Chapter Eleven
Caterina
Marco’s face had gone red, embarrassment and rage warring for dominance. “You would start a war over --”
“Over my wife? Yes.” Dante’s smile was absolutely terrifying. “Without hesitation. Without regret. With enthusiasm, actually. I’ve been looking for an excuse to eliminate the Vitale problem. Please, Marco. Give me that excuse.”
Marco reached for his wine glass -- a simple gesture meant to project confidence, to show he wasn’t rattled by Dante’s threats. He never completed the movement.
Dante moved with speed that shouldn’t have been possible for someone his size. One moment he was standing at his seat. The next his hand had shot across the table, catching Marco’s wrist mid-reach with precision that spoke of practice, of violence refined into art.
The wine glass toppled, red liquid spreading across white linen like blood.
For three full seconds, no one reacted. We all just stared at Dante’s hand locked around Marco’s wrist, at the way he’d pulled Marco’s arm flat against the table, at the absolute control in his grip.
Then Dante’s other hand moved to Marco’s fingers.
I watched -- couldn’t look away -- as he selected Marco’s index and middle fingers with the clinical precision of a surgeon. Gripped them at the base. Applied pressure.
“Dante --” Papa started to stand.
Dante bent Marco’s fingers backward.
The sound was wrong. Wet and crackling, like chicken bones breaking. Marco’s face went white, then red, his mouth opening in a scream that came out strangled and high-pitched.
“Threaten my wife again,” Dante said, his voice conversational, almost pleasant, like he was discussing the weather instead of methodically breaking a man’s hand, “and I’ll break more than your fingers.”
He applied more pressure. Another crack, louder this time. Marco was making sounds now -- gasping, whimpering noises that would have been embarrassing if everyone at the table wasn’t too shocked to process them.
My stomach lurched. Not from nausea. From something else entirely. Something hot and primal that made my thighs clench under the table, made heat pool between my legs despite -- or maybe because of -- the violence happening three feet away.
“Stop.” Mama’s voice was shrill, panicked. “Dante, please, you’re going to --”
“Break them? Yes.” Another measured increase in pressure.
Marco was sobbing now, actually sobbing, tears streaming down his face while he tried to pull away and failed because Dante’s grip was absolute.
“That’s exactly what I’m going to do. But I’m being merciful.
I could break his wrist. His arm. His neck. ”
Luca had his hand over his mouth, his eyes wide with the kind of shock that would probably fuel nightmares for weeks. Papa had frozen halfway out of his chair, caught between stopping this and recognizing that intervening might make him the next target.
But Francesca. God, Francesca was still smiling. Actually reached for her wine glass and took a delicate sip like this was the entertainment portion of the evening.
Dante bent the fingers impossibly farther. The crack this time was accompanied by Marco’s full-throated scream, the sound bouncing off the dining room walls and probably carrying to the kitchen staff.
“There we go.” Dante’s tone was satisfied, almost warm. “That’s the sound I wanted. The sound of someone learning exactly what happens when they threaten what belongs to me.”
He released Marco’s hand. Just opened his grip and let go like he was discarding trash.
Marco cradled his injured hand against his chest, still sobbing, his expensive suit jacket now dark with sweat. His fingers sat at unnatural angles, clearly broken in multiple places. He’d need surgery. Months of recovery.
If he was lucky.
Dante pulled a handkerchief from his pocket -- of course he had a fucking handkerchief -- and wiped his hands with precise movements. Like he’d just finished some minor household task instead of committing assault at a family dinner.
“Anyone else have concerns about my wife’s safety?” He looked around the table, meeting each person’s gaze. “Questions about my commitment to her protection? Thoughts about whether marriage has softened me?”
Silence. Absolute, ringing silence.
“Good.” Dante tucked the handkerchief away and reached for his wine glass, the one that hadn’t spilled when he’d lunged across the table. Took a sip like nothing had happened. “Giuseppe, my compliments again on the veal. Perfectly prepared.”
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. My entire body felt hypersensitive, every nerve ending firing at once. I watched Dante’s profile -- his calm expression, his measured movements, the complete absence of remorse or concern -- and felt something fundamental shift inside me.
This was my husband. This was the man I’d chosen because I’d thought he was the safer option. The man who controlled my wardrobe and my schedule and my life.
The man who would break someone’s hand at a formal dinner for threatening me.
My thighs were pressed together so tightly it almost hurt, trying to manage the arousal flooding through me. This was wrong, and disturbing. I should be horrified, disgusted, afraid.
Instead, I wanted Dante to touch me again. Wanted his hand back on my thigh, wanted him to grip me hard enough to leave marks, wanted him to prove his ownership the way he’d just proven his capacity for violence.
Marco pushed back from the table with his good hand, standing on legs that shook visibly. His face was blotchy with tears and rage and humiliation. “You’ll regret this,” he managed, his voice breaking. “My family --”
“Will do nothing.” Dante didn’t even look at him. “Because if they retaliate, I’ll do to them what I just did to you. Only slower. More thoroughly. With an audience.”
Marco’s associate -- the bland man whose name I still didn’t know -- hurried to his side, helping him toward the door. Marco’s good hand clutched his ruined one, blood dripping from where bones had broken through skin.
The dining room doors closed behind them with a soft click.
For several heartbeats, no one moved. Then Papa lowered himself back into his chair with a heavy exhale.
“That was…” Mama couldn’t seem to finish the sentence. Her hands trembled as she reached for her water glass.
“Necessary,” Dante finished for her. He turned to Papa, his expression pleasant. “You wanted to smooth tensions. I’ve smoothed them. Marco now understands exactly where the boundaries lie.”
“You’ve made an enemy,” Papa said, his voice tight. “The Vitale family won’t let this stand.”
“Let them try.” Dante’s hand found my thigh again under the table, his grip possessive and warm. “If they’re stupid enough to retaliate, they’ll save me the trouble of manufacturing justification.”
Luca made a strangled sound. “You’re talking about starting a war. You really would go that far for her?”
“Yes. I’m talking about protecting my wife.” Dante’s fingers tightened on my leg. “Which I’ll do by any means necessary. If that starts a war, so be it.”
I felt his words vibrate through me, felt the absolute certainty in his tone, felt my body responding in ways that should have ashamed me but didn’t.
Mama was watching me now, her expression a mixture of concern and something else. Understanding, maybe. Or recognition. Like she saw exactly what I was feeling and remembered feeling it herself once. “I think,” she said carefully, “we should perhaps conclude dinner early. Given the… circumstances.”
Papa nodded, still looking shaken. “Yes. Perhaps that’s best.”
Dante stood, pulling me up with him. His hand never left my body -- moving from my thigh to my waist, keeping me close. Claiming me in front of my family the same way he’d claimed me in every other way that mattered.
“Thank you for dinner,” he said with perfect courtesy, like the last fifteen minutes hadn’t happened. “The veal really was exceptional.”
We moved toward the door, Dante guiding me with that possessive grip. I caught Francesca’s eye as we passed. She raised her wine glass in a small salute, her smile knowing.
She’d seen my reaction. Knew exactly what her brother had awakened in me.
The thought should have been mortifying. Instead, it felt like validation.
Papa caught us in the foyer before we could make our escape. He stood under the massive chandelier, his shadow stretching long across the marble. The same marble I’d walked across as a child, believing my father was powerful enough to protect me from anything.
Now I knew better. Now I knew Dante was the more dangerous one.
“A word.” Papa’s voice carried the authority he’d wielded my entire life, but something had shifted. His posture was different. More careful. Like he was addressing an equal instead of a subordinate. “Before you leave.”
Dante’s hand remained at my waist, but he nodded once. “Of course.”
Mama appeared behind Papa, her face still pale from what we’d witnessed. Behind her, Luca hovered in the dining room doorway, looking like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.
Papa studied him for a long moment. I watched my father’s expression, watched him recalibrate how he saw the man who’d married his daughter. This wasn’t the negotiating partner who’d agreed to alliance terms. This was someone more dangerous. Someone willing to start wars over perceived threats.
“You understand what you’re risking,” Papa said. Not a question. An observation. “The political fallout. The potential for retaliation against your family. Your business interests.”
“I understand perfectly.” Dante’s hand tightened at my waist. “And I’m willing to risk all of it to protect what’s mine.”
Mine. The word sent heat through me despite the tension of the moment.
Mama moved forward, her gaze on me instead of Dante. She reached out and touched my arm, her fingers cold. “Are you all right?”
The question was layered with meaning. Was I all right physically? Emotionally? Was I all right with what my husband had just done? With what it meant?