POWER PLAY

Dante's POV

The office was still, except for the quiet hum of the very old ceiling fan slicing through the stifling Sicilian heat. The gun on my desk glowed in the sunlight, poised like a good dog for me to make the signal. I reclined in my leather chair, my hand casually resting on the armrest, and stared at it.

The barrel had a residual odor of gunpowder from last night.

I should have killed him.

That had been nagging me from morning, perching like a bird of prey. Marco Powell. The golden boy. The President's pristine little boy, in his designer jackets and superior scowl. I should have done for him then and there in the hallway, before he could regard me with those superior blue eyes as if I were some street punk who could be bought off with his father's money.

But I hadn't.

And now he was in my basement, bleeding on my floor, breathing my air — a hostage, a bargaining chip, a pawn in a game his father had started the moment he decided to double-cross me.

I hunched forward, elbows on the desk, glaring at the gun more intently. The weight of it, the strength of it, was satisfying. One bullet could solve all of this.

There was a knock at the heavy oak door.

"Enter," I said, my voice steady.

Leonardo entered, his black suit pressed to perfection in spite of the weather, his face inscrutable. My second-in-command. My ghost. He'd fought with me in three wars, two betrayals, and more blood than most men could stand for an eternity. If Leonardo showed even a hint of unease, something was amiss.

How long are you going to detain him here?" he snapped, standing up in front of the desk.

I raised a brow. "As long as it takes. Until his bastard father reimburses me what's owed me."

Leonardo's jaw ground, but he didn't speak.

"Speak up, Leo," I said, tilting my head. "Obviously, you have something you'd like to say.".

"The guys are on high alert," he admitted. "We lost five last night. Good men. And now we've got the President's son locked away in the basement. Do you think we can afford this? You want the entire U.S. presidential protection detail up our hips?"

I snorted, lying back again. "They won't find us. And even if they do, they won't risk a public scandal. Powell will do anything to keep this hidden. His squeaky-clean image can't handle the world knowing his son is being held in the cellar of an Italian mobster."

Leonardo gave me a glance. "So what's the game plan here, Dante? You hold him until Powell caves? And if he doesn't?"

I swiveled my head, my eyes catching his. "Then the world has a new headline." I smiled icily. "One they won't forget."

He hesitated, then spoke tentatively, "May I make a suggestion?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Go ahead."

"Marry him."

I blinked. I thought, for an instant, that I'd misheard him. "What?"

Leonardo's face was dead serious. "Marry him, Dante. Legally bind him to you. Claim him as yours in every sense. Just imagine how that would kill Powell. His ideal son, bound to the man he hates more than anyone else. His hands would be tied. He couldn't lay a hand on you without destroying his son.".

I gazed at him, the words settling in my bones like a rich whiskey.

A marriage.

Not a ransom, not an act of vengeance. Something else. Something permanent. Something that would make Powell's stomach turn every time he thought of it.

My lips curled into a slow, wicked smile.

"You might be nastier than I am, Leo," I said softly. "I like it better. Do all that.".

Leonardo nodded once, as if we had only just placed our order, and left.

I got up, taking the gun, and went down.

The air chilled the further down I went, the sound of my footsteps bouncing off the stone. By the time I was at the last step, I could hear the faint, wheezing noise of breathing.

Marco was awake.

He leaned back in the chair he'd been tied to, his shirt torn, blood soaking the fabric at his shoulder and trickling down his forearm. His hair was mussed, falling across his forehead, and a wild, feral glint in his eyes.

Good.

Fear made men tell the truth.

His jaw flexed when he regarded me. "You sick son of a bitch," he snarled, his voice raw.

I smiled, moving forward. "You're prettier awake."

"What the fuck do you want?" he snarled. "

My father already told you what the game is,I have nothing to do with this, let me go !”

I kneeled before him, my forearm against my knee, my face inches from his. "Considering the number of men I've killed at your father's order, I'm sure he has a lot more up his sleeve than telling lies. But you, Marco…" My eyes roamed over him, slow and deliberate. "You're more valuable to me alive than dead. You're going to be my ransom."

His eyebrows drew together. "What the hell does that mean?"

I grinned, my face inches from his. "It means, caro ragazzo, that you're going to be my husband."

He went white.

"You're crazy," he spat, his voice shaking with anger and disbelief.

"Perhaps." I rose to my feet, wiping a little dried blood from between my knuckles. "But the crazy always prevail. And I always prevail."

"You think you can force me? Commit to a marriage with you psychotic bastard against my will?"

"I don't think," I said bluntly. "I know."

I gestured, and two men came in, their boots ringing off the floor.

"Clean him up," I instructed. "He has a wedding to get ready for."

Marco's head swung around, his eyes burning. "You're a sick bastard."

I smiled, already turning away. "And you're going to become mine."

I left him there, cursing down the hallway, my smile growing wider with each step I took.

For the first time since last night, I didn't feel anger.

I felt anticipation, for the danger brewing and begging to just unravel.