Chapter Two - Not what he expected

Aria Moretti was not what he expected.

Most women in the mafia world telegraphed their fear—wild eyes, shaking hands, broken voices. But the girl chained to his basement wall was fear distilled to delicate perfection.

Too perfect.

Her brown hair fell in soft waves, long and silky, sticking slightly to the tear-streaks on her flushed cheeks. Loose strands clung to the curve of her jaw, framing a face that was almost unsettling in its softness—high cheekbones, full mouth, a small, elegant nose.

Her body was slim, almost fragile, her shoulders narrow beneath the thin fabric of her dress. Kneeling forced her posture into something helpless, delicate… devastatingly tempting.

Dante hated that his eyes lingered on her.

Of all the women in the world, I don’t get to want this one.

Forbidden wasn’t even the right word.

She was the enemy’s daughter.

The enemy’s property.

The enemy’s problem.

But when she lifted her head, trembling like a frightened doe, something inside him tightened. Irritation, he told himself. Nothing more.

Yet he couldn’t look away.

He stepped closer, his shadow falling over her, and she shrank back beautifully—submissive, terrified, perfect.

Too perfect.

“Aria,” he said, letting her name roll off his tongue slowly.

She flinched, lashes fluttering. Her brown eyes, wide and glossy with tears, looked up at him like he was the devil incarnate. Most men would have warmed at the sight, felt power from it.

Dante felt… pulled.

He crouched in front of her, ignoring how her scent hit him—something soft, floral, clean. Not the smell of someone who expected to be kidnapped tonight.

Another detail out of place.

“Why were you in your family’s estate tonight?” he asked.

Her lower lip quivered. “I live t-there…”

Delicate. Breakable.

A damn porcelain doll.

One he wanted to crush.

And protect.

He reached out and grazed the back of his knuckles along her cheek. Her breath hitched, but not out of real panic. Her skin was warm, impossibly soft.

She held still too well.

Most terrified women recoiled.

She anticipated his touch.

She waited for it.

That was wrong.

But God, did it make him want to touch her again.

“Hmm,” he murmured, pretending he didn’t notice the inconsistency. “Your family guards you well.”

“I—I’m not important,” she whispered.

A lie. No princess of the Morettis was unimportant.

But the way she hugged that lie to her chest, trembling, curling inward—

Dante wanted to unravel her.

Slowly.

He exhaled through his nose, studying her. The way the chain forced her breasts to rise, the line of her throat exposed, the dip of her waist visible through her dress…

She was beautiful in a way that shouldn’t have affected him.

Not her.

Not the enemy.

Not the girl he was supposed to use or discard.

Yet he felt something deep and unwelcome stir.

Focus.

“Are you cold?” he asked softly.

Her eyes widened at the unexpected gentleness. “Y—yes…”

Her voice trembled just enough.

But her body didn’t lean toward warmth.

Didn’t seek comfort.

A real captive would.

He bit back a grin. She was good. Trained, even. And she had no idea that he already sensed the cracks.

He brushed his thumb along her jawline, letting the contact linger longer than necessary. “I’ll make sure you don’t freeze.”

She shuddered—again, too perfectly executed.

His restraint slipped for a heartbeat.

He wanted to grab her chin and force her to look at him without the act—

to see the real woman beneath the performance.

To see what kind of fire she hid behind that gentle shell.

Instead, he rose to his full height, letting the moment stretch. “Rest,” he ordered softly. “I’ll return.”

He turned away, but her presence tugged at him like a hook in his spine.

She was supposed to be leverage. A pawn. A bargaining chip.

So why did he want to go back and touch her again?

At the threshold, he paused, hands in his pockets, not looking back.

“I’ll be checking on you again,” he said casually. “Try to get some rest.”

He shut the door behind him, letting the metallic lock slide home with a heavy clank.

The guards waited rigidly.

Dante finally allowed the grin he’d been suppressing.

“Don’t speak to her,” he said. “Don’t touch her. Don’t entertain her.”

Marco hesitated. “She… she seems pretty scared, boss.”

Dante’s grin sharpened. “Oh, she’s something. But scared?”

His eyes glinted with something dark.

“Not nearly enough.”

He walked up the stairs, already thinking about her next move.

He wouldn’t call her bluff.

Not yet.

He wanted to see how deep her performance went.

How skilled she truly was.

How long she could pretend to be fragile before the mask slipped.

And when it did?

That was when the real fun would begin.