His Unwanted Mute Wife: Now His Obsession

Dante Vitiello POV

I thought I was being benevolent.

That was the lie I told myself as the armored SUV crunched over the gravel driveway of the estate. I sat in the front passenger seat, adjusting the cuffs of my suit jacket with precise, practiced movements. In the rearview mirror, I saw them.

The fisherman and his wife.

They were huddled together in the back, terrified. The resemblance was haunting. They looked exactly like Sienna. The same dark hair, the same wide, expressive eyes that held too much fear and not enough fight.

I hadn't killed them.

I had transferred them to a safe house in Jersey five years ago to ensure the old man paid his debts, and then I kept them there to ensure Sienna behaved. It was a simple transaction. Leverage.

But if what Valeria said was true—that Sienna thought they were dead, that I had drowned them—then the game had changed.

If that was true, then Sienna’s hatred wasn't rebellion. It was grief.

And grief... grief was something I could fix. Rebellion had to be crushed, broken bone by bone, but grief could be soothed.

"We are here," I said, my voice cutting through the heavy silence of the car.

The fisherman flinched violently.

I got out and opened the back door. The air smelled of rain and pine, a stark difference from the salt and rot of the harbor they were used to.

"Come," I ordered. "Your daughter is waiting."

I wanted to see her face.

I wanted to see the moment the hate in her eyes shattered and was replaced by relief. I wanted her to look at me and realize I wasn't the monster she had painted in her head. I was her savior. I was the one reuniting her family.

God, I was arrogant.

I walked them through the main hall, ignoring the curious glances of the guards. I led them straight to the heavy oak door that guarded the stairs to the lower levels.

"She is down here?" the mother whispered, clutching her husband's arm as if it were a lifeline.

"She is in a secure location," I said smoothly. "For her protection."

I unlocked the door.

The smell hit me first. Damp stone. Stale air. And something else. Something sharp, copper-tangy, and cold that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

I descended the stairs, my expensive shoes clicking rhythmically against the stone. The parents followed, their footsteps shuffling and hesitant.

I reached the cell door.

"Sienna," I called out. My voice echoed in the dark corridor.

There was no sound from inside. No rustle of chains. No soft intake of breath.

I frowned.

I slid the key into the lock and turned it. The mechanism groaned in protest.

I pushed the door open.

"Sienna, look who is—"

The words died in my throat.

The cell was dim, lit only by the hallway light spilling in.

She was lying on the stone floor.

And she wasn't moving.