Chapter 4 The Queen Learns to Play

The morning air was cool, laced with salt from the nearby sea. Amara stood at the window of her chamber, arms folded tight around her chest. The silence of the Moretti estate was deceptive. Beneath it, something always stirred—danger, secrets, and eyes that never stopped watching.

But she wasn’t the same girl who arrived here trembling two weeks ago.

No.

The truth had cracked something inside her.

She wasn’t here because she was weak. She was here because she was valuable. A pawn. A trigger. A legacy of betrayal.

But even pawns can become queens—if they learn to play.

And Amara was done being the hunted.

She was ready to hunt back.

---

“Breakfast in the sunroom,” Bianca announced as she entered, no knock as usual.

Amara turned from the window, dressed in a modest white blouse and dark jeans. No silk. No jewelry. Nothing Dante had given her.

“He’s summoning me again?” she asked, voice like flint.

Bianca smirked. “He doesn’t summon. He waits. And you go.”

“Not today.”

Bianca blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I’ll join him,” Amara said, brushing past her, “but not because he commands it. Because I choose it.”

Bianca said nothing, but Amara caught the ghost of something like respect in her gaze.

---

The sunroom was drenched in gold light, with high windows and white stone floors. Vines crawled lazily up the walls. It would’ve been beautiful—if not for the man who sat at the center of it all, like a storm wearing a suit.

Dante looked up from his espresso.

And for once, he smiled.

“You wore white,” he said, gesturing to her blouse.

“I didn’t wear it for you.”

His gaze dropped, lingering a second too long. “No, but you wore it in my house. That counts.”

Amara sat down without invitation. “Let’s get something straight, Dante.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I know I can’t escape you. Yet. But I’m not afraid of you anymore.”

“Shame. Fear looks good on you.”

She ignored the jab.

“I read the journal. I know what you and my mother had. Or didn’t have. And I know what you want now.”

“Do you?” he asked, voice low.

“You want her back,” Amara said. “And since she’s dead, you’ll settle for someone who looks like her. Talks like her. Bleeds like her.”

Dante leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest.

“But I’m not her,” she continued. “I’ll never be her.”

A silence followed.

Then—

“That’s where you’re wrong,” he said quietly. “You’re not her. You’re something else entirely. Something worse. Because she loved me and left. But you… you hate me and still stay.”

She flinched at that truth.

“I’m only staying because you’re holding my father hostage.”

Dante gave a slow nod. “Yes. And if that ever stops being enough, I have other ways to keep you.”

“You’re sick.”

He stood slowly and walked to the windows, hands clasped behind his back.

“I have a proposition.”

“No more deals.”

“This isn’t a deal,” he said. “It’s a test.”

Amara tensed. “Test?”

“You want your freedom? Then earn it.”

She rose to her feet. “What are you talking about?”

He turned. “You’ll join me tonight. At the masquerade ball. As my date. Publicly. In front of the families.”

Amara’s blood went cold.

“The families?”

“The Five,” he said. “The heads of Italy’s five most powerful Mafia syndicates. They're gathering tonight. And they all want one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“To know if I’ve gone soft.”

“And bringing me proves you haven’t?”

“No. But keeping you by my side, showing them I can tame the daughter of a traitor—that sends a message.”

“And what do I get?”

Dante smirked.

“Answers.”

Amara narrowed her eyes. “About what?”

“Your mother. Your real bloodline. Your father’s sins. And mine.”

She hesitated.

“And if I refuse?”

He poured another glass of espresso and said simply, “Then you’ll spend the rest of your life locked in this house… never knowing anything again.”

---

That evening, the estate transformed.

Lights blazed. Musicians rehearsed. Security swarmed like bees. And Amara sat in front of a full-length mirror, staring at the red satin dress laid across her bed.

It was stunning.

And terrifying.

Backless. High-slit. The color of spilled blood.

Bianca entered carrying a black velvet box.

“Your mask.”

Amara opened it.

Inside was a delicate creation of black lace and thin onyx stones, shaped like wings.

“You’ll wear this,” Bianca said. “And you’ll smile. Even when your bones scream.”

“And what if I don’t?” Amara asked, looking at her reflection.

Bianca stared at her.

“You’ll die. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. But defiance comes with a price. Here, loyalty is survival. Even if it’s a lie.”

Amara slowly nodded.

Then she dressed.

And stepped into hell.

---

The ballroom pulsed with violins, perfume, and silent danger. Every man in a black suit. Every woman in a dress worth a small kingdom. Masks adorned their faces—but Amara knew these people didn’t need masks to be monsters.

Dante stood at the top of the marble staircase, waiting.

When he saw her, something shifted in his face.

Desire. Possession. Darkness.

He held out his hand.

She placed hers in it.

Their entrance was theatrical—perfectly timed, flawlessly orchestrated.

Gasps rippled.

Whispers followed.

“Is that her?”

“The traitor’s daughter?”

“No. That’s Dante’s latest toy.”

“She won’t last a week.”

But when Dante spoke, the room silenced.

“She is mine,” he said. “And anyone who touches her… dies.”

Then the music began again.

And the dance started.

---

Dante held her close, leading her across the marble floor like she weighed nothing.

“You’re good at this,” she whispered.

“My mother was a ballerina. Before the war destroyed her.”

“You have a way of making every sentence sound like a threat.”

He chuckled. “That’s because every sentence is.”

They spun.

“And what about you?” he asked. “Ever danced before?”

“Once. At a high school prom. The guy threw up on my shoes.”

He laughed—genuinely.

It startled her.

He could laugh?

“You’re dangerous when you’re human,” she said.

“And you’re dangerous when you pretend not to like this.”

She looked up at him, trying to read past the mask, past the arrogance.

“Why me?” she whispered. “Why this obsession?”

Dante’s fingers tightened on her waist.

“Because I see it in you. The same storm I buried for twenty years. You carry her fire—but your own fury.”

“I’ll never belong to you,” she said.

“You already do,” he murmured. “Even if you never admit it.”

---

Later that night, she wandered the gardens behind the ballroom, needing air.

The mask itched. The dress suffocated.

She leaned against a statue and closed her eyes.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” a voice said behind her.

Alessandro.

Again.

“I don’t need saving,” she said.

“No,” he agreed. “But you need warning.”

“Let me guess—your brother’s a monster.”

“Worse,” Alessandro said. “He’s in love.”

She snorted. “Dante? Love?”

Alessandro stepped closer.

“And love, for men like us, is a slow kind of death.”

She turned. “Why are you really here?”

“To offer you a way out.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“Good. You shouldn’t.”

He handed her a folded piece of paper.

“What is this?”

“Proof.”

She opened it.

A photo.

Black and white. A girl, tied to a chair. Bruised.

And standing behind her—Dante.

Holding a gun.

“Who is she?” Amara asked.

“Someone who thought she could survive his obsession.”

Alessandro leaned close.

“You still have time, Amara. Run. Before he breaks you.”

---

She returned to her room, the photo trembling in her hand.

She stared at it for hours.

The girl’s face was bloodied, but the fear was clear.

Was this the truth?

Was this Dante?

Or was Alessandro playing his own game?

Amara curled into the bed, sleep refusing to come.

And when dawn finally broke…

She knew one thing.

She needed to find the truth.

Before it found her.