The knock at her door came just after sunset.

Elena sat rigid on the edge of the velvet-draped bed, her pulse quickening. She hadn’t moved from the suite all day. She hadn’t eaten. The tray of breakfast still sat untouched on the table, the coffee long gone cold.

The door opened before she answered.

Two guards in black suits entered, their expressions blank, professional. Between them stood the maid who had shown her the suite.

“Signorina,” the maid said carefully, “the Don requests your presence at dinner.”

Requests. The word tasted bitter. It wasn’t a request. It was an order.

Elena stood slowly, smoothing the silk of the black dress the maid had left for her earlier. She had refused to put it on until a half hour ago, when she realized she had no choice but to face him. If she had to be Dante Moretti’s unwilling dinner companion, she’d at least do it on her terms. The dress clung to her curves, its neckline daring, its slit high enough to make her feel exposed. He wanted her dressed like a prize? Fine. She would turn his weapon into armor.

Her chin lifted as she followed the guards through the corridors.

The mansion was quieter at night, shadows stretching long across the marble floors. Every turn of the hall felt endless, designed to remind her how far she was from escape.

Finally, the guards opened tall double doors, revealing a dining hall fit for royalty.

A long table stretched beneath a glittering chandelier, polished to a mirror’s shine. Silver candlesticks flickered with warm light, casting the room in a golden glow. A feast was laid across the surface—steaks, roasted vegetables, wine decanters gleaming.

And at the far end of the table sat Dante.

He was dressed in black again, his suit jacket discarded, his crisp shirt rolled to the forearms. His posture was relaxed, but his gaze was sharp, fixed on her with the intensity of a predator watching prey.

“Sit,” he said.

Elena’s feet carried her forward against her will, each step echoing on the marble. She sat opposite him, the entire length of the table between them.

“You didn’t eat today,” Dante said, his voice smooth, calm.

“I wasn’t hungry.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “You’ll find I don’t tolerate disobedience well.”

She smirked, though her stomach twisted. “What are you going to do? Force-feed me?”

Something dangerous flickered in his gaze, but then he leaned back, folding his hands. “I don’t have to. Hunger is its own punishment.”

Their eyes locked across the table, the silence thick, heavy with unspoken challenges.

Finally, Dante reached for the wine. He poured into two crystal glasses, sliding one down the polished surface until it stopped in front of her.

“Drink.”

Elena lifted the glass, swirling the crimson liquid. She didn’t sip. “What, no poison?”

A faint smirk touched his lips. “If I wanted you dead, Elena, you would not be sitting here.”

Her pulse stuttered, but she raised the glass and took a defiant sip. The wine burned sweet across her tongue.

“Better,” he murmured, as though rewarding a child.

She slammed the glass down harder than necessary. “I am not your pet.”

“No,” he agreed softly. “You’re something far more dangerous.”

Her breath caught, but she masked it with another sip of wine.

The maid entered then, placing plates before them. Filet mignon, vegetables glistening with butter, a basket of fresh bread. Elena’s stomach betrayed her with a sharp pang.

Dante noticed. Of course he noticed.

“Eat,” he commanded.

She hated that her hand trembled as she picked up the fork. But the first bite sent warmth flooding through her, and she realized how starved she truly was. She ate slowly, forcing herself not to look ravenous under his gaze.

He ate as well, every movement precise, controlled. It infuriated her—how calm he was, how untouched by the storm raging inside her.

Finally, Elena set down her fork, her appetite dulled by anger. “Why me?” she demanded. “Why not take Matteo instead? He’s the one who owes you.”

Dante dabbed his lips with a linen napkin before answering. “Because your brother is useless. Weak. Killing him would mean nothing.”

“Then let me go.”

His gaze sharpened. “No.”

Her chest tightened. “Why?”

He leaned forward, his eyes dark, unreadable. “Because from the moment I saw you, I knew breaking you would satisfy me more than killing ten men like Matteo.”

The words hit like a slap. Heat rushed to her face, anger and humiliation colliding. “You’ll never break me.”

His lips curved in a faint, dangerous smile. “We’ll see.”

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Elena’s chest rose and fell rapidly, her fury warring with the treacherous heat curling low in her belly. She hated him. She hated the way his voice slid under her skin, the way his eyes seemed to strip her bare.

She hated that a part of her felt alive under his gaze.

Dante poured more wine, his movements calm, deliberate. “Do you know why no one dares challenge me, Elena?”

“Because you’re a monster?” she shot back.

His smirk returned, sharper now. “Because I never lose. Not in business. Not in war. Not in anything I claim.”

He let the words linger, heavy with meaning.

Elena’s hands curled into fists beneath the table. She wanted to scream at him, to shatter that calm exterior, to show him he couldn’t own her.

Instead, she rose abruptly, her chair scraping against the marble. “I’m done.”

Dante didn’t move. He didn’t shout. He only watched her with that dark, consuming gaze. “Go, then. But remember this, Elena…”

She froze in the doorway, her back stiff, her heart pounding.

“You’re free to run,” he said softly, almost like a caress. “But no matter where you go, you’ll never escape me.”

Her breath caught. She walked out without answering, her hands shaking, her heart a battlefield of fury and fear.

Behind her, the door closed with a quiet click.

And Elena realized she wasn’t just fighting a man.

She was fighting a king who had never lost a war.