Dante didn’t waste time. Two days after our deal, his black car slid to a stop in front of my family’s estate. The Romano crest on its hood sparkled as though an act of war.

Each guard on the property stiffened when he stepped out — because no one entered our house uninvited. Except him. I stood at the door, a diamond solitaire burning on my finger.

Dante slipped it on the night before with some sort of casual arrogance—like he hadn’t just redrawn the battlefield of our lives. It was a sharp, heavy stone, made to be seen.

“You’re late,” I said when he came to me. "You’re welcome," he answered with an easy smile and brushed past me into the house.

That was the dining room, my father at the head of the table, uncles near him; cousins were lined up like soldiers. Dante’s entrance was an even louder echo of those silences.

Every gaze tracked him.

He prospered under it; quiet, predatory, unbothered. “Mr. Romano,” my father said coolly. “Don.” Dante cocked his head to him, with that kind of respect that didn’t exactly mean respect at all.

“I think congratulations are warranted.” The room bristled: my father’s eye shot to my hand, up to the diamond shining in the chandelier.

His jaw locked. “So it’s true.” “Yes.” I plucked my arm through Dante’s, nails grazing his sleeve for balance. “We’re engaged.”

Dante gazed down at me with a grin so pure performance — possessive, rehearsed, terrifying. He did it so deftly I forgot it was an act. My father’s silence was worse than yelling.

Finally, he said, “A union with the Romanos is dangerous. Your mother would have—” “My mother is dead,” I interjected, more abruptly than intended. “And I will not be bartered to the Vescari like cattle.

” Dante’s hand tightened on mine. For that reason, though, I couldn’t tell if it was advice or encouragement.

The table exploded — uncles demanded answers, cousins whispered betrayal. I just stood tall through it but Dante… Dante only laughed.

Low, dark, the roar of an already successful man. “Gentlemen,” he drawled. “You clearly see the genius here. A Romano and a Moretti? No Vescari, not among them, stands to cross us now. Unless…” He stopped, the reflection on his face as sharp as a knife.

“Unless you’d rather see her chained to Matteo.” The threat hung heavy. My father’s face turned stone, but I saw it — the calculation, the bleak acknowledgment. Dante had boxed him in.

At last, he gave a curt nod. “So be it. But remember this, Romano — if you make her feel ashamed or break this deal I will make you regret breathing.” Dante’s smile was glacial. “Noted.”

*********

The performance carried on at the party that night. A hastily organized “engagement celebration,” but half the city’s elite were in attendance.

Crystal glasses clinked. Cameras flashed. Families, competition, vultures—every family came to see if the rumor was true.

Dante came over to my side with a hand spread out over the small of my back, leading the crowd of people as though I already belonged to him. My body rebelled at the touch, but I neither withdrew. To pull away is a form of weakness.

“Smile,” he murmured into my ear as we moved into the ballroom. “Or they’ll eat you alive.” I smiled.

A bright, dazzling thing that concealed my fury. Whispers coursed from the room: “Romano and Moretti?” “Impossible.”

“Dangerous.” Exactly what I wanted. We mingled, we toasted, and we acted as the pleased couple.

Dante was infuriatingly good at it—his arm near my waist, mouth grazing my temple in mock adoration, voice silklike when he introduced me as “my fiancée.” But every touch burned.

Every look lingered too long. And each time I looked at him I could see it: that glint of hunger, of wanting to devour the world — and maybe me with it. “Careful,” I muttered at no one else’s ear.

“You’re enjoying this too much.” He smirked. “And you’re pretending not to.” I turned away before he could read the heat in my eyes.

Later, the speeches began. My father spoke briefly, his toast ice cold but impossible to misinterpret: the union was official. My hand was Dante's now, and through me a delicate truce had been forged.

Dante lifted his glass, his words slow and deliberate. “I’ve known Isidora Moretti most of my life. She’s smart, stubborn, impossible to outmaneuver…” His eyes met mine, something sharper than ridicule in them. “…and the only woman who’s ever forced me to fight to win.”

A wave of laughter rolled through the audience. My cheeks burned. Dante raised his glass, his smile lethal. “To my fiancée—the one woman who could turn an enemy into an ally.” Glasses clinked. Applause thundered. The charade was sealed.