20.
The estate was too quiet.
Isolde stared at her reflection in the gilded bathroom mirror.
The marble beneath her bare feet was cold, and the silk robe clinging to her skin felt more like a cage than comfort.
Dante hadn't spoken to her in two days. Not since the mirror room. Not since she condemned a man with her silence.
Not since his lips pressed to her forehead like a seal carved in ash.
He left her clothed, fed, and guarded.
No bruises. No new chains. But that silence was louder than any scream.
And silence, she'd learned, was how Dante sharpened his knives.
Elsewhere in the city-
Dante stood in the grand hall of one of his hidden clubhouses a reimagined cathedral now blackened with sin.
The stained-glass windows had been replaced with one-way reinforced panels.
Black marble floors reflected the glint of his polished shoes as he walked down the aisle toward the center of the room, flanked by three of his inner circle.
He was dressed in all black a silk button-down open at the throat, custom slacks fitted perfectly to his build, and a sleek coat that moved like liquid shadow when he walked.
His face was unreadable. But his eyes burned with war.
On the floor, kneeling with his hands zip-tied behind his back, was Corrado Velche, a smuggler who had worked under Dante's empire for five years.
Corrado was shaking.
"I didn't know she was yours," he said, voice trembling. "The girl-I didn't touch her, I swear. I just-looked. That's all-"
Dante didn't blink.
"I heard," he said slowly, "that you boasted in a club last week... that you could touch her. That if you wanted to, you could break into my estate and take her."
Corrado paled. "I was drunk-I didn't mean it-"
"You spoke it," Dante said coldly. "In my city. With my name in your mouth."
One of Dante's men handed him something wrapped in black velvet.
He unwrapped it without a word.
A scalpel. Surgical. Precise.
He crouched before Corrado, his powerful body moving with elegance that made the gesture even more terrifying.
"Do you know why I prefer knives to bullets?" Dante asked softly.
Corrado whimpered.
"Because a bullet is mercy. A blade," he said, running the scalpel gently along Corrado's cheek, "lets a man feel exactly what piece of him he's about to lose."
"Please..."
Dante smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.
"I'm not going to kill you today."
Corrado blinked in disbelief.
"You're going to live." Then Dante stood and nodded to his enforcer.
The two men yanked Corrado to his feet and dragged him toward a black table set with surgical restraints.
Dante spoke again.
"But you'll never speak again. Or walk properly. Or touch anything you don't own. You will become a message."
Corrado screamed. And the screams didn't stop for hours.
Back at the estate...
Isolde sat at the writing desk in her bedroom. Her hair was pinned up neatly.
Her hands shook slightly as she pulled a piece of stationery from the drawer.
There were no pens. Of course not.
She'd have to steal one from the library.
Everything in Dante's world was intentional. Controlled. Monitored.
But she was learning to move within his structure.
Learning to make her own plans beneath his.
She unfolded the small map of the estate she'd pieced together in her mind from the walks she was allowed.
Three hallways. One service tunnel near the back. The kitchen staff rotated shifts.
The guard near the south stairwell had a limp-he walked slower. She had memorized his pattern.
The storm forecast said heavy rain by Friday night.
That would drown out footsteps. She would run then.
She had to. Even if it meant breaking bones along the way.
Even if it meant dying free.
Meanwhile...
Dante washed the blood from his hands in a black marble sink, his sleeves rolled up, forearms wet, his veins prominent beneath his golden skin.
He didn't rush. He was never rushed.
The man who ruled cities didn't have to.
The door opened behind him.
Alex Moreau, his consigliere, entered quietly. "Corrado's punishment has been recorded. We'll send it to the Greek cartel as proof of enforcement."
Dante nodded.
Alex hesitated. "There's been movement on the girl's side."
Dante turned slowly. "What kind of movement?"
"She's been requesting cleaning staff to change her linens more often. Slight variation in her pathing to the kitchen. She's watching guard rotations."
Dante smiled faintly. She was plotting.
Good. He wanted her to.
Because what broke a person wasn't force. It was hope.
And when he took her again just before she crossed the finish line of escape it would be a ruin she never forgot.
"She tries Friday," Dante said.
"How do you know?"
"Because I'd try Friday." He turned and dried his hands with a monogrammed towel.
Then whispered "Let her taste the air. Let her hear the sound of freedom. And then, bring her back to me...Starving."
Back in her room, Isolde opened the wardrobe.
The red dress he'd demanded she wear at dinner that day was still hanging there.
She stared at it. She didn't cry. She didn't scream.
But she looked at her reflection and whispered:
"I will get out. Even if it kills me."
The mirror didn't respond.
But somewhere, in the halls beyond, the cameras blinked.
And Dante smiled.