5. Chapter Three
Chapter Three
Dante
I watch my princess on the surveillance monitors, waiting for the sleeping pills to wear off.
Last night, after our first confrontation, I had my kitchen staff slip them into her dinner. Not enough to knock her unconscious like the injection the Volkovs used for transport, just enough to ensure she had a proper nights rest.
The princess had fought all day like a cornered wildcat, all teeth and claws and hatred, before finally succumbing to exhaustion.
Now morning sunlight filters through the bulletproof glass of my penthouse as I divide my attention between the security feed showing Francesca's sleeping form, and the delayed footage of my father's funeral playing on another screen.
Three days ago. What's left of the Ravelli family gathered to bury their patriarch.
My finger hovers over the remote, pausing on Luca's face as he stands at the head of the casket, the perfect grieving son. Nico is beside him, properly solemn.
And then there's Bianca.
The whore my brother married, the civilian who somehow became his queen, standing there with her hand protectively over her stomach where the next Ravelli heir grows.
Something dark and twisted moves inside me.
Grief for the father who never thought I was good enough. Rage at the brother who was always the favorite. Bitterness that even in death, Vito Ravelli controlled the narrative.
Still, in his death, he's leaving me out, casting me as the villain, ensuring the throne has been passed smoothly to Luca.
I made my choice long ago.
If the throne wasn't freely given, it would be taken.
No matter the cost.
Movement on the other monitor draws my attention.
Francesca is finally stirring, pushing herself up from her sheets, dark hair tumbling around her shoulders as she blinks away the fog of sedation.
I smile.
Even disoriented, she carries herself with dignity. Her spine remains straight, every movement careful and deliberate, her big, beautiful eyes constantly searching for weakness, for escape. For opportunity.
The black silk nightgown clings to every curve of her body, the material thin enough to reveal shadow and suggestion beneath.
It rides up slightly as she moves, revealing the smooth skin of her thighs, a tantalizing glimpse of forbidden territory. My blood heats at the sight, a dark hunger igniting deep within.
I'd had my men dress her in it after the Volkovs delivered her right to my door.
It was a command made not out of modesty. I'm not that pathetic.
No.
It's simple. The princess's body belongs to me now. And I wanted this exact moment. Her awakening in my domain, dressed in my clothes, surrounded by my choices, my rules, my power.
She is mine.
And the sooner she accepts that, the easier my task will become.
She crosses to the bathroom, splashing water on her face, taming her hair into some semblance of control.
I expected tears. Hysteria, even. The typical response of privileged women suddenly stripped of choice.
Instead, she examines her surroundings, testing the windows, assessing sight lines, arranging her features into a mask of control.
When she returns to the bedroom, pacing with beautiful impatience, I decide it's time.
The game begins now. The pieces of my plan are finally moving into place.
I press the intercom button. "Bring Ms. Castellano to me."
Marco, my most trusted lieutenant, acknowledges the order with a gruff "Yes, sir."
Within minutes, he's escorting my captive into the living room, her wrists bound loosely before her with silver handcuffs that look more like jewelry than restraints.
She enters with her head high, golden eyes burning with an intensity that sends an unexpected surge of heat through me. The sedation has worn off completely, leaving nothing but sharp intelligence and focused hatred in her gaze.
And yet, I still find her absolutely stunning.
"Sleep well?" I ask, dismissing Marco with a nod.
"Drugging your guests seems a uniquely Ravelli form of hospitality," she replies, voice cool as winter stone. "I assume that's standard procedure for all your... acquisitions?"
Defiant. Perfect.
I set aside the remote, rising to approach her with deliberate slowness. "No, princess. Only the special ones."
Her eyes flick to the paused funeral footage on the screen behind me, recognition dawning.
"Vito Ravelli's funeral," she says. "Your father."
I stop before her, close enough to see the pulse hammering in her throat. "You're well-informed."
"The death of Europe's most notorious crime lord makes news." Her gaze is unflinching. "But I see you weren't among the mourners."
My jaw tightens involuntarily. "I was… uninvited."
"And now you're making your move for the throne."
Understanding transforms her face. That bright intelligence that's brought her to my feet connecting fragments into the larger picture.
"That's why I'm here. I'm not just a bargaining chip. I'm a statement… aren't I?"
I circle her slowly, enjoying her stillness, the way she refuses to turn with me, to track me with her eyes, choosing instead to stare straight ahead as though I'm beneath her notice.
My gaze travels over her deliberately, a physical claim staked with just my eyes.
My captive has beautiful long, dark hair falling past her shoulders in waves. The kind of silky strands that beg for a man's fingers to twist within them, pull them back while they ram deep inside her.
Her skin is like polished marble, so pale it would show every mark, every bruise, every bite. She has full lips, painted by nature rather than cosmetics.
The nightgown, carefully selected by me, reveals a body made for sin.
Made for me.
She has heavy breasts that are straining against the smoothness of the silk, her nipples pointing into the gown. Still circling like a hawk with it's prey, I admire the wild curve of her hips, a waist so sexy it creates an hourglass figure that somehow time has forgotten.
A perfect acquisition.
"Last night was merely an introduction," I tell her, reaching out to unlock the handcuffs, watching as she rubs her wrists. "Today, we make it official."
She lifts her chin, clear defiance personified in that small gesture. "I've already told you… I won't wear your ring. I won't speak vows to you. Whatever arrangement you've made with my father and the Volkovs, I am not bound by it."
I laugh, watching her flinch almost imperceptibly at the sound. Her declaration sparks something primal in me.
"You already are." I reach for her face, wanting to feel that soft skin beneath my fingers.
She jerks away, a reflexive rejection that ignites anger and arousal in equal measure.
"I have told you already. We can make this easy or difficult, Francesca.
The choice will always be yours, but the outcome remains the same. "
Calculation flashes behind her eyes, strategic mind working through possibilities that don't exist.
She believes she has options. Choices. Power.
And I'll allow the illusion.
For now.
"Get dressed," I order, gesturing to the closet across the room. "Everything inside is your size. Be ready in thirty minutes."
"For what?" she demands, rubbing her wrists again.
"For your marking," I say simply. "Today you become a Ravelli."
Fear flashes across her face before she can control it.
"I said I won't wear your ring!" she says loudly, panic in her tone. "I won't speak vows to you. I will not be forced into marriage with a Ravelli!"
My smile makes her take another step back. "No rings. No vows."
I remove my glove, showing her my mutilated hand, the missing finger where I once wore the family ring. A symbol of what I have sacrificed for power, for the throne that should have been mine from birth.
"The Ravelli claim runs deeper than gold and hollow promises muttered before a witness." I turn to leave, pausing at the doorway. "Thirty minutes, princess. Wear the red dress in the back of the closet. If I have to return and redress you myself, you won't like the consequences."
Twenty-eight minutes later, she emerges from the bedroom.
The red dress clings to her body, the color stark against her pale skin. Blood red. Ravelli red. My mark on her before the permanent one is even applied.
The material hugs every curve, revealing enough cleavage to make a man's mouth water while maintaining the illusion of modesty. Her dark hair cascades down her back now, a deliberate choice to cover the dress's low cut from behind.
Marco and Vladimir stand at attention on either side of the living area, security ensuring she has no chance of escape. Her eyes scan them, assessing, calculating, filing away information for later use.
This girl is from our world. That much is clear.
And that is exactly why I have brought her here.
"Right on time," I observe, setting aside the intelligence reports I'd been reviewing. "You seem to have chosen rebellion through compliance? An interesting strategy."
Her smile is razor-sharp. "I'm simply curious what barbaric ritual you have planned. More drugging? Tribal scarification? Blood sacrifice? Or just a disgusting primal attempt to communicate ownership that reveals your deeply rooted childhood insecurities?"
Vladimir tenses beside me, hand moving toward his weapon.
I silence him with a gesture, amused by her audacity. Most men would strike her for such insolence. Most men are afraid of women who bite back.
I am not most men.
"Sit," I command, indicating the leather chair positioned in the center of the room. Previously occupied by various business associates who required persuasion of a physical nature. Today it will serve a different purpose.
She sits with the regal posture of the aristocrat she was raised to be, crossing one long leg over the other, hands resting on the armrests as though they're thrones.
Even captive, she carries power in her bones.
I retrieve the case from the side table, opening it to reveal the tattoo gun and inks inside. Custom-made, sterilized, prepared specifically for this moment. For her.