Chapter 3 - Whispers in the East Parlor
The east parlor was a sprawling, neoclassical room filled with antique mahogany bookshelves, Persian carpets, and three formidable men whose tailored suits reeked of old European money and ruthless maritime trade. When Dante and Lia entered, the men rose instantly, their expressions shifting from stern professionalism to polite, deferential awe.
“Gentlemen,” Dante announced, his arm remaining firmly, possessively wrapped around Lia’s waist. “Allow me to present my wife, Lia.”
The eldest of the three, a silver-haired Italian patriarch named Donato Moretti, stepped forward and bowed slightly, taking Lia’s cold hand and pressing a formal kiss to the back of her knuckles. “Signora Romano. A stunning surprise. We were given to understand Mr. Romano was wedded solely to his empire.”
“Times change, Donato,” Dante replied smoothly, guiding Lia to a plush leather armchair while he remained standing beside her, a protective, looming shadow. “Even empires require a foundation.”
Lia sat quietly, listening to the rapid-fire exchange of corporate acquisitions, dock tariffs, and offshore logistics that followed. To an outsider, it sounded like high-level international business. But to anyone paying attention to the subtext—the subtle shifts in posture, the coded references to 'unloading cargo without customs interference'—it was a cartel summit disguised as a boardroom meeting.
Her mind raced. This was her opportunity. If she could find a way to slip a message to Donato Moretti—someone outside Dante’s immediate inner circle—she might find an ally, or at least a phone to call the police. But every time she shifted her weight or glanced toward the heavy mahogany double doors, she felt the burning weight of Dante’s gaze fixed squarely on the side of her face. He knew every move she would make before she even thought of it.
“And the distribution channels through the Brooklyn harbor?” Donato asked, leaning forward. “Are the union disputes resolved?”
“Permanently,” Dante said, his voice dropping into a chilling register. “The foreman who tried to leak our manifest was... relocated. There will be no further delays.”
Lia felt a cold shiver crawl down her spine. Relocated. In Dante’s vocabulary, that word likely had a very short, very brutal lifespan.
When the meeting finally adjourned forty-five minutes later, the European delegates bowed out, leaving Lia and Dante alone in the cavernous parlor. The heavy silence rushed back in like a tide.
Lia stood up immediately, shaking off his arm as if it burned her skin. “Do you enjoy parading me around like a prize mare to your criminal friends?”
Dante didn't flinch. He walked over to a crystal decanter on a side table, poured himself two fingers of dark amber whiskey, and took a slow sip before looking at her. “You handled yourself well. Better than expected. Most girls from Queens would have burst into tears before the first port authority reference.”
“I’m not a girl from Queens anymore, am I?” Lia snapped, her voice trembling with suppressed fury. “I’m Mrs. Romano. Prisoner number one in your marble cage. Where is my phone, Dante? Where are my clothes? Where is my life?”
“Your old life is dead, Lia,” Dante said, his tone chillingly flat. “If you walked out those doors right now in your old clothes with thirty-two dollars in your checking account, your aunt’s loan sharks would peel the skin from your bones within twelve hours to settle her tab. I didn't lock you in a cage; I built a vault around you because the world outside is carnivorous.”
“Let me be the judge of that!”
“No,” Dante stepped forward, closing the distance between them with terrifying speed, his dark eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that sucked the air right out of the room. He reached out, his hand cupping the back of her neck, his thumb brushing dangerously close to her pulse point. “You belong to me now. Get used to the sound of it. Because every breath you take, every meal you eat, and every step you walk inside this house is a privilege I grant you.”
Lia stared up at him, her chest heaving, the sheer, arrogant dominance radiating from him almost suffocating. But instead of shrinking back, she tilted her chin up defiantly, her brown eyes flashing with pure fire.
May you like
“You can buy the paper, Dante,” she whispered fiercely, her voice steady despite the adrenaline hammering in her veins. “You can forge the signature. But you will never, ever own me.”
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