Chapter 10
CHAPTER 10
Hannah
T he car's leather seat feels cool against my legs, exposed by the short dress Dante selected for this outing. It's the first time I've left the mansion since my arrival. How long ago? Two months? Three? Time has lost meaning, measured now only in Dante's visits, in the wounds that heal and the marks that don't. I press my fingertips against the tattoo on my ring finger, a habit I've developed when anxiety swells inside me. The black band has healed completely, the skin smooth beneath my touch. No raised scar, just flat, permanent ink declaring Dante's ownership to anyone who looks closely enough. Outside the tinted windows, the world continues as if nothing has changed, as if I haven't been erased from it. People walk down sidewalks, laughing, arguing, living lives untouched by the monster sitting beside me, his hand resting possessively on my thigh.
"You seem nervous," Dante observes, his fingers tracing small circles on my skin. "There's no need to be. Today is a reward for your recent compliance."
I keep my eyes fixed on the passing scenery, drinking in the sights of the outside world like a woman dying of thirst. Trees with autumn leaves, storefronts with bright displays, ordinary people living ordinary lives. All of it feels surreal, like a movie I'm watching rather than reality I'm part of.
"Where are we going?" I ask, careful to keep my tone neutral. Questions can be dangerous with Dante, interpreted as challenges to his authority or, worse, as signs I'm planning escape.
"Dinner," he replies, his hand sliding higher on my thigh. "At a private establishment. I think it's time to introduce you to a small part of my world."
My stomach twists at the thought of food, of sitting across from him at a table, pretending at normalcy. But I've learned that refusing to eat only results in forced feeding, in humiliations I'd rather avoid.
"Thank you," I say, the words hollow but necessary. Gratitude, whether genuine or not, pleases him.
The car turns onto a street lined with expensive shops and restaurants, finally pulling up to a nondescript door with no visible signage. A valet opens Dante's door, bowing slightly in recognition. Another man opens mine, offering a hand to help me out. I hesitate, unused to anyone's touch but Dante's after months of isolation.
"Take his hand, Hannah," Dante instructs, watching me from the sidewalk. "It's rude to keep people waiting."
I place my hand in the valet's, allowing him to assist me from the car. His touch is impersonal, professional, yet it feels strange after so long. As soon as I'm standing, Dante's arm snakes around my waist, pulling me against his side in a clear display of ownership.
"Thank you," he says to the valet, dismissing him with a nod.
The unmarked door opens as we approach, revealing an elegant interior. The restaurant—if that's what it is—seems more like a private club. The lighting is dim, the décor rich with dark woods and deep burgundy fabrics. A man in an immaculate suit greets Dante by name, his eyes flickering over me with carefully controlled curiosity.
"Mr. Severino, your usual table is ready."
"Thank you, James," Dante replies, his hand still firmly at my waist as we follow the man through the main dining area.
Eyes turn as we pass, subtle glances that quickly avert when Dante looks their way. These people know him, fear him, perhaps. I feel exposed under their gaze, a possession being displayed. The dress Dante chose—emerald green, tight, shorter than anything I'd have worn in my previous life—suddenly feels even more revealing.
Our table is in a secluded corner, partially screened from the rest of the room by an ornate wooden partition. A single candle flickers at the center, casting shadows that dance across the white tablecloth. Dante pulls out my chair, a gesture of politeness that feels grotesque given our reality.
"Sit," he says, not unkindly but with the expectation of immediate obedience.
I sit, arranging the short dress as best I can to cover my thighs. Dante takes the seat opposite, his eyes never leaving me. A waiter appears instantly, pouring water, presenting menus, reciting specials that wash over me in a blur of unfamiliar terms .
"We'll have the chef's selection," Dante decides, not bothering to consult me. "And bring a bottle of the Bordeaux. You know the one I prefer."
The waiter nods, collecting the unopened menus, disappearing as silently as he arrived.
"You look beautiful tonight," Dante says, reaching across the table to take my hand, his thumb brushing over the tattooed ring. "The dress suits you."
"Thank you," I respond automatically, my eyes darting around the room, taking in details that might be useful, though for what purpose, I'm not sure. The exits are likely guarded. Even if I could somehow escape, where would I go? Who would help me against someone like Dante?
"Your mind is wandering," he observes, his grip tightening slightly on my hand. "Stay present, Hannah. This evening is important."
"Important how?" I ask before I can stop myself.
A slight smile touches his lips. "You're becoming more comfortable asking questions. That's good. I want you curious about my world." He leans forward, lowering his voice. "Tonight is the first time I'm presenting you publicly as mine. As my wife."
The word still sends a chill through me, despite the wedding ceremony he forced, despite the tattoo that brands me as his. "These people know who I am? What you did?"
His expression hardens slightly. "What I did was claim what belongs to me. And yes, certain people in my circle are aware of our arrangement. They understand the importance of discretion."
Our arrangement. As if I had any choice, any say in the matter. Before I can respond, the waiter returns with wine, pouring a small amount for Dante to taste. The ritual of it—so normal, so civilized—creates a jarring contrast with the reality of my situation.
Dante sips, nods approval, and the waiter fills both our glasses. I don't touch mine. Alcohol means vulnerability, dulled senses. I need to stay alert, even if escape is impossible.
The first course arrives. It’s something delicate involving seafood that I barely taste. I eat mechanically, knowing Dante watches me, noting each bite, each movement. Conversation flows, one-sided. He speaks of business matters, vague references to deals and territories that mean nothing to me but paint a picture of his world—a world of power, money, and implicit violence.
It's during the second course that it happens. A man at a nearby table looks our way, his gaze lingering on me a beat too long. He's younger than Dante, expensively dressed, handsome in a conventional way. Our eyes meet briefly before I quickly look down at my plate, heart racing at even this small interaction with someone outside Dante's control.
Too late, I realize Dante has noticed. His hand, reaching for his wine glass, freezes mid-air. His entire body goes still, like a predator spotting prey.
"Dante?" I say quietly, hoping to distract him, to defuse whatever is building.
He doesn't respond, doesn't even seem to hear me. His eyes remain fixed on the man, who is now engaged in conversation with his dining companion, unaware of the danger.
"Excuse me for a moment," Dante says finally, his voice eerily calm as he places his napkin beside his plate and stands. "Stay here."
Terror washes through me. "Please," I whisper, reaching for his hand. "Don't?—"
"Stay. Here." Each word is clipped, precise, brooking no argument.
I watch, frozen, as Dante approaches the other table. His posture is relaxed, his movements fluid, but I've learned to recognize the danger signs—the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his hands hang too still at his sides. He speaks to the man, words I can't hear but can imagine. The man looks confused, then concerned, then afraid. He stands, nodding repeatedly, following as Dante gestures toward a door at the back of the restaurant.
No one in the restaurant seems to notice, or if they do, they deliberately look away. The staff continues serving, guests continue dining, as if nothing unusual is happening. But I know—I know in my bones—that something terrible is about to occur.
I should do something. Say something. Scream, perhaps, alert someone to the danger that man is in. But my body refuses to move, paralyzed by fear and the certainty that any intervention would only make things worse—for him, for me, for anyone who tried to help.
Minutes pass, stretching like hours. I push food around my plate, unable to swallow past the knot in my throat. The door at the back of the restaurant remains closed. No sounds emerge, no signs of what's happening behind it.
When Dante finally returns, he looks exactly the same—suit unwrinkled, expression composed, not a hair out of place. But there's something different in his eyes, a satisfied darkness that makes my blood run cold. He sits, picks up his napkin, and continues eating as if nothing happened .
"Where..." My voice fails me. I swallow hard and try again. "Where is he?"
Dante looks up, his expression mildly curious, as if I've asked about the weather. "Who?"
"The man. The one you took through that door."
"Ah." He takes a sip of wine, unhurried. "He won't be bothering us again."
The implication hangs in the air between us, heavy and horrifying. I set down my fork, unable to pretend at normalcy any longer. "What did you do to him?"
"I explained the rules," Dante says simply. "Sometimes explanations require…practical demonstrations."
My stomach lurches, bile rising in my throat. "Did you kill him?" The question comes out barely above a whisper.
Dante reaches across the table, taking my trembling hand in his. His skin is warm, dry, showing no evidence of violence. "Does it matter? He looked at what belongs to me. He needed to learn that has consequences."
"He just looked at me," I say, unable to keep the horror from my voice. "It was just a glance."
"It was disrespect," Dante corrects, his grip tightening painfully on my hand. "And in my world, Hannah, disrespect is punished swiftly and permanently. Everyone here knows that. Now you do too."
I stare at him, truly seeing the monster beneath the polished exterior. This man—this creature who holds my life in his hands—has likely just murdered someone for looking at me. The casual nature of the violence, the utter lack of remorse or concern, makes it all the more terrifying.
"You're pale," he observes, releasing my hand to stroke my cheek. "Perhaps this outing was premature. You're still adjusting to your new reality."
New reality. As if my captivity, his ownership, his violence, are simply facts to be accepted, like gravity or the changing of seasons.
"I'd like to go back," I say, fighting to keep my voice steady. "Please."
Something like disappointment flickers across his face. "We haven't finished dinner."
"I'm not feeling well." It's not a lie. My stomach churns with nausea, my head spins with the horror of what's happened.
Dante studies me for a long moment, then nods. "Very well."
He signals for the bill, which appears instantly. No one asks about the unfinished meal, about the man who disappeared. There are no questions, no concerns. Just silent, efficient service that speaks of long practice in not seeing, not knowing.
Outside, the car is waiting, as if it never left. The same valet opens my door, his eyes carefully downcast, avoiding even accidental eye contact. Did he know what would happen to the other man? Is this a familiar enough occurrence that the staff have protocols for it?
The return journey passes in silence. I press myself against the door, putting as much distance as possible between myself and the monster beside me. Dante allows this small retreat, watching me with a mixture of amusement and calculation.
"You're afraid of me now," he finally says as the mansion comes into view. "More than before."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "Yes."
“At least fear is honest,” he says simply, though his eyes hold an emotion I can’t quite name. Sadness? Disappointment?
The car stops at the mansion's entrance. Before the driver can open our doors, Dante reaches across the space between us, taking my chin in his hand, forcing me to look at him.
"What you saw tonight—what you think you understand—is only the surface," he says, his voice low and intense. "I protect what's mine, Hannah. With whatever means necessary. That man's fate was sealed the moment he looked at you with desire. Remember that."
Then we're walking into the mansion, his hand at the small of my back, guiding me through halls that once seemed merely my prison but now feel almost like sanctuary. Better the familiar cage than the outside world where people die for a glance.
Back in my suite, Dante dismisses the guards, closing the door behind him. We're alone, and despite everything, despite the horror of the evening, my body responds to his proximity with learned fear, with the anticipation of whatever he might demand.
"You should rest," he says, surprising me.
As he turns to leave, a question escapes me before I can stop it. "How many?"
He pauses, hand on the doorknob. "How many what?"
"How many people have you killed because of me? Because they looked at me, or spoke to me, or?—"
"Enough," he interrupts, turning back to face me. "Enough to ensure that those who remain understand. Enough to keep you safe, to keep you mine." He steps closer, his hand coming up to cup my cheek. "Does it bother you? The blood on my hands? "
I should lie. Should pretend indifference, or even approval. But the truth spills out, unstoppable. "Yes. It terrifies me."
Instead of anger, his face shows nothing. "Then you're beginning to understand the depth of my commitment to you. What I feel for you isn't simple possession, Hannah. It's devotion of the most absolute kind. I would burn the world to ash to keep you."
The declaration, spoken so calmly, so matter-of-factly, sends ice through my veins. This isn't love. This isn't even obsession. This is something darker, more primal, more dangerous than I have words to describe.
"Get some sleep," he says, brushing his lips against my forehead in a parody of tenderness.
After he leaves, I sink to the floor, my legs unable to support me any longer. The dress—the beautiful green dress—suddenly feels contaminated, a shroud rather than a garment. I tear it off, stumbling to the shower, turning the water as hot as I can bear. But no amount of scrubbing can wash away the knowledge that a man died tonight because he looked at me.
As the water beats down on my skin, I finally allow myself to cry—not for me, not this time, but for the nameless man who didn't know the rules of Dante's world, who couldn't have known that a glance would be his death sentence.
And beneath the grief, the shock, the horror, a terrible realization takes root: I will never escape. Not because of locked doors or guards or the tattoos marking me as Dante's property, but because the entire world has become unsafe. Because Dante's reach, his willingness to destroy anyone who might help me, makes freedom not just unlikely but potentially deadly—not just for me, but for anyone unfortunate enough to cross my path.
I am truly trapped now, caged not just by walls but by the growing body count Dante seems willing to accumulate to keep me. And the most terrifying part is that some twisted corner of my mind whispers that perhaps it's better this way, better to remain in my golden cage than to risk more innocent lives in a futile bid for freedom.
That thought, that surrender, frightens me more than anything Dante has done thus far.