Isabella's POV
The air in the mansion was poisonous in the days following our fight. Dante had vanished into the bowels of his empire, a brooding storm contained elsewhere. My words—I didn't choose you—hung between us like a drawn blade. I'd won that battle, but the victory felt ashen. I'd seen the raw, gutted look in his eyes before the shutters slammed down, and a part of me, a traitorous, stupid part, had ached for him.
I needed air that wasn't filtered through his wealth and his rage. To my surprise, when I requested a supervised outing—a simple coffee at a public café—permission was granted within the hour. No argument. Just a silent, tense acquiescence from Marco, who relayed the message. It felt less like a privilege and more like a tactical retreat on Dante's part.
Leo drove me to the café, with Enzo following in a separate car. They weren't subtle. We went to a chic, minimalist café in SoHo, one I'd loved in my old life. The guards took a table by the door, giving me a semblance of privacy at a corner table by the window. The normalcy was a shock—the hiss of the espresso machine, the low chatter of strangers, the clatter of cups. For a few blessed minutes, I could pretend I was just Isabella Romano, art graduate, sipping an overpriced latte.
The fantasy shattered when he walked in.
Marco. My Marco.
He looked the same. Soft brown eyes, kind face, wearing a slightly rumpled corduroy jacket. He looked like comfort. He looked like a life I'd been forcibly evicted from.
His eyes scanned the café, landed on me, and filled with a mixture of relief and desperate hope. He started toward me. Leo and Enzo shifted in their seats, hands drifting inside their jackets. I gave a minute, frantic shake of my head. Stand down.
He slid into the chair opposite me, ignoring the glares from my guards. "Isabella. My God. I've been experiencing extreme anxiety. No one would tell me anything. Your father just said you were taken care of. What's going on? Who are those men?"
His voice, so familiar, so concerned, was a time machine. It pulled me back to a simpler self, one who believed love was enough and the biggest threat was a bad review at the gallery.
"You shouldn't be here, Marco," I whispered, my voice trembling. "It's not safe. For you."
"Safe? What are you talking about? Are you in some kind of trouble? Did your father get you mixed up in something?" He reached across the table for my hand.
I pulled back as if burnt. "It's more complicated than that."
His face fell, then hardened with resolve. "I don't care. I made a mistake, Bella. The mistake I made was a significant one. When your dad's debt came to light, I got scared. I panicked. I believed that the situation was dire. But I was wrong. I love you. I want you back. We can figure this out. We can leave. Tonight."
His words were a siren song. An escape hatch. A return to the chosen, if flawed, love I'd once known. A life where I wasn't a possession but a partner.
For one dizzying second, I let myself imagine it. Walking out with him, leaving the gilded cage, the dangerous obsession, and the terrifying, complex man who owned me.
But the fantasy crumbled instantly. I thought of Dante's men at the door. I thought of Viktor Volkov's pale eyes. I thought of the brutal, unshakeable reality that Dante Salvatore would burn the world to find me, and Marco would be the first casualty. The decision wasn't a choice between two men. It was a choice between dragging a good man into a warzone or staying in the bunker with the monster who waged it.
"You don't understand," I said, my voice breaking. "I can't leave. It's not possible."
"Of course it is! We'll go to the police—"
"The police can't help." The finality in my tone stopped him cold. I saw the moment he truly looked at the guards, at my expensive but simple clothes that were a tier above anything I'd ever owned, at the hollow look in my eyes that hadn't been there before. He was starting to understand the kind of trouble I was in.
"Who is he, Isabella?" Marco asked, his voice now thick with dawning fear.
The air in the café changed. A chill swept through the warm space, silencing the chatter. I didn't need to look at Dante to know he was there.
Dante stood just inside the door.
He was dressed in a black coat over a charcoal suit, his expression a mask of icy calm. But his eyes—his eyes were pure, predatory fury. He'd been informed. He'd come. This was the confrontation he'd been itching for since my confession.
He didn't look at Marco. He looked only at me as he crossed the room with a lethal grace that made everyone, even the oblivious hipsters, fall silent. Leo and Enzo were on their feet, rigid.
Marco turned, sensing the threat. He paled, his bravado evaporating under the sheer, terrifying force of Dante's presence.
Dante stopped at our table. He finally glanced at Marco, a look of such utter, dismissive contempt it was more violent than a slap. Then his gaze returned to me.
"Isabella," he said, his voice a soft, dangerous caress. "Introduce me to your… friend."
My mouth was dry. "Dante, this is Marco. Marco, this man is my husband."
The word 'husband' landed like a bomb. Marco's face shattered. "Husband?" he choked out, looking between us. "You… you married him? This is who took you?"
"She didn't marry me," Dante corrected smoothly, his eyes never leaving mine. A cruel, possessive smile touched his lips. "I married her."
He leaned down then, one hand coming to cradle the back of my head, his fingers tangling in my hair. There was no asking. No permission. It was an assertion.
His lips crashed down on mine.
It wasn't a kiss of love or even desire. It was a brand. It was a declaration of war. A physical stamp of ownership performed for an audience of one—the man from my past. His mouth was hard, demanding, and punishing. He poured every ounce of his jealousy, his fury, and his terrifying obsession into that kiss. It was brutal. It was possessive.
And God help me, my body responded.
A traitorous heat flooded my veins. His mouth swallowed a soft, helpless sound. My hands, which had flown up to push him away, instead fisted in the front of his coat, holding on as the world tilted. It was wrong. It was a violation. And it set every nerve ending I possessed on fire.
He pulled back just as abruptly, leaving me gasping, my lips swollen, my mind reeling. He kept his face close to mine, our breaths mingling.
"We're leaving," he murmured, his voice a dark promise for my ears only. Then he straightened, turning his glacial gaze back to Marco, who looked like he'd been gutted. "You will not look for her. You will not speak her name. If you do, the next conversation we have will not be in a café. Are we clear?"
Marco, the kind teacher, the man I'd once chosen, could only nod, mute with terror.
Dante took my elbow, his grip firm, and guided me to my feet. I was trembling, a volatile mix of fury, humiliation, and that damned, unwelcome arousal humming under my skin. He led me out, past the staring patrons, past his stone-faced men, into the waiting, idling Rolls-Royce at the kerb.
The door shut, sealing us in the soundproof, opulent silence. He released my arm as if it burnt him.
I found my voice, a scalding torrent of rage. "How dare you? How dare you do that? In public? "Do you treat me like a piece of property that you need to mark?"
He stared straight ahead, his profile carved from granite. "That's exactly what you are."
"Do that again without my permission," I seethed, my whole body shaking, "and I'll—"
He turned his head slowly, his dark eyes blazing with a heat that had nothing to do with anger. A knowing, arrogant smirk curved his lips.
"You'll what, tesoro?" he purred, his voice dropping to an intimate, mocking whisper. He reached out, his thumb brushing roughly over my kiss-swollen lower lip, a gesture that sent a fresh jolt through me. "We both know you liked it."
I slapped his hand away, my face flaming with the truth of his words. The ultimate humiliation. He'd claimed me publicly, violated my will, and my body had betrayed me, revelling in the raw possession of it.
He just leaned back, that infuriating, knowing smirk still in place, as the car carried us back to the fortress.
I had gone to the café for a taste of my old freedom.
I had returned with the indelible, terrifying proof that my old self was gone, and the man I hated owned not just my present but also my most secret, shameful desires.