Chapter one-The Debt

The Rossi household had always carried the scent of struggle—overdue bills stacked in drawers, whispers of creditors at the door, the gnawing hunger of uncertainty. But Emilia Rossi had never imagined that her father’s weakness would one day demand the sacrifice of her freedom.

It was raining the night she found out. Thunder cracked above their modest home, rattling the thin windows as if echoing the panic that twisted in her chest. Her father sat slumped at the kitchen table, eyes bloodshot, a bottle of whiskey half-drained beside him.

“Papa, what’s wrong?” Emilia asked, her voice sharp with unease. She had seen him beaten down before, but never like that. His hands trembled, his skin pale as paper.

He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Emilia, I… I’ve made a mistake I can’t undo.”

The pit in her stomach hardened. “Another loan?”

His silence was her answer.

Emilia’s fingers curled into fists. “How much?”

When he whispered the number, her knees nearly gave way. No legitimate lender would ever demand such a sum. Which meant—

“You went to them,” she breathed, horror chilling her veins. “The Moretti family.”

Her father flinched as if her words were knives. “I had no choice.” I could double it. I thought I could win it back—

“Win it back?” Emilia’s voice cracked like glass. With what? Dice? Cards? Do you know who you’ve tied us to?

Silence pressed heavily between them. Emilia’s mind raced. The Moretti name was a shadow whispered across the city—Dante Moretti, billionaire business executive on the surface, but beneath it, the ruthless king of the underworld. Cold. Untouchable. Merciless.

And now her father was indebted to him.

The knock on their door came like a gunshot. Hard. Certain. Emilia froze, every nerve in her body screaming at her to hide. But her father staggered up, muttering, “It’s too late.”

The door opened to reveal a man in a dark suit, rain dripping from his shoulders. He was tall, expression carved from stone, eyes cold and sharp as steel. A predator disguised in elegance.

“Mr. Rossi,” the man said, voice low and dangerous. “It’s time to pay your debt.”

Emilia stepped forward before her father could crumble further. “Please, give us more time." He’ll find a way—”

The man’s gaze slid towards her, assessing, lingering just long enough to make her skin prickle. Then he pulled out a phone, murmured something in Italian, and stepped aside.

A sleek black car pulled up to the curb. From it emerged a man who made the room shrink around him. Dante Moretti.

Emilia had seen pictures before, splashed across newspapers and whispered about in hushed tones. None captured the force of him in person—the sharp suit molded to his broad shoulders, the cold perfection of his features, the way his presence commanded silence. His dark eyes locked on hers, and for the briefest moment, Emilia felt her breath falter.

Danger had never looked so devastating.

Her father stammered, “Mr. Moretti, I—I just need more time—”

Dante ignored him. His gaze remained fixed on Emilia, as if her father’s words were air. Slowly, he stepped into their modest home, rain glistening on his hair, the scent of expensive cologne clinging to him.

“And who is this?” Dante asked, his voice smooth yet edged with steel.

Emilia lifted her chin, refusing to shrink beneath that stare. “I’m his daughter.”

Something flickered in his eyes—interest, curiosity, hunger. He closed the distance between them until the storm outside seemed to fade. “Beautiful,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

Her father rushed forward. “Please, Mr Moretti, don’t involve her.” This is my mistake—”

Dante silenced him with a look. Then, turning back to Emilia, he said softly, “Do you know what your father owes me?”

She swallowed hard. “Enough to destroy us.”

A faint smile curved his lips. “Correct.”

The weight of his gaze was unbearable, yet Emilia refused to break. She had grown up protecting her father’s mistakes, patching holes he left behind. This time would be no different.

Drawing in a steadying breath, she whispered, “Take me instead.”

Her father gasped. “Emilia, no!”

But Dante’s eyes sharpened, as if her words had lit something inside him. Slowly, he reached out, brushing a strand of wet hair from her cheek. The touch was deceptively gentle, sending an unwanted shiver racing down her spine.

“You would give yourself to me?” His tone was curious, amused.

Her voice shook, but she forced the words out. “If it means sparing my family, yes.”

For a moment, silence. Then Dante leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. “Brave,” he whispered. “Or foolish.”

Straightening, he looked at his men. “The debt is settled.” She comes with me.

“No!” her father cried, collapsing to his knees. “Please, take me instead!”

But Dante didn’t look back. He offered Emilia his hand, a gesture both commanding and strangely intimate. She stared at it, heart pounding, realizing she stood at the edge of a life she could never return from.

And yet, something inside her—fear, fury, or fate—made her place her trembling hand in his.

Dante’s fingers closed around hers, firm. His eyes softened briefly, then hardened like steel once more.

“From tonight,” he said, his voice final, “you belong to me.”

Outside, the storm raged on, but Emilia knew the true tempest had only just begun.