The Lord's Plaything

He took me to his penthouse.

I stood in the foyer, arms crossed, while he dismissed Marco and poured himself a scotch.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"I don't know what you mean."

"You've been dodging me for a week. You cleared out your apartment. Your father's people are saying you've gone off the rails." He took a slow drink, watching me over the rim of the glass. "And I just pulled a bank alert showing you liquidated half a million in assets."

"You're monitoring my accounts?"

"I'm monitoring everything about you." He set the glass down. "Start talking."

"I'm getting married."

Silence.

Dante's expression didn't change. Not a flicker. But the air in the room went cold.

"To whom?"

"Emilio Agosti."

A pause. Then: "The dying man. The coma case." His voice was flat. "Your father sold you."

"I volunteered."

"Why?"

"Because I wanted to."

He crossed the room in three strides, backing me against the door. His hand braced beside my head, his body a wall of heat and anger.

"You're lying."

"Am I?"

"Emilio Agosti has been in a vegetative state for six months. You'd be a widow before your first anniversary." His breath was hot against my temple. "This isn't a marriage. It's a payoff. So I'll ask again—why?"

I looked up at him. Watched the muscle flex in his jaw. Thought about the locked drawer in his study. The photographs. The white dress in the cathedral district.

"Why do you care?"

"I asked first."

"I asked second."

He kissed me.

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't asking permission. It was punishment and possession and desperation tangled together, his hands in my hair, my back against the door, teeth catching on my lower lip.

I let him. For a moment. Then I shoved him back.

"No."

"Sera—"

"I'm not your plaything anymore, Dante."

"Anymore?" He stared at me. "Is that what you think you were?"

"What else would I be? You've never introduced me to anyone. Never taken me anywhere public. I'm the woman you hide in your penthouse while you—"

I stopped.

"While I what?"

I thought about Elena Abate's dark curls and innocent smile. I thought about her standing in my father's parlor, knowing exactly who I was.

"Nothing. It doesn't matter. I'm marrying Emilio Agosti at the end of the month."

"The hell you are."

"You can't stop me."

"Can't I?" His voice dropped to something dangerous. "I could have Emilio Agosti unplugged from his machines by morning."

"Then I'd be engaged to a corpse instead of a coma patient. Either way, I'm leaving."

I grabbed my suitcase and headed for the guest room.

Dante caught my wrist. "Sera. Please."

The word stopped me cold.

Dante Moretti did not say please. Dante Moretti gave orders. He made demands. He killed men who disappointed him.

He did not beg.

But I remembered the photographs in his drawer. I remembered Elena Abate's knowing smile.

I pulled free.

"Goodnight, Dante."

I locked the door behind me.

-

I woke to voices in the living room.

"—can't just keep her here, Dante." Marco's voice was strained. "She's not a prisoner."

"She's not leaving."

"You're not hearing me. The Agosti family is already moving assets around. The deal is in motion. If you interfere—"

"I'll handle the Agostis."

"And the girl? She seems pretty determined."

Silence.

Then Dante said, very quietly: "I know. That's what worries me."

I pressed my ear to the door, hardly breathing.

"What about Elena?" Marco asked. "She's been calling. She wants to see you."

"Later."

"Dante—"

"I said later."

Footsteps. A door closing. Then nothing.

Elena. Calling. Demanding.

And Dante saying "later" instead of rushing to her side.

I didn't know what to make of that. I didn't want to make anything of it.

But it was the first crack I'd seen in the story I'd told myself.