Elena's Point of View
The red dress clung to me like a burn. Too bright, too conspicuous, it wasn't my choice but Dante's. Every fold had been adjusted by his hands, every detail designed to turn me into a spectacle. I felt exposed, branded, trapped in a role imposed on me.
The black Bugatti waited at the entrance, gleaming like a weapon ready to strike. Dante escorted me to the door, his gesture theatrical, almost ceremonial, forcing me inside.
At the wheel, Ninho, his trusted man, lifted his eyes toward me. His insolent smile stretched, and his voice cracked like a jab disguised as flattery: — With that dress, madam, even the devil would turn his head.
A tense silence settled. Dante turned slightly, his gaze sharp. — Ninho… don't push it too far.
The driver immediately lowered his eyes, contrite. — Sorry, boss.
I rolled my eyes, unable to hold back the gesture. The scene was almost grotesque: a clumsy compliment, a harsh reprimand, a rushed apology. And me, stuck between them, prisoner in this theater where every word weighed heavier than a gesture.
The car sped into the night. The city lights flashed past like shards of glass. The blazing red on my skin weighed on me like a mark of possession. And in the tense silence of the cabin, I knew the real performance was only beginning.
After half an hour on the road, the car stopped in front of the illuminated villa. White columns rose like sentinels, and the chandeliers behind the windows cast golden sparks into the night. My heart raced too fast. The red dress blazed on my skin like a brand of possession.
Dante leaned toward me before I stepped out. His voice was low, cutting: — Tonight, Elena, you are not a captive. You are my emblem. Every gaze will fall on you, and through you, on me. Never forget you are my reflection.
His words burned me more than the dress itself. I took his hand, compelled, and he helped me out.
Inside, the grand salon opened in a breath of crystal and murmurs. Conversations broke off, heads turned. Eyes clung to us, heavy, greedy.
— Who is this woman? — Dante, you surprise us… — A companion? A queen?
The questions flew, half‑curious, half‑suspicious. Dante didn't let doubt linger. His hand pressed against the small of my back, his tone firm, assured: — This is Elena. My companion.
The word cracked like a declaration, a possession. The murmurs died, replaced by a heavy silence.
That's when I saw him. The man from the photo, Cassian Riva, seated with two others, rose slowly. Elegant, confident, his dark gaze locked onto mine. He didn't look away. On the contrary, he planted his eyes in mine, and a vicious smile spread across his lips.
A shiver ran through me. That smile wasn't politeness: it was a promise, a threat, a dangerous curiosity.
He stood, elegant, sure of himself. His gaze caught mine and refused to let go. A vicious smile stretched across his lips. — Dante… always faithful to your style. But this time, you surprise us.
His eyes slid toward me, lingering with unhealthy curiosity. — Such a dazzling companion… but is she a trophy, or a weakness?
Dante's hand gripped my hip, firm, possessive. His gesture spoke louder than his words. — She is here because I want her. And because she wants it.
Their gazes clashed, heavy with contained hatred. Each saw the other as his sworn enemy, but their words remained masked in elegance.
Cassian chuckled, his tone honeyed but sharp. — Trophies break, Dante. And sometimes, they turn against the one who brandishes them.
Dante's smile was cold. — Some trophies become weapons. And I know exactly how to wield mine.
A heavy silence fell. Cassian sat back slowly, his men behind him, convinced they had glimpsed a crack.
Dante placed me at his right, his gesture theatrical, calculated, as if to seal before all that I was his companion. His deep voice rang above the glasses and murmurs: — Sit down. Dinner begins.
The dishes were served, but no one touched their plate. Eyes remained suspended, fixed on us. Dinner wasn't a meal: it was a chess game.
The dinner had barely begun when Dante's phone vibrated. He glanced quickly at the screen, then rose with deliberate slowness. His hand slid across my hip, a firm pressure, before he bent toward me. — I'll be back in a moment.
His voice was neutral, but I understood. The mission had begun.
He left the room, behind him a tense silence. Cassian leaned back in his chair, his carnivorous smile widening. He already believed Dante had handed him a weakness.
I felt the discreet earpiece against my ear. Dante was listening. Every word, every breath, every trap.
Cassian leaned closer, his glass clinking against mine as if to celebrate Dante's departure. — So, Elena… without Dante, you can finally breathe. Tell me… what does a man like him give you that you couldn't find elsewhere?
The earpiece vibrated softly. Dante's deep voice slid into my ear, invisible to all. — Tell him he gives you migraines… but that you love them.
I almost smiled. I turned my glass between my fingers. — He gives me migraines, sometimes. But… they're the ones I choose.
Cassian burst into brief laughter, amused.
Dante's voice returned, lower, tinged with dry humor: — Good. Now make him believe he's losing… without realizing it.
Cassian leaned in, his eyes locked on mine. — So you are his prisoner… or his weapon.
I held his gaze, my lips curling into a calculated smile. — A weapon, perhaps. But a weapon always chooses who it strikes.
Silence fell. Cassian already savored, convinced he was digging Dante's grave. But I knew: every word I spoke, Dante heard. And he guided my game, sometimes with a touch of humor, as if to remind me that even in this dangerous theater… we were two.
— Elena… he said, tilting his glass toward me, you deserve better than a place in the shadows. I could offer you… a freedom Dante will never give you. Dinner, tomorrow night. Just you and me.
His words were an invitation, but also a provocation. He already believed he had seduced me, believed I was the crack.
In my ear, Dante's voice exploded, low, biting: — I'm going to kill this guy. But for now… accept. Let him think he's winning.
I turned my glass between my fingers, then lifted my eyes to Cassian. — Freedom… is a beautiful promise. But it only has value if it isn't an illusion.
Cassian chuckled, convinced I had opened a door. — Then let me show you it can be real. Tomorrow night.
Dante's voice returned, harsher, tinged with dark humor: — Tell him you'll come… but that he'll have to earn every second. I want to see him crawl.
I let a smile brush my lips, cold, calculated. — Tomorrow night, perhaps. But know this, Cassian… I give nothing. I let men take… and sometimes, I take back.
Silence fell. Cassian already savored, convinced he was digging Dante's grave. But I knew: every word I spoke, Dante heard. And he waited for me to play it to the end.
Dante returned, his sovereign presence erasing his absence as if it had never existed. He exchanged a few quick words with a partner, a veiled promise of a future meeting, then turned to me. His hand closed around my arm, firm, possessive. — We're leaving.
He pulled me out of the room, his theatrical gesture reminding everyone I was his. The others, absorbed in their dominoes and chess, didn't even look up.
Outside, the cold air struck me. I stopped abruptly, tearing my arm from his grip. My heart pounded too hard, my lips trembled with anger. — Are you satisfied? I spat, my voice broken but sharp. I was your puppet, ready to give myself to that man just to please you.
The silence between us was heavier than inside. Dante stared at me, his eyes icy, but behind the hardness I thought I saw a crack.
He turned toward me, his gaze frozen, impenetrable. — You weren't a puppet. You were a weapon. And tonight, you hit your target.
His words fell like a sentence. No tenderness, no justification. Just the cold logic of a man who saw me only as a tool of war.
My throat tightened. — A weapon… but weapons break, Dante.
He gave a dry smile, almost cruel
— Then don't break. Not until Cassian is on the ground.
His hand closed around my arm again, this time without softness, a grip that reminded me of chains more than possession. He pulled me forward, his stride steady, already calculating the next move, already thinking of Cassian's downfall.