The morning sun didn't bring warmth to the Alpine house; it only highlighted the bruises on Sienna's wrists and the wreckage of the previous night. Dante was gone from the bed before she woke, but the space beside her still felt heavy with his presence.
She climbed out of bed, her legs shaking. She found a black silk robe in the closet everything in this house was black, cold, and expensive and tied it tight around her waist. She needed to get out. Not just out of the room, but out of her own head.
She walked into the main living area, a vast space with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a jagged drop into a valley. Dante was there, standing by a dark wood desk, cleaning a handgun with clinical precision.
"You're awake," he said without looking up. "The kitchen is stocked. Make yourself something."
"I'm not your housewife, Dante," Sienna said, her voice raspy. She walked toward the windows, staring at the snow. "How long are you going to keep me here? My father's men will find the signal from the car ambush eventually."
Dante finally looked up, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. He set the gun down and walked toward her, his footsteps heavy on the hardwood. "The signal? You think I'm an amateur? Your father's tech team is tracing a ghost signal in a shipping container headed for Sicily. By the time they realize you aren't there, I'll have already bled him dry."
"He'll kill you for this," she whispered. "He'll make it slow."
Dante stopped inches from her, his heat radiating through the silk of her robe. "Everyone wants to kill me, Sienna. It's a long line. Get in the back."
"Why do you hate him so much?" she asked, her eyes searching his. "Was it really just your brother? Or is there more?"
Dante's expression darkened. The playful cruelty vanished, replaced by something jagged. He grabbed her arm, pulling her toward the kitchen counter and shoving a folder in front of her.
"Open it," he commanded.
Sienna hesitated, then opened the file. It was filled with crime scene photos. Grainy, horrific images of a young man slumped over a dinner table, his face buried in a plate of pasta, the white tablecloth soaked in deep, dark crimson.
"That was Enzo," Dante said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous vibration. "He wasn't part of the business. He wanted to be an artist. He was at a restaurant in Rome, celebrating his birthday. Your father's hitman walked in and emptied a clip into his back just to 'send a message' to my father."
Sienna felt the blood drain from her face. "I... I didn't know."
"Of course you didn't," Dante spat, leaning over her, his hands pinning her against the counter. "You were too busy being the Mafia Princess, shopping in Milan and sunbathing in Capri. You lived a life of luxury paid for by the blood of kids like my brother."
"I never asked for any of it!" Sienna screamed, finally snapping. She pushed against his chest, her eyes brimming with tears of rage. "You think I like being Lorenzo Cavallo's daughter? You think I like being a pawn? He kept me locked in that villa like a trophy. I was just waiting for someone to kill him so I could finally breathe!"
Dante stared at her, surprised by the outburst. He saw the genuine fire in her eyes, the way her hands were shaking not with fear, but with a lifetime of repressed fury.
"You hate him," Dante realized, his voice softer.
"I loathe him," she hissed. "He killed my mother too. He told everyone it was a car accident, but I saw the bruises on her neck before they closed the casket. He's a monster, Dante. Just like you."
Dante didn't flinch at the insult. Instead, he stepped closer, his hand sliding up from her waist to her throat, not to choke her, but to hold her steady.
"If you hate him so much," Dante murmured, his thumb brushing her jaw, "then why did you try to run last night?"
"Because being his prisoner is one thing," she whispered, her breath hitching as his thumb moved to her bottom lip. "Being yours is different. You make me feel things I shouldn't. It's disgusting."
"Is it?" Dante's eyes dropped to her mouth. "Is it disgusting how your heart races when I touch you? Is it disgusting how you arched into me last night?"
"Stop it," she pleaded, but she didn't move away.
"You're mine now, Sienna," he growled, his possessiveness flaring like an open flame. "Not his. Not the Cavallo family's. Mine. If you try to leave, I'll hunt you down. If another man looks at you, I'll gouge his eyes out. You are the only thing that matters in this war now."
"You're insane," she whispered.
"I'm obsessed," he corrected. He leaned down, his lips ghosting over hers. "And the best part? You're starting to like it."
He didn't wait for her to answer. He crushed his lips against hers, a deep, possessive kiss that tasted like a vow. Sienna's hands, which had been pushed against his chest to keep him away, slowly slid up to his neck, her fingers tangling in his dark hair.
She hated him. She hated what he represented. But as he lifted her onto the counter, his hands roaming over her with a hunger that felt like worship, she realized she was no longer a prisoner of her father. She was becoming a slave to the man who was supposed to be her executioner.
"Say my name," Dante demanded, his voice strained with a dark lust as he pulled back to look at her.
"Dante," she breathed, her eyes hazy.
"Again. Tell me who you belong to."
"I belong to you," she whispered, the betrayal of her own heart complete.
Dante growled, a sound of pure, primal triumph. He didn't care about the war or the revenge for a fleeting second. All that mattered was the girl in his arms and the dark, twisted love blooming in the ruins of their lives.
"Good girl," he muttered, before pulling her back into the darkness.