Dante's POV:
Dante awoke to the low hum of his penthouse, the first light of dawn barely cutting through the blackout glass. Silence wrapped around him like a second skin. His body, sculpted by discipline and honed by power, felt rested — ready. He rose, the plush carpet soft beneath his bare feet, and moved toward the onyx-tiled bathroom. The shower scalded, invigorating him as the last tendrils of sleep slipped away.
He thought of her. Valentina. The fire in her eyes. The stubborn tilt of her chin. The way she thrashed in his arms when he carried her out. Mine, he thought, the word a deep, possessive drumbeat in his chest.
Wrapped in a towel, steam curling around his frame, he studied his reflection. Cold, calculating eyes. A jaw shaped by command. A body built to protect — to dominate. Every inch of him tailored to maintain the empire he'd built. And soon, she would belong to it. To him.
Dressed in a charcoal suit — crisp, custom, perfect — Dante descended to the dining room, expecting silence, coffee, and solitude. Instead, voices. His eyes narrowed.
Seated at the long table were his maternal uncle Vincenzo, Fabrizio and Sophia Rossi — old family allies — and their daughter Sofia, poised like a carefully arranged doll. Her eyes flickered toward him, nervous and expectant. Dante's irritation flared instantly.
An arranged marriage. Of course. Vincenzo's latest attempt at "solidifying alliances." A tired, infuriating dance Dante no longer had the patience for. Especially not this morning — not when he had security teams to brief and updates to review regarding Valentina's apartment.
"Dante, my boy!" Vincenzo boomed, his grin all oily charm. "Look who's here! A delightful surprise!"
Dante's smile was thin. Controlled. He gave a curt nod to the Rossis and took his place at the head of the table. His presence alone stifled the forced cheer hanging in the air.
"Good morning," he said, voice cool, sharp as a blade. "To what do I owe this... unexpected pleasure?"
"Sofia has just returned from her studies abroad," Vincenzo pressed, ignoring the steel in Dante's tone. "Charming, intelligent. We thought it time to discuss your future. A strong union. A beautiful family—"
He raised a hand. Just once. And the room fell silent.
"I already have someone in mind," he said flatly, eyes resting briefly on Sofia before moving past her. "I will be marrying soon."
Shock flickered on Sofia's face. Vincenzo stiffened.
"No need for further discussion," Dante concluded, picking up his espresso, sipping slowly.
The silence that followed was exquisite.
She was his. Valentina. Whether she understood it yet or not. Whether anyone else approved or not. The matter was settled. His uncle would adapt — as he always did. Dante didn't answer to anyone. Especially not when it came to her.
A smile ghosted over his lips, dark and triumphant. She had no idea how irrevocably her life had changed.
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Later that morning, Dante settled into the high-backed leather chair at the head of the polished conference table. The room was sharp and efficient, designed to reflect the serious business at hand. The heavy, soundproofed doors opened, and Rafael Castillo stepped in — a man Dante trusted like a brother despite the miles and the flags that divided their empires.
"Dante, hermano," Rafael greeted with a wide grin, pulling Dante into a solid, back-slapping embrace. "It's always good to see you."
Dante smiled genuinely, the rare warmth in his voice breaking through his usual stoic exterior. "Rafael. Good to have you here. Coffee? Or something stronger to start the day right?"
They both laughed lightly and settled into their seats. As the conversation shifted into business, their minds synced effortlessly. They ran through the details of an upcoming shipment, planned a move into South America, and discussed market shifts with practiced precision. There was no pretense between them — just respect forged in battles of power and loyalty.
After the last documents were signed and pushed across the table, Rafael leaned back, a relaxed smile softening his face. "You never lose that edge, Dante. Efficient as always."
He added, with a teasing glint, "But tell me, what about Vincenzo's little matchmaking attempts? Is it true you finally shut that down? Found your own queen?"
Dante chuckled, leaning back with satisfaction. "Yeah. My future's set. I'm taking a wife — someone I chose, not some old family deal."
"Good for you, hermano," Rafael said sincerely. "May she bring you the peace and strength my Ana brings me." He paused, studying Dante with brotherly curiosity. "We have to celebrate this properly."
Dante nodded, feeling an unexpected flicker of excitement. "Dinner at my place tonight. And I'll tell you everything about the woman who finally captured the great Dante Moretti." His thoughts drifted, as always, to Valentina. It was only a matter of time now.
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Valentina's POV:
Morning light filtered through the curtains, gentle and golden — but it felt like an insult. Each ray slashed at her nerves, a cruel contrast to the storm inside her. Her head throbbed from the aftereffects of alcohol, but the real ache came from somewhere deeper — from a dull haze clouding her mind. She lay still, eyes closed, letting the fog of sleep slowly lift. And then—like a whip across her memory—everything returned. The club. The stranger's hand on her waist. Dante's voice, rough with fury. His grip, bruising. The way he dragged her out like she was something he owned. The slap. The heat of his body, his possessive touch. The cold threat in his eyes.
Now fully awake, fury ignited in her veins. Valentina's eyes snapped open, narrowing fiercely. "Who the hell does he think he is?" She was no one's possession. No man would make her bow.
Turning slowly onto her other side, she spotted a small note resting on the bedside table. Lemon juice for hangover. You'll thank me later. Her jaw clenched. Without hesitation, she crumpled the note into a tight ball and tossed it aside.
At that moment, her phone buzzed with a message. She grabbed it and unlocked the screen. A video. She tapped the video and pressed play.
The screen showed Marco — tied to a chair, bruised, barely conscious. Her blood ran cold.
Then — Dante appeared in the frame. Calm. Immaculate. Smiling with cold satisfaction. "You thought you could touch what's mine with those hands?" His voice was calm, casual — terrifyingly so.
Marco's voice was hoarse but defiant. "She's never yours! Never!"
Dante crouched beside him, locking eyes with Marco. "Foolish boy. She already is. You just failed to accept it."
A flash of metal. Marco's scream echoed from the phone's speaker. Blood sprayed. The video ended abruptly.
Valentina stared at the dark screen, her chest tightening, but no tears came. She was furious — but she was far from broken. Her fingers tapped the screen with deliberate calm as she dialed the one person she trusted most.
The phone rang twice before Isabella's anxious voice answered, "Val?! Where the hell were you? I've been calling nonstop! Marco's gone — no one's answering anywhere—"
Valentina closed her eyes briefly, gathering herself. I have to do something. If I don't act fast, this man will destroy everything—my life, Marco's, everything I hold dear. Then, her voice was steady, controlled, and firm.
"I can't explain over the phone. Meet me after my last lecture today. Please, Isa. And don't tell anyone. Not yet."
A pause, thick with unsaid things, then Isabella's quiet, loyal promise: "I'll be there."
Valentina ended the call, the screen going dark in her hand. She sat back, upright and resolute — fire burning deep inside. Not broken. Not defeated. The war had only just begun.