzo narrowed his eyes, studying every muscle in my face, looking for a twitch, a bead of sweat, a lie.

​"A bookstore," the old man repeated slowly. He turned his head to look at Dante, a thin, mocking smile touching his lips. "My son, the romantic. Buying books."

​"People change, Father," Dante replied coldly. "Can we eat now? Or are we going to stand in the cold air all night?"

​Vincenzo let out a dry, rattling laugh. "Always in a rush, Dante. Very well. Let us dine."

​The dining room was dominated by an enormous mahogany table lit by dozens of flickering candles. Two other men were already seated near the middle: Toffa, Don Vincenzo's terrifying, silent chief enforcer whose face bore a long, jagged scar, and Vinny Jr., Vincenzo’s unhinged, reckless nephew who was playing nervously with a silver butter knife.

​As we took our seats, Vinny Jr. stared at me with a creepy, wide-eyed grin, making my skin crawl.

​The first two courses were served in total, suffocating silence. Servants moved like ghosts around the table, pouring wine and clearing plates. But Don Vincenzo wasn't done playing with his food or with me.

​"So, Lyra," Vincenzo began again, cutting into his steak with a slow, deliberate motion. "Tell me about your childhood. Where did you grow up? What did your family do?"

​The air in the room grew ten times heavier. I kept my hands flat on my lap so he wouldn't see them shaking.

​"I grew up in the quiet districts outside the city," I said smoothly, sticking closely to the sparse details of my early life before my parents died. "My father was an accountant, and my mother stayed at home. We lived a very simple, quiet life. They passed away when I was young, so I learned to take care of myself."

​"An accountant," Vincenzo mused, taking a sip of his red wine. "Figures and numbers. A clean, honest life. It is always a pity when such ordinary people are swept away by the storms of this city."

​He set his wine glass down, and his dark eyes flashed with a cruel, hidden meaning. He signaled to a servant standing nearby.

​"Bring it here," Vincenzo ordered.

​The servant stepped forward carrying a small, velvet-lined wooden box. Vincenzo opened the clasp himself and reached inside, pulling out an old, tarnished silver ring set with a glowing, deep-blue sapphire stone.

​"My late wife, Elena, wore this every day," Vincenzo said, his voice dropping to a smooth, dangerous whisper as he slid the ring across the polished wood table toward my plate. "A woman's jewelry tells you everything about her soul. Put it on, Lyra. Let us see if it suits you."

​My breath caught in my throat. The room spun once, violently.

​I stared at the silver ring resting inches from my hand. I recognized it instantly. It wasn't just a random piece of jewelry. I had seen that exact sapphire ring once before on a lady in a picture, locked inside a small photo album in my father’s desk, a faded photograph of my mother standing smiling next to a beautiful, sad-eyed woman who wore that exact ring on her left hand.

​The woman in the photo was Elena..

​My parents and Elena had known each other before they died. My father had kept a picture of them together, hidden away like a dangerous secret. Is Elena Dante's mother I was contemplating on my mind.

​Panic surged through my chest, screaming at me to pull back, to refuse the ring. But Vincenzo was watching me with hawklike intensity, waiting for a single mistake.

​Slowly, forcing my fingers to stop trembling, I reached out and picked up the heavy silver ring. I slid it onto my left ring finger. It was a little too large, resting loosely against my skin.

​"It fits," I whispered, lifting my gaze to meet Don Vincenzo's cold stare. "A bit large, but... beautiful."

​Vincenzo smiled, though it didn't reach his dead eyes. "Family heirlooms have a way of finding the right hands eventually."

​Dante’s jaw tightened so hard I thought his teeth might crack. He reached across the table, his hand hovering over mine, ready to rip the ring off my finger and end the sick game.

​Before Dante could speak, Don Vincenzo leaned forward, placing both hands flat on the table. The smile vanished from his face, replaced by a terrifying, lethal stillness. He looked directly into my eyes, his voice dropping into a low, chilling command that made the candles flicker.

​"Tell me, my dear," Don Vincenzo asked softly, tilting his head. "How did your parents die, and where?"