The gates close behind us with a metallic finality.
The sound sinks into my chest.
The estate stretches endlessly ahead—stone, glass, shadows, men standing guard like they were carved into the night. The house at the center doesn't look like a home.
It looks like power.
Dante steps out of the car first. I hesitate, then follow. My legs feel weak, my body still buzzing from the ride, from his presence, from the knowledge that there is no turning back.
Inside, the air is cool and quiet.
Too quiet.
A woman approaches, nods once at Dante, then looks at me. "Your room is ready."
Dante stops walking.
"Wait."
The woman freezes instantly and steps back.
He turns to me then—fully, completely—like now that we're inside his territory, I finally has his attention.
"This is where we set boundaries," he says.
Not gently.
Not cruelly.
Final.
"You follow them, you're safe."
My throat tightens.
He gestures toward a long table laid out with food nearby. My stomach twists painfully at the sight. I hadn't realized how hungry I was until now.
"Sit," he says.
I move automatically.
He remains standing.
"These are the rules," Dante says. "You don't interrupt me."
I nod.
"Rule one. You do not leave this estate without me."
The words land heavy.
"Rule two. No phones. No internet. No contact with anyone from your old life."
My fingers curl in my lap, but I stay silent.
"Rule three. You stay where my people can see you. East wing only. If you get lost in this house, it won't end well."
A chill slides down my spine.
"Rule four." His voice lowers. "No one touches you."
I look up sharply.
"No one," he repeats. "Not my men. Not my guests."
A pause.
"Not even me—unless you give permission."
My heart stumbles.
"And the last rule," Dante says, eyes locking onto mine. "You don't test me."
Silence stretches.
"Do you understand?" he asks.
"Yes."
"Say it."
"I understand."
He studies my face like he's looking for cracks.
"Good."
He turns away from the table.
"Dinner is finished."
My breath catches. "I haven't eaten."
"You will," he says without turning back. "Tomorrow."
I stand abruptly. "You said I'd be safe if I followed the rules. I'm following them."
Dante stops.
Looks at me over his shoulder.
"This isn't punishment," he says calmly. "This is control."
He walks toward the stairs.
"You need to learn what it feels like to wait," he adds. "Hunger sharpens obedience."
The words hit harder than a slap.
A woman approaches silently and gestures for me to follow her. I glance once more at the untouched food before turning away.
As I'm led down the hall, my stomach aching, one terrifying realization settles in:
Dante Russo didn't give me rules to cage me.
He gave them to see how much of myself I was willing to lose to survive him.
And I have a feeling—he's already watching to see which one I'll break first.