Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
Dante
T he boardroom feels oppressive today, the air too thick, the lights too bright. I've been away from Hannah for six hours and seventeen minutes, and the separation gnaws at me, a physical discomfort that grows with each passing moment. These meetings—once the lifeblood of my empire, now tedious interruptions to my true purpose—drag on endlessly. Vincent delivers the quarterly reports, numbers and projections that once would have commanded my full attention. Now they wash over me like white noise while my mind remains in the east wing of the mansion, with Hannah. Is she reading the book I selected? Is she wearing the blue dress I laid out? Is she thinking of me, missing me, counting the minutes until my return as I count the minutes away from her?
"...which brings us to the Milano situation," Vincent says, his voice penetrating my thoughts. "As you know, we lost that contract after the third rescheduled meeting. They've taken their business to the Costello family."
Around the table, my executives shift uncomfortably. The Costello family—our primary competitors, less powerful but growing stronger with each opportunity we miss. My distraction is costing us, but I find it difficult to care. Money, power, territory—these were once my obsessions. Now they pale in comparison to the possession of one girl with haunted hazel eyes and skin that bruises like a peach.
"The board is concerned," Vincent continues, choosing his words carefully, aware of the dangerous ground he treads. "Our market position has slipped seven percent in the last quarter alone. Clients are beginning to question our reliability, our focus."
"The board serves at my pleasure," I remind him, an edge entering my voice. "Their concerns are noted. Move on."
Vincent exchanges glances with Marco, seated to his right. Some unspoken communication passes between them, a shared concern they think I don't notice. I notice everything. My heightened awareness—a survival skill honed over decades in this business—has only sharpened with my fixation on Hannah. Every detail, every nuance, every microexpression is cataloged and analyzed.
"There's one more issue to address," Vincent says after a moment, tension evident in the set of his shoulders. "The consortium meeting next week. Your presence is…expected."
"I'll be there," I say dismissively, checking my watch. Six hours and twenty-two minutes away from Hannah now. Too long. "Is that all?"
"Not quite, sir." Vincent clears his throat. "The consortium has requested that you bring your wife. For the dinner portion. There's been…talk."
My attention snaps fully to Vincent for the first time today. "Talk? What kind of talk?"
The room temperature seems to drop several degrees. The other executives—six men who've been with me for years, who understand the danger signs—collectively tense, fight-or-flight instincts activating.
"Nothing substantial," Vincent attempts to backpedal, sensing the shift in my mood. "Curiosity, mainly. You've been married nearly a year now, and no one in our circles has met Mrs. Severino. It's…unusual."
"My private life is not the consortium's concern," I say, each word precise, controlled. The rage builds slowly, a pressure behind my eyes, a tightening in my chest. "Hannah's exposure to the outside world is carefully managed. For her protection."
"Of course, sir." Vincent nods quickly. "I explained that your protectiveness is understandable, given her youth and…the circumstances."
My fingers tighten on the armrests of my chair. "What circumstances, exactly, did you feel needed explaining, Vincent?"
The temperature drops another few degrees. Vincent's face pales slightly. "Nothing specific, sir. Just that Mrs. Severino is young, new to our world, still adjusting?—"
"Gennaro Ricci asked if she's a prisoner."
The new voice belongs to Antonio Ferraro, the oldest member of my executive team. In his seventies now, he's been with me since the beginning, which grants him liberties others don't enjoy. Or shouldn't enjoy, as he may be about to discover.
"Excuse me?" My voice is dangerously soft.
Antonio meets my gaze steadily, either brave or foolish. Perhaps both. "Ricci. At the Martinez funeral last month. He asked if your wife is actually a prisoner. Said there are rumors that she was acquired…unconventionally. That she's kept locked away because she's unwilling, not because she's being protected."
The rage crystallizes, transforms from pressure to sharpness, from heat to ice. "And what did you tell him, Antonio?"
"I told him to mind his own fucking business," Antonio replies, a hint of his old defiance showing through. "But the rumors persist. The consortium dinner is an opportunity to put them to rest. To show that Mrs. Severino is exactly what you say she is—your willing wife, not a captive."
Willing. The word echoes in my mind, bringing with it images of Hannah—her initial resistance, her gradual submission, the moments of surrender that grow more frequent but still aren't complete. Is she willing? Does it matter? She's mine, regardless of willingness. Mine to protect, to possess. Mine.
"These rumors," I say, each word dropped into the silence like a stone into still water, "where do they originate?"
Antonio shrugs, apparently oblivious to the danger he's in. "Hard to say. Probably that business with the Brightley family. Questions about how a debt was suddenly forgiven, how a daughter disappeared at the same time you acquired a young wife. People talk, Dante. You know this business runs on information, on weakness, on vulnerability. Right now, they think they've identified yours."
"Hannah is not a weakness," I say, the words coming out sharper than intended. "She is mine. My wife. My?—"
"And that's the kind of talk that feeds the rumors," Antonio interrupts, waving a dismissive hand. "Possession. Like she's property instead of a person. It makes people wonder what kind of relationship you really have with this girl. If she's some kind of sex slave rather than a?—"
I'm on my feet before he finishes the sentence, moving with a speed that surprises even me. My hand closes around his throat, cutting off his words and his air supply in one movement. The other executives scramble back from the table, chairs scraping on expensive hardwood. Only Vincent and Marco remain seated, watching with resigned expressions, as if they'd anticipated this outcome.
"Finish that sentence," I dare Antonio, my fingers tightening on his windpipe. "Say one more word about my wife, about our relationship, about what she is or isn't to me."
Antonio's eyes bulge, his face reddening as he claws ineffectually at my hand. He's old, weak, no match for the strength fury lends me. The rational part of my mind—the part that built an empire, that navigates complex alliances and vendettas—knows this is a mistake. Antonio has been loyal for decades. He's valuable. Connected. Killing him has consequences.
But that rational part is submerged beneath a tide of rage, of possessive fury that acknowledges no consequences, no limitations. Hannah is mine . Mine alone. Anyone who questions that, who dares suggest our relationship is anything but what I say it is, becomes an enemy. And enemies are eliminated.
I feel bones shifting beneath my fingers, cartilage compressing. Antonio's struggles weaken, his eyes rolling back. Someone is shouting—Vincent, perhaps, or Marco—but the words don't register. There is only the offense, the insult, the need to erase it with violence.
Hands pull at me—Marco and another executive, trying to break my grip without directly challenging me. "Boss," Marco says urgently, "not like this. Not here. Think about the mess, the questions. There are better ways."
His words penetrate the red haze, appealing to the strategic part of my brain that hasn't completely shut down. He's right. A boardroom execution is messy, complicated, difficult to explain. And Antonio, for all his disrespect, deserves a more considered fate.
I release my grip, watching dispassionately as Antonio collapses forward onto the table, gasping and coughing, hands at his throat where bruises are already forming. The other executives remain frozen, eyes averted, pretending not to witness what's happening. They've learned survival in my world requires selective blindness.
"Get him out of my sight," I instruct Marco, straightening my cuffs, adjusting my tie. The rage recedes slightly, enough for calculation to reassert itself. "Take him to the warehouse on Fulton. I'll decide his fate later."
Marco nods, gesturing to two security personnel who materialize at the boardroom door as if summoned by thought alone. They lift Antonio, still wheezing and disoriented, and remove him from the room. The remaining executives stare fixedly at their tablets, their papers, anything but me.
"The meeting is concluded," I announce, buttoning my suit jacket. "Vincent, prepare a statement for the consortium. Hannah will not be attending the dinner. I will not be attending the dinner. Our relationship with the consortium will continue on the same terms as always, or it will not continue at all. Their choice."
"Sir," Vincent begins, a note of caution in his voice, "the consortium represents over forty percent of our legitimate business interests. Alienating them could?—"
"I don't care," I interrupt, the words simple but absolute. "They will respect my privacy, my marriage, or they will find their access to our services and protection suddenly limited. Make that clear."
Vincent nods, knowing better than to argue further. "And Antonio?"
I consider this as I move toward the door. Antonio's offense was severe, but he's been loyal for decades. His connections are valuable, his knowledge of our operations extensive. Killing him would be satisfying but potentially costly.
"He lives," I decide. "But not unscathed. Remove two fingers from his right hand—a reminder that pointing at what's mine has consequences. Then return him to his family with a message: further speculation about my wife will result in more permanent consequences."
"Understood," Vincent says, making a note on his tablet.
I leave without further discussion, striding through the corridors of the office building that serves as the legitimate face of my operations. Employees scatter before me, sensing my mood, making themselves invisible as I pass. My driver has the car waiting, door open before I reach the curb.
"The mansion," I instruct as I slide into the backseat. "Quickly."
As the car pulls into traffic, I check my watch. Seven hours and three minutes away from Hannah now. Too long. The separation feels physical, an ache beneath my ribs, a hunger that grows rather than diminishes with time. I need to see her, touch her, reassure myself of her presence, her reality, her status as mine.
The incident in the boardroom has shaken me more than I care to admit. Not the violence itself—violence has been a constant companion throughout my life—but the loss of control. The rage that overtook me was instantaneous, overwhelming, bypassing the careful calculation that usually governs my actions. For Hannah, because of Hannah, I acted with pure instinct rather than strategy.
It's dangerous, this obsession. I recognize that intellectually, can see how it's affecting my business, my relationships, my standing in the community I've built and ruled for decades. But recognition doesn't equal change, doesn't diminish the need, the hunger, the all-consuming focus on one girl with haunted eyes and skin that marks so beautifully.
Let them talk. Let them wonder. Let them speculate about the nature of my relationship with Hannah. Their opinions mean nothing compared to the reality of what exists between us—a bond forged through possession, through claiming, through breaking and reshaping. They could never understand the purity of that connection, the totality of ownership that transcends conventional relationships.
Hannah is mine. Mine to protect, to keep isolated from the world and its judgments. The rumors Antonio mentioned only strengthen my resolve to keep her separate, contained, preserved in the perfect bubble I've created for her. For us.
The car can't move fast enough. Seven hours and ten minutes now. My hands twitch with the need to touch her, to verify her continued existence in my world. After the rage, after the violence, I need the calming effect of her presence, her submission, her acceptance of her place in my life.
I need Hannah.