The knock isn't a knock at all. It's a single, sharp rap against my bedroom door — more like a warning. Before I can even answer, the door swings open and Dante Vitale fills the frame. Black suit. White shirt. No tie. The top button undone like even fabric knows better than to restrict him.
"Get dressed," he says. Not a greeting, not a question. His storm-grey eyes sweep over me, slow enough to feel indecent. "You're having breakfast with my family."
I'm still in one of his shirts, the one I fell asleep in because I refused to wear the silk nightgowns he left out. My pulse stutters.
"I'm not hungry," I say.
He doesn't even blink. "I wasn't asking if you were."
The air between us is already tight, but when I don't move, he takes a single step inside. The room feels smaller. "Don't make me repeat myself, Liana."
It's not worth the fight. Not now. I pull on a soft cream sweater and black trousers, ignoring the heat crawling up my neck as his gaze lingers on the sliver of skin where the sweater rides up. Downstairs, the dining room is a cathedral of polished wood and cold morning light. A long mahogany table runs the length of the space, set with porcelain cups, silver cutlery, and a spread fit for a royal court.
Two people are already seated. The man at the far end is all sharp edges and quiet menace — younger than Dante but with the same eyes. Marco Vitale. His gaze pins me in place, studying me like I'm an equation he's already halfway solved. Beside him lounges a woman with glossy black hair and a mouth tilted in a perpetual smirk. Lucia. She lifts her cup in a mock toast when I meet her eyes.
"Sit," Dante says, guiding me toward the chair at his right. His hand rests briefly on the back of my neck — light enough not to hurt, firm enough that I know it's not optional.
I try not to look at him as we eat, but it's impossible to ignore the weight of his presence. The quiet clink of cutlery, the low murmur of Marco asking about a shipment, the delicate laugh from Lucia — it's all background to the tension thrumming under my skin.
Then, without warning, Dante sets down his fork and looks straight at Marco.
"We'll be holding the wedding within the month."
The words hit harder than a slap. I choke on my coffee, eyes snapping to him. "What?"
His expression doesn't change. "You heard me."
"Absolutely not—"
"Liana," he says softly, so softly it's more dangerous than a shout. "You're my future wife. That's not up for discussion."
Lucia's smirk widens, but Marco's gaze sharpens, like he's cataloging every flicker of my reaction.
Dante continues, calm as ever. "Invitations will be sent to the Moretti family today."
My heart lurches. My family. They'll know where I am. They'll know I'm alive. The rest of the breakfast blurs. I barely taste the food. All I can think about is what this means — the possibility of rescue, the risk it carries.
Later, in my room, I pace the length of the window. I can't stop replaying the scene. Not just the humiliation of being claimed in front of strangers, but the treacherous, shameful part of me that keeps remembering the way his voice wrapped around the word wife.
Got it — we'll reframe it so the switch in Chapter 8 feels cinematic: we'll move from Dante's world to Florence, set the mood, then drop into Liana's mother's POV and finish with that secret message reveal.
Florence, Italy
The rain falls in a slow, steady drizzle over the terracotta rooftops, softening the glow of the streetlamps. The Arno snakes through the city like a dark ribbon, reflecting the faint gold of the bridges. Florence is quiet at this hour — too quiet for the Moretti estate.
Inside, the shutters are drawn tight. The heavy velvet curtains trap the heat from the roaring fireplace, but the air still feels cold.
Liana's mother sits in the center of the study, her silhouette carved out by firelight. Her fingers cradle a crystal glass of red wine, but she hasn't taken a sip in hours. The drink is for show; her mind is somewhere far away — in a city she doesn't want to picture, with a man she swore her daughter would never know.
"We get her out," she says finally, her voice brittle, the words falling like a verdict.
Matteo, seated opposite her, doesn't blink. "I'll make the arrangements."
She leans back, exhaling through her nose like a woman who can't afford the weakness of hope. "Do it quietly. No mistakes."
He nods once. When she leaves the room, the door clicking softly shut behind her, Matteo stays where he is, the firelight catching in his dark eyes. Slowly, he pulls out his phone. His thumbs move quickly. No names, no signatures — just a few words.
The wedding is set.
The screen goes dark, and with it, the last fragile illusion that everyone in this house is working toward the same goal.
Isabella morretti pov
I don't go back to my bedroom.
Instead, I walk to the smaller salon at the end of the hall — a room no one bothers with anymore. The walls are lined with shelves collecting dust, and the air smells faintly of old paper. In the corner sits a desk, and in its top drawer lies a black leather-bound address book.
My fingers pause on the cover. It's been over a decade since I last opened it — since I swore I'd never touch the darker side of our family's connections again, but tonight, I flip it open without hesitation.
There it is. The name I never thought I'd need again.
I pick up the phone, my voice sharp and deliberate.
"It's me. We have a situation."
Silence for a beat, then the faint crackle of static.
"I don't care what it costs," I say. "I want my daughter back before he ruins her."
The call ends, but my pulse is still hammering. I move to the window and part the curtains just enough to see the wet Florence night. My reflection stares back at me — elegant, composed — but I feel the churn of something ugly beneath my ribs. This isn't just about bringing Liana home. This is about striking first.
The Morettis are proud, brutal men. If Dante thinks he can take a Romano daughter and parade her as his bride, he's mistaken. This will not be a rescue. This will be a warning.
Somewhere in the house, footsteps retreat down the marble hall. Matteo, perhaps. Or someone who shouldn't be here at all.
My jaw tightens. In our world, even family can be a liability. And the more I think about it, the more certain I become — someone is already feeding Dante the very information I need to protect. I let the curtain fall shut.
The war for my daughter has already begun.
Florence smells of wet stone tonight, rain-slick streets catching the reflection of gold lamplight. From my study window, the Duomo looms against the dark sky, its great dome half-lit, as if watching me. Matteo stands at the far side of the room, speaking in that steady, low voice he uses when he wants me calm.
"We'll get her back," he says, swirling the brandy in his glass without drinking. "Dante won't get away with this."
I nod, but my chest is a knot.
"She's… she's all I have left," I whisper.
Matteo steps closer, a hand on my shoulder, firm and warm. Too firm.
"You'll have her back mum.. And when you do—when she takes her rightful place—no one will ever threaten the Morretti name again."
His eyes linger on mine for a second too long. There's something in them—admiration, perhaps. Or ambition. I can't tell.
"Have you spoken to our men in Milan?" I ask.
"Yes," he says without missing a beat. "They're ready. I'll coordinate the approach personally."
It's the *personally* that makes my stomach twist. I can't say why.
He sets his glass down and pulls his phone from his jacket. His thumbs move quickly, the glow of the screen lighting the edges of his face. A moment later, the faint buzz of a sent message hums in the quiet room.
No name at the top. Just a number. He has announced the wedding.
He slips the phone back into his pocket and looks at me with that same, reassuring smile he's worn since the day my husband died. Only… now that I think about it, I can't recall seeing him cry that day.
Florence always felt too big when Liana wasn't in it. The villa's marble halls echoed more sharply, the gold-framed portraits seemed to watch me, and the staff's steps in the distance sounded like accusations. I poured myself another drink. It burned less this time.
Matteo leaned against the doorway like he owned the place. My son—tall, handsome, with that easy Moretti smile—looked every bit the heir Liana was meant to be. Except… she was supposed to lead. She had the mind for it. The restraint. The cold patience her father always said made a ruler.
"You're drinking early," Matteo said, strolling in. He picked up my glass without asking, sipping like it was his right.
"I've had worse mornings." I stared at him. "You heard the news?"
"That Dante Vitale marrying Liana? " He set the glass down. "It's a power play, Mother. Nothing more."
"That man is not taking her. Not after—" I stopped myself. The walls had ears, even here. "We're getting her out."
Matteo's eyes softened, but there was something… flickering behind them. "And you think he'll let her go?"
"I don't care what he'll 'let.' She's mine. She belongs here, with her blood." I leaned closer. "Your father died protecting this family. I won't lose her too."
Matteo tilted his head, like he was measuring the weight of my words. Then, with that charming smirk that made people underestimate him, he said, "Leave it to me."
I wanted to believe him, but as he stepped out into the corridor, I caught a flash of something—his hand slipping into his pocket, his thumb tapping a phone screen.
By the time I followed, he was gone.