Chapter 02

I should have looked away.

I should have kept my eyes on the contract, on the words, on anything but him.

But Dante Moretti sat like the room belonged to his bones, and I couldn’t not look.

He didn’t fidget. Didn’t tap fingers. Didn’t blink too often or cross his legs or lean back like other men in suits who wanted you to feel their wealth. He didn’t need to fill the space — the space bent around him like it knew better than to resist.

He was… still.

Still in a way that didn’t read calm. It read waiting.

I tried to focus on the lawyer’s voice.

“Clause thirteen states you will reside in the Moretti estate for a minimum of twelve months. You will not leave without written permission from Mr. Moretti or an appointed representative.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice. The lawyer continued.

“You will be photographed together publicly twice per quarter, attend three mandatory social events as a couple, and wear your ring at all times.”

My fingers twitched.

A ring. There’d be a ring.

Was he watching my hands? I tucked them under the table. Too late.

I looked up again — just for a breath — and this time, Dante’s gaze dropped.

To my mouth.

Not in a hungry way. Not even curious.

Like he was deciding what it was worth. If it was worth silencing.

And then… back to my eyes. Like a slow sweep of ice.

“Clause twenty-one outlines the behavioral expectations,” the lawyer went on. “No contact with journalists, no attempts to access private accounts, no unsanctioned communication with law enforcement. A violation of any clause results in termination of the agreement — and forfeiture of your brother’s protection.”

There it was.

That word.

Protection.

I blinked hard. Tried not to show it. Tried not to let the hot behind-my-eyes feeling swell.

“Do you have any questions, Miss Russo?” the lawyer asked, flipping to the last page. “About the expectations?”

I shook my head.

Because what could I ask?

Will he hit me?

Will he touch me?

Will he bury my body under that big beautiful garden in the yard?

I didn’t want the answers.

Dante took another slow sip of whatever dark liquid was in his glass. His wrist was inked, just barely visible beneath the cuff. Something black and sharp and coiled. Like everything about him.

And he wasn’t looking at the contract. Not once.

He wasn’t reviewing clauses. He wasn’t watching the lawyer.

He was watching me.

And he didn’t blink.

Not until I did first.

The pen sat there like a loaded gun.

Silver. Heavy-looking. Still warm from the lawyer’s fingers.

He slid the contract toward me, page corners aligned so perfectly I felt like I’d ruin something sacred just by touching them.

“This is the final page,” he said smoothly. “Signature and date. Once signed, the agreement is irrevocable.”

I didn’t move.

My hand hovered over the pen, but my fingers wouldn’t close.

The lawyer didn’t seem surprised. He leaned back a little, giving me space, voice calm but patient. “Miss Russo, I assure you, your brother is being treated well. His cooperation has been… noted. This agreement ensures his continued comfort and safety.”

Comfort.

Safety.

I almost laughed. Except my throat wouldn’t open.

It was hard to breathe in here. The air smelled like rich wood and something darker — cologne, maybe, or smoke. I couldn’t tell if it was the lawyer, the room, or Dante himself.

Especially Dante.

I could feel him watching me.

The silence stretched. The pen glinted under the soft overhead light. My hand finally touched it — just my fingertips. Cold. Metal. Real.

“You may take a moment,” the lawyer offered.

But it wasn’t him I looked at.

It was Dante.

For the third time.

I didn’t mean to. But my body did.

And this time, he moved.

Just slightly. His shoulders shifted. The glass left his fingers with a soft click on the table.

And then, for the first time, he spoke.

Just one sentence.

“Sign it, or I’ll assume you prefer the alternative.”

That voice.

Low. Dry. Controlled like a razor held flat against skin. Not raised. Not angry.

Just true.

I didn’t ask what the alternative was. Because I already knew.

There were worse things than marrying a monster.

Like watching your brother bleed because you hesitated.

I pressed the pen to paper.

My signature came out small and tight. A little smear at the end where my hand trembled.

The lawyer nodded once. “Thank you.”

He slid the contract away, tucked it neatly back into the folder.

No one clapped. No one congratulated me.

There was no ring.

No kiss.

No words of welcome.

Just the rustle of paper, the sound of something ancient being sealed.

And the taste of iron in my mouth.

The scratch of the pen was still echoing in my ears when Dante stood.

No chair creak. No grunt of effort. Just motion — fluid and silent, like a shadow unfolding.

I flinched before I realized I had.

He rounded the desk slowly, not fast, not aggressive. But something about the way he moved — all stillness turned to motion — made my skin crawl and tighten at the same time.

I couldn’t help it.

I stood, too. Reflex more than choice.

I hated how small I felt doing it. How close he was now. How much taller. I had to tilt my chin just to meet his eyes — and even then, I wished I hadn’t.

Because up close, those eyes didn’t look like ice.

They looked like glass held over fire — clear, but burning from beneath.

His gaze dropped, not to my face, but to my collarbone, then lower.

I stiffened.

His lips parted — barely — and for a second, I thought he might lean in. Might whisper something low and awful. Or cruel and intimate. Or both.

Instead, he spoke one word.

Just one.

“Mine.”

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a threat. It was a fact — spoken like it had always been true. Like I had been born for it, and he was only now collecting what was owed.

He didn’t wait for me to react.

He walked past me like I was furniture.

The scent of him — dark, expensive, violent — lingered in his wake. My pulse pounded in my throat. I turned, only slightly, to watch him disappear down a glass hallway, his hands loose at his sides like nothing in this building could ever touch him.

The lawyer cleared his throat gently, like I was someone who needed her name called twice.

“Your driver is waiting, Mrs. Moretti.”

I didn’t respond.

Not until he added:

“He’ll take you to your new home.”