The car didn't stop at a penthouse in Manhattan. It crossed a bridge, leaving the glittering skyline behind, and wound its way up into the hushed, wealthy enclaves of Westchester. They passed through imposing, wrought-iron gates that swung open silently, following a long, tree-lined driveway.
The house that loomed into view wasn't a house. It was a modern fortress of glass, steel, and dark stone, cantilevered over a cliffside with a breathtaking, terrifying view of the Hudson River below. It was stark, beautiful, and utterly cold.
No staff greeted them. Only the silent, tree-trunk-necked man from the car, who Dante called Leo, followed them inside. The interior was a study in monochrome luxury—polished concrete floors, expansive windows, minimalist furniture that looked both artful and uncomfortable. It felt like a museum, or a very elegant prison.
"This is my home," Dante said, his voice echoing in the vast living space. "You will stay here. The west wing is yours. You may go anywhere within the house. The grounds are monitored. Do not attempt to leave them."
"Am I a guest or a prisoner?" Valentina asked, her voice surprisingly steady.
"You are an asset," he corrected, turning those merciless silver eyes on her. "One I have just acquired at significant cost. Assets are secured. Leo will show you to your rooms."
Her "rooms" were a suite of stunning, impersonal luxury. A bedroom with a bed large enough for five, a marble bathroom with a shower that resembled a rainforest, a sitting room with empty bookshelves. Her few hastily packed belongings, retrieved by unseen hands, were already hanging in the vast closet, looking pitiful and small.
The first few days were a study in silent isolation. She saw Dante only at dinner, which was a torturous, formal affair served by a severe older woman named Silvia. He would ask her polite, empty questions about her art history degree, her preferences in music, as if they were at a business lunch. She would answer in monosyllables, her anger and fear a hard knot in her stomach. He would watch her, his gaze analytical, missing nothing.
Her defiance started small. She requested specific books—obscure art theory texts. To her shock, they appeared the next day. She asked for oils and canvases. An easel and a set of expensive paints were set up by the window in her sitting room. It was a gilded cage, but he was, so far, granting her small freedoms.
The first crack in his icy control came on the fourth night. A violent summer storm lashed the house. The power flickered and died, plunging the glass-walled structure into near darkness, save for the frantic strobe of lightning. Valentina, who had always hated storms, jumped as a particularly close crack of thunder shook the windows.
She crept out of her room, seeking a glass of water, or just a sign of another human. She found Dante in his study, a cavernous room lined with real books. He stood by the window, a glass of amber liquid in his hand, illuminated only by the storm. He wasn't the controlled, impeccable don. His shirt was untucked, sleeves rolled up, revealing the dark ink of tattoos that swirled over his forearms. His hair was disheveled. And the look on his face, glimpsed in a flash of lightning, was one of such profound, unguarded agony that it stole her breath.
He saw her then. The mask slammed back into place so fast she wondered if she'd imagined it. But his voice was rough, stripped of its usual polish. "What are you doing out of your room?"
"The storm," she said simply.
He stared at her for a long moment. "You're afraid of thunder."
It wasn't a question. She lifted her chin. "I'm not afraid of anything."
Another flash of lightning. His lips quirked, the barest hint of a real smile. It transformed him, making him devastatingly handsome and infinitely more dangerous. "Liar," he said softly. He poured another finger of whiskey into his glass. "Go back to bed, Valentina. The wolves only come out in the dark."
She retreated, but the image of his tormented face was burned into her mind. The Wolf had a wound. And for the first time, she wasn't just afraid of him. She was dangerously, foolishly curious.