Chapter 2 - The Rules of the Cage
The silence that followed Lia’s challenge was absolute, heavy enough to crush bone. Dante Romano did not blink, nor did his expression shift by a single micro-expression. He simply stepped closer, invading her personal space with an intimidating, predatory grace that made the champagne-sipping onlookers avert their eyes in synchronized submission.
“Gratitude is not a requirement, Lia,” Dante said, his voice dropping an octave, smooth and dangerous as a razor blade sliding through silk. “Survival is. If you wish to spend your first day as Mrs. Romano fighting gravity, screaming at the walls, or throwing tantrums like a child, be my guest. But understand the geometry of your new reality: the door is unlocked, the guards outside are armed, and the moment you step foot off this property without my arm around your waist, you are legally and practically unprotected. Your aunt’s creditors are still circling like sharks. The only reason they haven't skinned her alive is because my ring is on your finger.”
Lia’s breath hitched in her throat. Every instinct screamed at her to strike him, to throw the crystal champagne flute standing on a nearby silver tray straight into his handsome, arrogant face. But the cold, pragmatic side of her brain—the part that had worked double shifts at Rosie’s Diner just to keep the electricity on—flashed warning signs. She was twenty-one, isolated, penniless, and trapped inside a fortress belonging to a man who commanded the New York underworld. Acting on raw emotion right now wasn't bravery; it was suicide.
“You call this a marriage?” Lia whispered fiercely, her brown eyes locking onto his obsidian gaze without backing down an inch. “It’s a hostage situation dressed up in a designer gown.”
A faint, fleeting flicker of amusement touched the corner of Dante’s mouth, though his eyes remained completely glacial. “Semantics. To the state of New York, we are husband and wife. To my associates, you are the untouchable queen of this syndicate. Accept the crown, Lia, because trying to tear it off will only cut your hands.”
Before she could form a reply, a sharp, crisp cough interrupted them from across the room. A tall man in an immaculate gray bespoke suit stepped forward—Marcus Vance, Dante’s primary legal counsel and fixer.
“Mr. Romano, the delegates from the European shipping consortium have arrived in the east parlor,” Marcus reported smoothly, though his eyes darted toward Lia with a calculating, clinical appraisal. “They are waiting to meet the new Mrs. Romano.”
Dante didn't break eye contact with Lia. He slowly reached out, his warm, calloused fingers wrapping around her wrist with an unyielding, possessive grip. He didn't hurt her, but he made damn sure she knew she couldn't pull away.
“Smile, my love,” Dante murmured softly, his breath brushing her ear as he pulled her flush against his side. “Show them how happy our wedding day has been.”
May you like
Lia’s jaw ached from clenching her teeth so hard, but as they walked together toward the parlor, she forced her features to relax into a smooth, impassive mask. If Dante Romano wanted a queen, she would give him ice. But inside her chest, beneath the black silk and the forged wedding ring, a cold, hard resolve began to crystallize. She wasn't going to be a decorative trophy in his museum of crime. She was going to find a way out, and God help the man who tried to stop her.
---
