No Exit

Dante’s POV

Blood was a language Dante Moretti spoke fluently.

It painted the marble floors of the Romano estate now—stark crimson streaks across pale stone. Chiara Romano lay motionless in the hall, her lifeless eyes wide with horror. Her throat had been slit so cleanly, it was almost surgical.

A message.

But to whom?

Dante stood over the body, his expression carved from granite. The scent of death clung to the air—metallic, final. His men moved silently around him, securing exits, sweeping rooms. Lorenzo Romano barked into a phone nearby, cursing, panicking. But Dante tuned him out.

His mind was already three steps ahead.

This wasn’t random.

It was calculated. Intimate. Someone had come into the heart of this fortress and executed a girl without hesitation.

A warning?

Or a cover-up?

His eyes narrowed.

Chiara had been close to Alessia. Too close. Constant whispers, hushed meetings. If Alessia was planning something—escape, rebellion, treason—it would’ve gone through her.

Now Chiara is dead.

And Alessia was missing.

He turned sharply. “Where is she?”

Nico appeared from the staircase, gun in hand. “We found her locked in the west wing library. No wounds. Shaken.”

“Bring her to me.”

Ten minutes later, she stood before him.

No makeup. No armor. Just a silk robe over a white nightgown stained with dust and blood where she must have fallen.

She looked smaller than usual.

But her eyes were still defiant.

Dante stepped forward, slowly, like a predator circling.

“Tell me what you know.”

She flinched—but didn’t drop her gaze. “I don’t know anything.”

“You expect me to believe that?” His voice was quiet. Dangerous. “You just happened to be locked in a room while your cousin was slaughtered outside it?”

“I heard screaming,” she said, her voice trembling. “I tried to open the door, but it was jammed. I didn’t even know Chiara was—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying!”

He grabbed her chin, forcing her face up. Her pulse throbbed beneath his fingers, her breathing ragged.

He wanted to believe her.

But Dante had learned early in life—pretty things often carried the sharpest blades.

“You were planning to run,” he said, voice low. “Weren’t you?”

Her eyes widened.

“I found the remnants of your letter. I know about Giordano. About the woman you told Chiara to contact.”

She went still.

So did he.

“I have your secrets now, bella.” His grip loosened just slightly. “And I’m not nearly as merciful as your father.”

Her expression shattered for a second—pure, unfiltered grief. Then rage filled the cracks.

“You think killing Chiara will keep me in line?”

His jaw tensed. “You think I killed her?”

“You’re capable of worse.”

Dante’s eyes darkened. “If I wanted you terrified, you would be.”

He released her with a hard shove, and she stumbled back, clutching her throat. Her voice cracked as she whispered, “You don’t own me.”

He stepped forward again, this time slower. Deadlier.

“I do now.”

His hand moved to his belt, not in threat—but in warning.

And she saw it.

She backed up against the bookshelf as if it could shield her. “What are you doing?”

“I gave you a choice before, Alessia,” he said softly. “Obey… or suffer.”

Tears filled her eyes—not from fear.

From fury.

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“You should be.”

She slapped him.

For the second time in as many days.

Dante caught her wrist mid-air and twisted it behind her back. Not enough to break. Just enough to make her gasp.

“You want to hate me? Fine. But don’t insult me with lies.”

“I didn’t kill her,” she said, trembling.

“I know.”

The truth surprised her.

But it didn’t change his tone.

“I also know you were planning something. She died for it.”

Alessia closed her eyes, shoulders trembling. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“No,” he agreed coldly. “But now that it has, there are consequences.”

He pushed her hard against the bookshelf, breath hot at her ear.

“No more games. No more secret meetings. You’ll go nowhere without my men. You’ll speak to no one I don’t approve.”

“I’m not your prisoner.”

“You are now.”

Her lips parted like she wanted to scream. To strike. To fight.

But Dante could feel the breaking point.

It was close.

So close.

And it exhilarated him.

“You’re angry,” he said quietly. “Good. Let it burn. Because when the wedding comes, you won’t walk down the aisle as a bride.”

He turned her face to his, inches apart.

“You’ll be dragged there… as my possession.”

Then he walked away, leaving her breathless, broken, and shaking beneath the weight of his vow.

Later that night, Dante stood on the terrace, eyes sweeping the city skyline beyond the estate walls. The storm inside him hadn’t settled. If anything, it raged stronger now.

He hadn’t killed Chiara.

But someone had.

And it had been personal.

He pulled out the burned remains of the note found in Chiara’s pocket.

One word remained unscorched.

“Catalina.”

Dante turned the name over in his mind. It meant nothing to him.

Yet.

But it had meant something to Chiara—and to Alessia.

He knew what he had to do next.

Find the woman.

Tighten the leash.

And if Alessia thought this was hell?

He’d show her what true captivity felt like.

The next morning, Alessia woke up in chains—inside a luxury villa with no doors, no windows, and Dante’s voice whispering through the walls: “Welcome to your new home, wife.”