Chapter 8
8
EMILIA
T he contract was thicker than I expected. A small mountain of legal jargon, neatly typed and bound, sitting on my desk like a smug little dictator. I stared at it for a long moment, my fingers curled into fists at my sides.
I didn’t want to read it.
I didn’t want to touch it.
I wanted to shove it off the desk, watch the pages scatter across the floor like the broken pieces of my life. Or better yet, set the damn thing on fire and send Dante the ashes.
But then I thought about the look on his face if I actually pointed out something in the fine print—something he hadn’t expected me to catch. The thought was enough to make me reach for the pen resting on the edge of the desk, though my hand trembled slightly as I picked it up.
“Alright, Conti,” I muttered under my breath, flipping open the folder. “Let’s see what kind of nonsense you’ve cooked up.”
The first few pages were exactly what I expected: dry, formal language about “the union of two parties,” “mutual interests,” and “binding agreements.” Cold. Impersonal. Like my entire life had been reduced to a business transaction.
I swallowed hard, my throat tight.
Leave it to Dante to make something as personal as marriage sound like a hostile corporate takeover.
My eyes burned, but I forced myself to keep reading.
Then I hit the parts that made my stomach turn.
Page fifteen. Section 4.3. Subsection B.
I leaned forward, squinting at the text just to make sure I was reading it right.
“The wife shall be afforded all luxuries befitting her station, including but not limited to: housing, transportation, wardrobe, and personal spending allowance.”
I snorted, but the sound was hollow. Personal spending allowance. Like I was some pampered pet he was taking in, not a person with a mind and will of her own.
I grabbed a red pen from the desk drawer and underlined the phrase with a sharp, deliberate stroke before scribbling a note in the margin: Define ‘allowance.’ Asking for a friend.
The next section was even worse.
“The wife shall not be obligated to engage in any activities that compromise her safety or well-being, except in cases where such activities are deemed necessary for the preservation of the family’s interests.”
I tapped the pen against my chin, my stomach twisting. Preservation of the family’s interests. That could mean anything. That could mean everything.
I wrote: Does this include attending your family’s Christmas dinners? Because those seem like a health hazard.
The joke felt forced. My chest ached.
By the time I reached page twenty, my amusement had dulled into something heavier. I wasn’t just picking apart Dante’s contract—I was picking apart the reality of my future. And no matter how many sarcastic notes I scribbled in the margins, the truth remained the same.
This wasn’t a game.
This was my life.
I flipped to page twenty-one, my fingers tightening around the pen when I spotted the header:
Conduct and Expectations of the Wife.
My throat closed.
“The wife shall maintain discretion and decorum as befitting her role, refraining from actions that could bring disrepute to the family name.”
I rolled my eyes, but there was no real humor in it. Discretion and decorum? This man clearly hadn’t met me.
I grabbed the red pen again and scribbled in the margin: Define “decorum.” Not giving up unlimited mimosa brunches.
But even as I wrote the words, my chest felt hollow.
I wasn’t the same person I used to be.
The woman who would have laughed and toasted to her own rebellion over bottomless mimosas—she wasn’t here anymore.
Dante had taken her.
And I wasn’t sure if I’d ever get her back.
I clenched my jaw and kept reading.
“The wife shall prioritize the needs of her husband and family, ensuring that all duties are fulfilled to the best of her ability.”
I snorted, shaking my head. Duties. Like I was some obedient little wife from a century ago.
I wrote in big, looping letters beside it: Does this include fluffing your pillows? Because I’m gonna need hazard pay for that.
But the words felt bitter.
The contract went on and on, each clause another chain tightening around me.
By the time I reached the final clause, my hands were shaking.
“Clause 9.1: The wife acknowledges that this agreement is binding and irrevocable, subject only to termination by the husband or upon the death of either party.”
I stared at the words for a long moment, my vision blurring.
Binding and irrevocable.
Like a sentence.
Like a cage.
I swallowed hard, my throat raw as I leaned in close, my pen poised like a weapon. In the blank space at the bottom of the page, I wrote: Noted. Will start looking into life insurance policies immediately.
The joke didn’t land. Not even for me.
I flipped to the final page, where my signature was supposed to go, and stared at the blank line.
My stomach twisted.
This wasn’t just a piece of paper. It was my freedom. My future.
And it was all being handed over to Dante Conti.
A lump rose in my throat. My fingers trembled as I set the pen down.
No.
I wasn’t going to let him win that easily.
Grabbing my phone, I scrolled through my contacts until I found his name. Just seeing it there— Dante Conti —made my blood boil. But beneath the anger, there was something else. Something raw. Something I didn’t want to name.
I pushed it down and typed out a message before I could overthink it.
Me: So, I’ve been reviewing your little masterpiece. Got a few questions.
The response came almost immediately.
Dante: I was wondering when you’d get the courage to text me.
I clenched my jaw.
Of course, he’d find a way to make this about him.
Me: Courage? Please. I just wanted to see how fast you’d respond. Guess I’m not the only one with too much time on their hands.
There was a pause.
For a brief moment, I let myself imagine him reading my message—his jaw tightening, his fingers curling around his phone. Did he feel anything when he saw my name pop up? Did he feel even a fraction of what I felt?
Or was I just another piece in his game?
His next message came through, sharp and to the point.
Dante: I’ll send a courier.
I frowned.
Me: A courier? What, are you delivering another contract for me to critique?
Dante: No. A photo album.
I blinked at the screen, my fingers hovering over the keyboard.
A photo album?
Me: You’ve officially lost me. Care to explain, or do you just enjoy being cryptic?
Dante: You said someone trained you. Look through the album. Find the cousin. Identify him.
My stomach twisted.
He was actually taking me seriously?
That was… unexpected.
Me: Fine. But I was actually planning to do some damage on this credit card you so generously provided.
His response was instant.
Dante: Do both.
I stared at the screen, my heart pounding.
No matter how much I tried to fight it, Dante was always there. Pulling me in. Dragging me deeper.
And I hated that part of me—the part that still cared.
The part that still hurt.
I clenched my jaw, shoving the phone into my pocket.
Fine.
If Dante wanted to play games, I’d play.
But I wasn’t going to forget what he’d done.
And I sure as hell wasn’t going to forgive him.
Not now.
Not ever.
Me: What’s the limit?
This time, the pause was longer. I could almost picture him on the other end of the line, his jaw tightening, his eyes narrowing as he read the message.
Dante: The limit is your stamina. Swipe until the chip or strip falls off to find out.
I couldn’t help it—I laughed. A real, genuine laugh that felt foreign after the last few weeks of stress and misery.
Me: Careful what you wish for, Conti. You might regret giving me this much power.
Dante: I don’t regret anything.
The words sent a shiver down my spine, and I hated the way my body reacted to them. Hated the way he could get under my skin so easily, even through a text message.
Before I could respond, the doorbell rang, the sound sharp and jarring in the quiet of the house. I flinched, my pulse jumping as I glanced at the clock. Too soon for a courier. Too late for anything good.
Setting my phone down, I moved toward the door, my steps slow, hesitant. The weight in my chest hadn’t eased in days, pressing down like something tangible, something I couldn’t shake. When I opened the door, a man in a sleek black suit stood on the other side, holding a leather-bound photo album.
“Delivery for Miss Ricci,” he said, his voice clipped and professional.
I stared at the album, my fingers cold as I reached for it. The leather was smooth, expensive, but it might as well have been stone for how heavy it felt in my hands. “Thanks,” I muttered, my voice dull, lifeless.
He nodded and left. I closed the door, locking it out of habit, though it didn’t make me feel any safer.
In the living room, I set the album on the coffee table and just… stared. The silence of the house pressed in, thick and suffocating. A month ago, I wouldn’t have hesitated. A month ago, I would have called Dante and demanded answers, would have laughed at his arrogance, would have?—
I swallowed hard, pushing the thought away. That version of me didn’t exist anymore.
With a deep breath, I opened the album.
The first page was a family photo—Dante’s family, I assumed. A group of men and women, dressed to the nines, their expressions ranging from bored to outright hostile. I scanned their faces, searching for something—anything—that felt familiar. But they were strangers. Just like Dante was now.
Flipping through the pages, I found more photos—candid shots, formal portraits, even grainy images that looked like they’d been pulled from security footage. It was overwhelming, the sheer number of faces staring back at me, and frustration curled in my stomach, sharp and bitter.
How was I supposed to find one man in this sea of strangers?
I grabbed my phone, snapping a picture of the open album before texting Dante.
Me: This is going to take forever. You couldn’t narrow it down for me?
Dante: You’re the one who worked with him. Figure it out.
I exhaled sharply, tossing the phone onto the couch. Typical. No help, no explanation—just orders, like I was still supposed to play along with whatever game he’d decided we were in.
My gaze drifted back to the album. The faces blurred together, their sharp suits and designer dresses doing nothing to distract from the hollowness settling deep in my bones. I used to think I knew Dante. Used to think I understood him. But now?
Now, I wasn’t sure I even wanted to.
My eyes flickered to the credit card sitting beside the contract.
A bitter laugh slipped past my lips. Of course. This was how he fixed things. Not with apologies. Not with explanations. Just with money.
I picked up the card, turning it over between my fingers. If Dante wanted me to swipe until the chip melted, maybe that was the only thing left between us. A transaction. A debt to be settled.
Slipping the card into my wallet, I grabbed my coat.
Twenty minutes later the car rolled smoothly down the highway, the city lights flickering through the tinted windows as I leaned back against the leather seat. The credit card burned a hole in my wallet, and for the first time in weeks, I felt something close to anticipation. If Dante wanted to throw money at me, fine. I’d take it. I’d take all of it. And I’d make damn sure he regretted it.
Marco had been all too happy to drive me. Probably because he wanted a front-row seat to whatever chaos I was about to unleash. He lounged in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, the other draped lazily over the gear shift, his smirk visible even in the dim glow of the dashboard.
“So, what’s the plan, little sister?” he asked, his tone dripping with amusement. “Gonna buy the entire Gucci store? Maybe a couple of diamond-encrusted toasters?”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m thinking bigger. Maybe a yacht. Something tasteful.”
Marco chuckled. “I’d pay to see Dante’s face when that charge hits.”
I smirked, but before I could respond, my phone buzzed in my lap. The name on the screen made my stomach tighten.
Dante.
Of course.
I sighed, debating whether to ignore him, but I knew better. He’d just keep calling until I picked up. With a resigned breath, I swiped to answer.
“What?” I said, not bothering with pleasantries.
There was a beat of silence, then his voice, sharp and edged with irritation. “Who are you with?”
I frowned, glancing at Marco, who raised an eyebrow in silent question. “One of my brothers,” I said, my tone deliberately casual.
Dante’s silence stretched long enough to make my skin prickle. When he finally spoke, his voice was ice. “That’s unacceptable.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You’re my fiancée, Emilia,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You don’t go anywhere with anyone unless they’re one of my men.”
I scoffed. “I’m not your fiancée yet. The contract hasn’t been signed.”
Another pause. This one heavier.
Then, finally, he exhaled, slow and measured. “I’m sending Leo, my head of security to meet you. Your brother can go home.”
I clenched my jaw. “You don’t get to dictate who I go places with.”
“I do,” he said smoothly. “And I am.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but Marco shot me a look, shaking his head slightly. I knew what he was thinking— pick your battles.
Grinding my teeth, I exhaled through my nose. “Fine. Whatever.”
There was a pause, then, “Leo will also pick up the contract once you’ve signed it.”
I smirked, leaning back against the seat. “I have notes.”
Dante sighed, the sound heavy with exasperation. “Of course you do.”
I could picture him now—pinching the bridge of his nose, his jaw tight, his patience fraying at the edges. The image sent a flicker of satisfaction through me.
“You’ll get it when I’m done,” I said sweetly.
“Don’t take too long,” he replied, his voice low and warning. “I don’t like waiting.”
“Then you’re going to hate being married to me,” I shot back.
His silence was deafening.
Then, finally, a quiet, almost amused, “We’ll see.”
And then the line went dead.
I stared at the screen, my pulse racing. I hated the way he could make me feel so small, so powerless, even through a phone call. But what I hated more was the flicker of heat in my chest—the part of me that wanted to fight him, to defy him, just so I could see his control crack.
Marco whistled. “Damn. He really has you on a leash already, huh?”
I turned to glare at him. “Shut up and drive.”
He chuckled but obeyed, the car speeding toward the mall.
I didn’t know what irritated me more—the fact that Dante was already pulling strings around me like I was some puppet…
Or the fact that a part of me liked that he cared enough to try.