11. Chapter Nine
Chapter Nine
Dante
The private jet gleams silver under the airport lights, the Ravelli insignia barely visible on its tail. Marco supervises the loading of our luggage while Vincent conducts a final security sweep.
Francesca steps onto the tarmac beside me, her face tilted up to catch the rare London sunlight. She wears a tailored black pantsuit I selected for travel—modest yet undeniably elegant, with a single diamond pendant at her throat. A gift I left in her room this morning.
"I assume this is not your first time on a private jet?" I ask as we approach the aircraft.
"No," she replies, her eyes still on the sky rather than the luxury awaiting us. "My father had one. Smaller than this. We used it for business trips when I accompanied him."
Of course. The Castellanos would have provided their prize daughter with only the best. Another reminder that Francesca was never ordinary, never innocent. She was bred for this world, just as I was.
As we board, I watch her take in the opulent interior. Italian leather seating, polished tables, a fully stocked bar, and bedroom suite at the rear.
Unlike typical passengers seeing such luxury for the first time, she doesn't gawk or exclaim. Instead, she observes with the careful assessment of someone evaluating assets.
"The flight's approximately ninety minutes," I inform her as we take our seats. "You're free to move freely within the cabin, but the cockpit and communications areas are restricted."
She nods, accepting the champagne flute a steward offers. "Do your men accompany us on board?"
"Marco and two security personnel," I confirm. "The rest travel separately to ensure we have security already on the ground when we arrive."
The engines roar to life, and within minutes, we're airborne, London shrinking rapidly beneath us. Francesca watches through the window, her profile etched against the brightening sky.
There's something almost wistful in her expression. It's not quite sadness, but not quite hope either.
"What are you thinking about?" I ask, an unusual desire to know her thoughts overtaking my usual grumpy composure.
She turns from the window and looks at me. "I'm thinking this is strange, you know. Being here with you… traveling like a normal couple when we're anything but."
"Normal is overrated," I observe, sipping my champagne. "Normal people live small lives in small worlds with small ambitions. We are not them."
"True. But what are your ambitions, Dante?" she asks softly. "Beyond your brother's throne?"
The question catches me off-guard. Not because I don't know the answer, but because no one has asked it in such a direct manner before.
"I strive for the power of my families empire," I reply automatically, like I've rehearsed the line a million times before. "I want territory. Respect. Wealth and fortune."
She tilts her head slightly. "All of those things are means, not ends, Dante. What do you want the power for ?"
Again, she surprises me with her perception, forcing me to examine ambitions I've never fully articulated. Even to myself.
"I guess I want to build something greater than my father imagined. To be feared when necessary, but respected always." I pause, swirling the champagne in my glass. "By the time I am done, I hope to leave a legacy that outlives me."
"So you want children?" she asks bluntly, her gaze unwavering.
The question strikes an unexpected chord. Children . Heirs. Continuation of my bloodline.
These concepts have always existed as abstract necessities rather than desires.
Until now.
Until I picture Francesca round with my child, her golden eyes reflected in a son or daughter who would inherit everything I've fought to build.
The thought of children brings my mind back to Luca and Bianca. Soon they'll parade their heir at a masquerade similar to the one we will attend, flaunting the future of my family's empire.
I grip my glass tighter, remembering the surveillance footage of Bianca's swollen belly at the coronation.
That should have been mine. Everything Luca has—the throne, the ring, the legacy, the power —was meant for me. Now he'll have a child to cement his claim, to carry on the Ravelli name while I...
I glance at Francesca. She doesn't realize she's awakened something darker, more possessive inside of me. The image of her carrying my heir burns through my mind. What better way to stake my claim than to create a new bloodline, one untainted by dirty Volkov blood like my brothers will be?
The champagne turns bitter on my tongue. I set down my glass before I shatter it.
"Perhaps," I concede, surprised by my own response. "One day, I might consider having a child. But only with the right queen."
Her cheeks flush slightly, but before she can respond, Marco approaches with security concerns that require my attention in the cockpit. When I return, Francesca has moved to the couch near the window, a book open in her lap, her face serene as she reads.
I take a moment to simply observe her… this woman who entered my life as a pawn but is rapidly becoming something far more dangerous.
Something essential.
***
Paris greets us with perfect autumn weather, the city shimmering beneath a clear blue sky as our SUV winds through its historic streets.
Through the bulletproof window, Francesca watches the landmarks pass. First the Arc de Triomphe, then the Champs-élysées, and finally the Seine flowing like a silver ribbon through the heart of the city.
"It's been five years since I was last here," she says quietly, almost to herself. "For my graduate studies."
"The Sorbonne," I recall from her dossier. "Art history and economics. A curious combination."
She smiles faintly. "My father's choice and mine. A compromise of sorts."
"Did you enjoy your time here?"
"It was the freest I've ever been," she admits, eyes still on the passing scenery. "My father's surveillance was less obvious. I could pretend, sometimes, that I was just another student. Just a normal girl."
"You were never meant for normal, Francesca," I tell her, reaching across to grip her thigh. "You were born for palaces. Not filthy French dormitories."
She turns to face me, something unreadable in her expression. "And yet here I am, traded from one palace-prison to another."
"Is that how you see it?" I ask, genuinely curious. "Even now? Even after a month in my presence?"
"How else should I see it?" Her voice is soft but carries a dangerous edge. "You may have unlocked certain doors, Dante, but this—" she gestures between us with a pointed finger, "—began with my abduction. With my father's betrayal. With your mark inked into my skin."
I shift closer, drawn to her fire rather than repelled by it.
"And yet, when given a knife and an open opportunity, you hesitated to kill me." My hand creeps higher up her thigh, fingers brushing where I know my mark lies beneath the fabric. "Your body knows what your mind refuses to admit. You want this. You want me ."
Before she can answer, the car slows as we approach our hotel. The moment fractures, reality intruding on whatever confession might have been forming on her lips.
"We're here," Marco announces unnecessarily from the front seat.
I withdraw my hand from Francesca's thigh, watching as she composes herself. Her shoulders straighten, her expression smooths into the perfect mask of a stunningly beautiful mafia princess.
My woman is ready to play her role. Ready to stand beside me as if by choice rather than coercion.
"Remember the rules," I growl as the door opens. "You're mine in every way that matters, Francesca. Make sure the world believes it."
The presidential suite at Le Royal Monceau exceeds even my impossible standards.
It's luxurious without being over the top, secure without feeling like a fortress. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer views of the Eiffel Tower and Arc de Triomphe, while soundproofed walls ensure our complete privacy.
Marco supervises the security sweep of the suite while Vincent delivers three garment bags to the master bedroom. The luggage I'd arranged for Francesca, containing everything she might need during her stay.
I lean against the wall and watch as my captive explores the suite with careful eyes. It still baffles me how she misses absolutely nothing.
Not the strategic positioning of my furniture so I'm always facing the front door, the security cameras disguised as light fixtures, the panic buttons concealed beneath tabletops.
Only now, here as my 'fiancé', her assessment isn't that of a captive seeking escape, but a partner evaluating our own defenses. Together.
"Acceptable?" I ask, pouring us each a glass of the champagne that awaited our arrival.
"Very impressive," she concedes, accepting the crystal flute. "Though I suspect the security features weren't part of the original design."
I smile, acknowledging her perception. "Some of the modifications might have been made to accommodate our… unique requirements."
"Our," she repeats, testing the word on her tongue. "Such a small word for such a significant shift."
Behind her, Marco indicates the suite is secure, and my staff withdraws from the suite, leaving us temporarily alone.
The sudden privacy changes the atmosphere, charging it with potential.
Francesca sips her champagne, moving to the window to gaze out at Paris' beauty. The afternoon light catches in her dark hair, illuminating auburn highlights I'd never noticed before.
It could be the change in light now we've left dreary London. Or perhaps, it could be the face that somehow, I don't hate that she's here with me.
"So, we're here. What happens now?" she asks, still facing the view rather than me.
I set my glass down, crossing to stand behind her. "Now we prepare. The gala isn't until tomorrow night. So today..." I place my hands on her shoulders, feeling her stiffen then relax beneath my oddly gentle touch, "...today I introduce you to Paris. My way."