Page 71

Dante pushes off the wall, moving to stand beside me. The heat of his body provides unexpected support as my father continues.

"Besides," Father adds, gaze sliding dismissively over Dante. "The arrangement was with the Volkovs, not directly with...him."

"And what had you planned, exactly?" I demand, furious that even now, he can't acknowledge Dante's presence properly. "Which old man would you have eventually sold me to? Which strategic alliance would have justified whoring out your daughter?"

"Language, Francesca." My father sighs as if I'm a child throwing a tantrum. "Your education was meant for more significant alliances. The Bourbons expressed interest. Even the Fukuda family had inquired. Your bloodline, your training, your virgin status—"

"Stop!" I hiss, disgust rising like bile. "I'm not a fucking thoroughbred."

"You'reCastellano." He steps closer, voice hardening. "That means responsibility. Duty. Sacrifice when necessary. Values you seem to have forgotten while playing house with a man whose own father couldn't even trust him with the family name."

Dante goes utterly still beside me.

My father turns to him, a cruel smile tugging at his lips. "Isn't that right, Ravelli? Vito knew what you were. A useful attack dog, but never fit to wear the crown. That's why he chose Luca. Everyone knows it."

The air in the box heats with danger. Dante's expression transforms, the controlled predator suddenly, violently unleashed.

"You think I don't know what I am?" Dante's voice drops to a tone that promises blood. "You think I haven't embraced it,perfectedit, while pathetic men like you hide behind family names and ancient rules?"

My father dismisses him with a gesture. "Men like you are useful for certain tasks. But there's a natural order in our world, and those who forget their place eventually suffer for it."

The words hit Dante like a punch to the throat. I see it in the tightening of his jaw, the deadly stillness of his body. These aren't just insults… they're echoes of wounds inflicted by his own father. Scars I've only begun to understand.

"Dante," I say softly, reaching for his arm. "He's not worth it. Come on."

But Dante's focus remains locked on my father, something terrible and beautiful transforming his features.

"You should apologize to your daughter," he says with deadly quietness.

My father laughs loudly. "Apologize?! For wha—"

The movement happens so fast I barely register it. One moment my father stands tall; the next, blood sprays from his shattered nose as Dante's fist connects with his face.

Antonio Castellano stumbles backward, hands rising to his face in shock. Blood seeps between his fingers, staining his perfectly white shirt.

"You... fucking..." he sputters, rage replacing surprise.

Dante moves forward but I step between them, one hand on Dante's chest, feeling the thunderous rhythm of his heart beneath my palm.

"Enough," I say firmly.

"I'm not finished," Dante growls, eyes never leaving my father's bloodied face.

"Yes, you are," I counter, turning to face my father. "He's given you a warning. Next time, it will be your life."

For the first time, fear flickers across my father's features. Not of Dante's violence—he's weathered worse—but of the absolute conviction in my voice as I stand beside the man who oncekidnapped me, but now owns and protects my heart with his own.

"You've made your choice then," he says, dabbing his nose with a handkerchief.

"I have."

My father's expression hardens to stone. "Then you are no longer Castellano."

The words should hurt. Should devastate me after a lifetime of being defined by that name and its weight.

Instead, I feel only a strange lightness, as if chains have fallen away.

"You're right, Father. I'm Ravelli now," I answer, taking Dante's hand in mine. "And you should remember that when next you speak of natural order and proper place."