Sold to the Don: The Pawn Who Became Queen

Dante's POV

"What?" Her brown eyes almost pop from their sockets.

"It is simple." I say "You marry me. Your father's debt disappears. Your stepmother gets the treatment she needs. Everyone walks away happy."

Happy. The word tastes like ash in my mouth. No one walks away happy from deals with men like me. But she doesn't need to know that yet.

"Marry you." Her voice sounds broken already. Fragile. She's worrying her bottom lip between her teeth and I find myself watching the movement. Soft lips. Pink from the pressure. "I do not understand."

Christ, she's so small. Maybe 5'3" at most, the nightwear shows her small frame, that makes her look even younger than twenty-two. Dark hair falling over her shoulders like she's trying to hide behind it. Those big brown eyes tilted down at the corners, making her look perpetually sad and scared.

Like a frightened doe that wandered into a wolf's den.

"Yes."

"No." The word comes out as barely a whisper. Not defiance. More like a prayer that won't be answered. "No. I cannot. I do not even know you."

I smile because the situation is funny in a dark, twisted way only I can appreciate. This girl thinks knowing someone matters. "You do not need to know me. You just need to sign the paper."

"Why would you want to marry me? This does not make sense. You could have anyone. You could-"

"I do not need to explain my reasons to you." My voice drops lower because I'm done playing. "Your father made a deal. This is the deal. You sign, or I visit your family tonight and collect my debt another way. Do you understand what that means?"

She understands. I see it in those enormous eyes that keep darting away from my face, unable to hold my gaze for more than a second. Her hands twist together in her lap, fingers knotting and unknotting. Everything about her screams submission. Defeat.

It should disgust me. Weakness always has.

Instead, something tightens in my chest.

Her hands shake as she reaches for the pen. Small hands. Delicate. The kind that have never held anything more dangerous than a kitchen knife. I notice her nails are bitten down to the quick.

"If I do this, you will leave them alone?"

"I will clear the debt. Your stepmother will receive the best medical care money can buy. Your family will be untouchable as long as you are my wife."

"As long as I am your wife." She repeats it slowly, testing the words. Her voice cracks. "For how long?"

"As long as I decide."

"That is not fair."

I lean forward because I need her to see my face when I say this. "Do I look like a man who cares about fair?"

She shrinks back in the chair, making herself smaller. "No. I am sorry. I did not mean-"

"Stop apologizing."

"I am sor-" She catches herself, then her face flushes. Pink spreads across those soft cheeks, down her neck. I wonder how far that blush goes.

Fuck.

I watch her pick up the pen. It's one of my favorites-Italian, custom-made, worth more than whatever piece of shit car her father probably drives. She reads through the contract but I can tell she's not absorbing anything. Her eyes are glassy with unshed tears.

"What happens if I refuse?" she whispers.

"Your father dies tonight. Probably your stepmother too. Maybe your sister if she tries to be heroic. Which she will not, but the possibility exists."

"You would kill them."

"I would let nature take its course. Your father stole from me. That has consequences."

"He gambled it away. He is sick. He has a problem."

"He has many problems. You are about to solve the biggest one."

I watch her hand hover over the signature line. Part of me-a very small, very buried part-wonders if she'll actually do it. If she'll sign her life away for a family that clearly doesn't deserve her.

But she does.

Isabella Moretti. The handwriting is shaky, almost childlike. She sets the pen down and her hand is shaking so hard she nearly knocks over the inkwell.

"Done."

"That is it?" Her voice cracks and those big eyes finally meet mine for more than a second. They're swimming with tears she's desperately trying to hold back. "I am married now?"

"Not quite. We will have a ceremony. Small and private. Tomorrow afternoon."

"Tomorrow? I do not have a dress. I do not have anything." Panic makes her voice thin. She's started worrying that bottom lip again and I want to reach over and pull it free with my thumb.

I don't.

"That will be handled."

"I need clothes. My things."

"Everything you need will be provided."

She stands up because sitting seems impossible for her now. Her legs wobble and I watch her grab the edge of the desk to steady herself. Those delicate fingers pressing into the wood, knuckles going white.

"I do not understand why you are doing this. What do you get out of marrying me?"

I stand too, moving around the desk. She tilts her head back to look at me and I realize just how much smaller she is. The top of her head barely reaches my chest. I could snap her in half without trying.

Instead, I'm noticing the curve of her neck. The way her pulse flutters visibly at her throat. How her lips part slightly as she breathes, and how her nipples pucker underneath the black nightwear.

"You do not need to understand," I say quietly, stepping closer. Too close. "You just need to obey."

"I am not a dog." It comes out as barely a whisper, not defiance, more like she's reminding herself.

"No. You are my wife." I reach out and touch her chin, tilting her face up to meet mine. Her skin is impossibly soft. Warm. She's trembling under my fingers but she doesn't pull away. Can't, probably. "Welcome to your cage, Mrs. Valerio."

She licks her lips nervously and I track the movement like a predator.

Christ, I want to taste her.

The door opens and I force myself to step back. Business mode.

"Sir. The room is ready."

"Take her upstairs. Make sure she has everything she needs."

I watch Isabella follow my housekeeper out on unsteady legs. She looks back once, just before she disappears through the door. Those eyes meeting mine for a brief second before she drops her gaze to the floor again.

The door closes and I pour myself three fingers of whiskey. I down it in one swallow, feeling the burn.

I wait two hours before I go upstairs. I tell myself it's because I have work to do. Calls to make. Plans to finalize, but the truth is I'm not sure what I'm going to do when I open that door.

When I do, the room is dark except for the light spilling in from the windows. I spot her immediately-a small shape curled up on the floor beside the bed, not in it.

She's on the floor crying. Not loud, dramatic sobs. Quiet, broken sounds like she's trying not to disturb anyone. Like she's apologising for her tears.

I should leave. This is none of my concern. She signed the papers, the deal is done.

But I stand there in the doorway, watching her shoulders shake, listening to her try to muffle her tears in her hands.

I close the door and walk back downstairs. I give her another hour but when I return, she's still on the floor. Still crying.

Fuck this.

"Will you cry all night?"

She gasps and scrambles backward, her eyes wide and red-rimmed in the darkness. Her hair is a mess around her face, cheeks blotchy and wet. She presses herself against the bedframe, trying to disappear into it.

"I am sorry. I am so sorry. I did not mean to disturb you. I will be quiet. I promise. I am sorry-"

"Stop apologizing."

She clamps her mouth shut, but I can see her bottom lip trembling. Fresh tears spill down her cheeks.

I should feel nothing. A decent man would feel guilty for putting that look on a woman's face.

But I'm not a decent man. And what I feel isn't guilt.

I cross the room and she makes herself smaller, arms wrapping around her knees. Trying to protect herself from me.

"Get up."

"I am sorry, I just-the bed felt wrong, and I did not want to-"

"Get. Up."

She tries. Her legs won't cooperate. She's been sitting on that hard floor for so long they've gone numb. She struggles, that pink blush spreading across her face again.

I reach down and lift her.

She weighs nothing. Like a fucking bird in my hands.

The moment I touch her, she goes completely still. Not calm, frozen. Even her breath stops. Those big eyes lock on my face, terrified and something else.

I set her on the bed and she sits there, rigid, staring up at me. Her hair falls around her face in dark waves and I can smell her now-something clean and simple. Soap. Fear.

And underneath it, something sweet.

"You signed the papers," I say, my voice rough. "The crying does not change anything."

"I know. I am sorry. I should not have-"

"Why were you on the floor?"

She looks down at her hands. Always looking away. "The bed felt... it is too nice. Like it belongs to someone else. I did not want to ruin it. I am sorry."

"Stop saying you are sorry."

"I am-" She catches herself, then her face crumples. "I do not know what else to say."

Something in my chest tightens again. Harder this time.

"The bed belongs to you now. Everything in this room belongs to you." I sit down beside her and she tenses. "You belong to me. Do you understand?"

"Yes." It's barely a whisper.

I reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. She jerks but doesn't pull away. Her skin is still damp from tears.

"I do not keep broken things, Isabella. So stop crying."

"I will try. I am-" She stops herself before the apology. "I will try."

I should leave. This is already more than I intended.

But I don't leave.

Instead, I pull off my jacket and shoes. Her eyes go wide as I stretch out on the bed beside her, on top of the covers.

"What are you-"

"You cannot sleep. Neither can I. So we will not sleep together."

"I do not understand."

"You will learn that I do not explain myself often." I turn my head to look at her. She's frozen, sitting up against the headboard, staring at me like I've lost my mind. Maybe I have. "Lie down."

"I-where should I-"

"Next to me."

"But-"

"Isabella." My voice drops lower. "Lie down. Now."

She moves like a frightened animal, slowly lowering herself to lie on her side, as far from me as she can get while still being on the same bed. Her body is rigid, her breathing shallow.

I can feel the heat of her even through the space between us.

"Why are you doing this?" she whispers to the ceiling.

"Because if I leave you alone, you will cry all night on the floor and be useless tomorrow."

"I am sorry-"

"Stop."

Silence falls. I can hear her breathing, quick and nervous. The sound of traffic outside. The old house settling around us.

"You are afraid of me," I say. Not a question.

"Yes." At least she's honest.

"Good. You should be." I turn my head to look at her profile in the darkness. That small nose. Soft jaw. The curve of her mouth. "But I do not hurt what belongs to me. Remember that."

I should not want this. I should not want her.

But I do.