9. Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
Francesca
Candlelight dances across Dante's features, softening the predatory angles of his face as he cuts into the perfectly seared steak before him. Blood pools beneath the meat, rich and red against fine bone china.
I sip the wine he's selected for us tonight. Once again, it's an obscenely expensive Bordeaux that tastes like liquid money against my tongue.
The table between us gleams with silver and crystal, a display of wealth as deliberate as everything else in this prison.
"The Caravaggio exhibit at the National Gallery was disappointing," Dante says, his voice unexpectedly conversational. "They displayed 'Salome with the Head of John the Baptist' under insufficient lighting. The shadows are crucial to understanding the artist's intent."
I look up, surprised at the casual observation. "You appreciate Caravaggio?"
"I appreciate masterful depictions of violence," he replies, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. "The contrast between beauty and brutality. The sacred and profane."
The butler appears at my elbow, silent as a ghost as he refills my wine glass. Three staff members hover at the room's periphery, faceless in their black uniforms, existing only to anticipate Dante's needs.
"I wrote my thesis on Baroque art," I admit, the confession slipping out before I can consider its wisdom. "I've always thought Caravaggio understood something essential about human nature. The way darkness and light coexist. The thin line between ecstasy and agony."
Dante's eyes sharpen with interest. "I'm surprised your father permitted studies like that. I would have expected something more... practical."
"Economics was my official major. Art history was my rebellion." I take another sip, the wine warming my veins. "My small defiance in a life scripted by Antonio Castellano."
"You are a princess with hidden depths," Dante murmurs, his gaze lingering on my face.
It's been like this for days.
The conversation flowing with surprising ease as we progress through each meal. Tonight it's delicate squash blossoms stuffed with herbed ricotta. Rare steak with truffle butter melting into its center.
Finally, we're served a chocolate dessert so decadent it borders on sinful.
As I savor the rich sweetness, I catch myself almost... relaxing.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
This man kidnapped me. Branded me like cattle. Humiliated me before his associates and spanked me to within an inch of my life.
And yet here I sit, discussing Nietzsche and Caravaggio over fine wine as if we're on some perverse date rather than a captor indulging his prey.
My eyes drift to the heavy silver steak knife beside my plate.
I've contemplated stealing it, adding it to the one I'd taken during my first week here – the one still hidden beneath my mattress, untouched but always there. A small promise of potential freedom.
That week night, while completely terrified and furious, I'd slipped the knife from the dinner tray one night when no one was looking. I'd planned to use it immediately, to strike the moment Dante entered my room again.
But something had held me back.
Practicality, perhaps.
Or the certainty that he was too dangerous, too prepared for such an obvious attack.
So the knife has remained hidden, a silent and desperate insurance policy.
"More wine?" Dante offers, lifting the bottle.
I smile, leaving the knife untouched. "Yes. Please."
"The meal was excellent," I say, folding my napkin beside my plate. "Thank you."
Dante inclines his head, acceptance of my gratitude offered like a king receiving tribute. "Even prisoners deserve certain treats, Francesca. Especially when they're... behaving."
He stands, buttoning his suit jacket with an elegant flick of his wrists. "Let's go. I'll take you back to your room."
I rise, my heart suddenly thundering with unexpected anxiety. "Of course."
His hand finds my back as we walk, the heat of his palm guiding me. The penthouse corridors feel endless, my heart rate accelerating with each step closer to my room.
We stop outside my bedroom door, and Dante turns me to face him, his expression unreadable in the dim corridor lighting.
"Have you decided what to do with it yet?" he asks casually.
My blood freezes in my veins. "With what?"
His smile is predatory, knowingly cruel. "The knife, princess. The one you've hidden beneath your mattress for twenty-three days now."
"How did you—"
Of course he knows. The realization shouldn't shock me, and yet it does. Has there ever been a moment in this place when I wasn't completely exposed to his scrutiny?
"I know everything that happens in these walls," he interrupts, his voice gentle despite the menace beneath his words. "Every breath you take. Every move you make. Every object you touch or hide or consider using against me."
Our eyes lock in silent battle. Another test. Another game. Another layer of the strange dance we've been performing since my capture.
"Not to mention the fact that you never take your eyes of your knife every single night at dinner."
"So what now?" I ask, voice steady despite my racing heart. "Will you take it from me? Add it to the list of small freedoms you've stripped away?"
Dante studies me, his head tilting slightly. "No. I'm curious. After these weeks together, after our conversations, after the ways I've touched you... will you still try to kill me, Francesca?"
The question hangs between us.
Shit.
What would I do?
"I don't know," I answer honestly, surprising us both.
His expression shifts. "Well… let's find out, shall we?"
He opens my bedroom door, gesturing for me to enter first. I step inside, suddenly too aware of the knife's presence beneath my mattress, calling to me like a siren song of potential freedom.
Dante follows, closing the door. "Show me where it is."
"Like you don't know already."
He shrugs as my choices crystallize in my mind: surrender the knife and admit defeat, or commit to the violent path I've considered since my arrival.
I cross to the bed, reaching beneath the mattress to extract the blade. It gleams bright in the light of the room, wickedly sharp and full of deadly promise.
"Well?" Dante asks, standing a few paces away, his posture relaxed despite the weapon in my hand. "What will it be, princess? Freedom through violence? Or something else entirely?"
I grip the knife tighter, its weight familiar after nights of holding it, contemplating its purpose. "I just… I don't get it. You knew all along. And you let me keep it."
"I did."
"Why?"
His smile is unexpectedly genuine. "Because I believe that choice is the most powerful illusion. And I wanted to see what you would choose, when the moment finally came."
I draw a deep breath, centering myself.
His eyes narrow slightly, lips curving into that cruel smile I've come to accept, rather than hate.
"What's wrong, princess? Still afraid to get your hands dirty?" He smirks darkly. "Like father, like daughter... always making others do the killing for you."
The comparison to my father ignites something savage inside me. In an instant, all my conflicted feelings vanish, replaced by pure, white-hot rage.
Then, without another thought, I lunge forward, aiming for the vulnerable hollow of his throat.
Dante blocks the strike with his forearm, his expression shifting from amusement to something darker. I follow through with a knee toward his groin, a move he narrowly evades by shifting his hips with a jump.
"Finally," he breathes, the word almost reverent. "The real Castellano fight emerges."
A weird part of me recognizes I'm not striking with the lethal swipes my father taught me.
I'm testing him, challenging him, perhaps even playing with him in some dark, twisted dance neither of us fully understands yet.
"If I wanted you truly dead," I hiss, circling him, "you wouldn't see it coming."
I slash again, the blade whistling through air as he steps back. His movements are fluid, controlled, the practiced response of a man intimately familiar with violence.
"You think I'd make it easy for you?" I spit, circling him with the knife extended. "That I'd just accept my cage like a good little pet?"
"I'd be disappointed if you did." His smile is genuine now, a flash of white teeth in the dimness. "Where would be the pleasure in breaking something already weak? When will you learn that I know you better than you know yourself?"
"You're a liar!" I attack again, this time aiming for his ribs with more venom than before.
But the asshole catches my wrist and uses my momentum to spin me around and slam me against the wall. My chest meets the hard surface with enough force to drive the breath from my lungs, the knife clattering from my grip as he pins me with all his weight.
His body presses against mine from behind, his breath hot against my ear. "Excellent form. Your father taught you well."
"Fuck you," I gasp, struggling against his iron hold.
"You have spirit, Francesca," he murmurs, his lips brushing the sensitive skin beneath my ear. "It's what I admire most about you."
One large hand wraps around my throat, not squeezing but simply holding, his thumb resting against my pulse point. I can feel his erection pressing against my ass.
"That's right. Can you feel what you do to me?" he asks, voice rough with desire. "Violence turns to lust so easily. And between us, that's a power no one else will ever hold."
God help me, he's right.
Despite my hatred, despite my rage, my body responds to his dominance with treacherous heat. My nipples tighten against the wall, wetness gathering between my thighs as his hand tightens slightly around my throat.
"This isn't what you think it is," I whisper, more to myself than to him.
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through my back where his chest presses against me. "No, Francesca. It's so much more. This is chemistry. Primal lust. Undeniable passion." His free hand slides down my side, gathering the material of my dress. "Tell me to stop, and I will."