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The penthouse air still pulsed with the ghost of his breath against her throat.

Isolde lay on her back on the bed of silk and shadows, her legs tangled in blood-red sheets, her chest rising and falling as she tried to regulate her breath.

Every nerve in her body still buzzed from the window-glass claiming. She smelled of him. Felt him inside her still.

And he watched her.

Dante sat beside her at the edge of the bed, one leg crossed at the ankle, bare forearms resting casually on his thighs.

His silk shirt clung to the muscle of his chest, top buttons open, revealing the curve of a dark rose tattoo just beneath his collarbone.

The line of his jaw was sharp and motionless. Eyes fixed on her like a hunter who already owned the kill.

"You don't understand what you do to me," he murmured finally, voice rough and low like thunder murmured across marble.

She said nothing. Couldn't. Her voice had been moaned raw.

He tilted his head, a slow, controlled motion, then reached to brush a curl of her hair off her flushed cheek. His thumb lingered on her temple.

"I've torn kingdoms apart for less than what you make me feel."

His hand moved down her neck, tracing the marks he left-faint bruises shaped like his fingers.

"Tonight," he said, rising to his feet with predatory grace, "I'll show them."

The underground dining hall of the Vitale Tower had been transformed for a closed-circle mafia gathering.

No public eyes. Only Dante's men, allies, and the elite few powerful enough to speak without trembling.

Gold candelabras burned low. Long tables of obsidian wood shimmered beneath crystal glasses and sharp silverware.

The air buzzed with quiet dread and expensive cologne.

And then he entered.

Dante Valencourt. The silence was immediate.

His presence eclipsed everything.

He wore a three-piece black suit, tailored so close it moved like a second skin.

A blood-red tie. Italian leather gloves he stripped off with calculated ease as he walked through the room.

Every step measured, heel to floor with quiet domination.

Isolde followed two steps behind, her hand clasped lightly in his. Not by force.

By design.

He wanted everyone to see.

She wore black lace-long-sleeved, backless, skin clinging, thigh slit to the hip. Her neck bore the diamond-and-thorn choker he'd fastened himself.

Her walk was silent, but her eyes revealed everything: restraint, confusion, reluctant surrender.

When they reached the head of the table, he held her gaze and pulled out her chair for her, then sat beside her legs spread slightly, posture languid, but charged. One arm draped behind her seat like a possessive chain.

No one dared speak until he lifted his glass.

Nikolai Romanov didn't learn.

A smirk crept onto the Russian's lips as he raised his own drink, eyes trailing down Isolde's frame.

"You brought your leash to dinner, Valencourt."

The words hit like a gunshot.

The room froze.

Dante's smile didn't move. He sipped his wine. Set the glass down with precision.

Then he stood. Slowly.

The chair scraped against the stone. His shoulders squared. His smile faded.

Dante stepped around the table, his movements slow, measured, like a storm deciding where to strike. When he reached Nikolai, he said nothing.

Just stared.

One second. Two.

Then-crack.

Dante slammed the base of his wine glass into Nikolai's face. The shatter was instant-crystal and blood.

Nikolai screamed, staggering back as red poured from his cheek.

But Dante wasn't done.

He grabbed the Russian by the throat, lifting him off the floor and slamming him onto the table. Glass and cutlery flew.

He bent low.

Whispered into the man's ear.

"You looked at her."

A punch to the ribs. Wet crunch.

"You opened your mouth."

Another to the face. More blood.

He reached into his coat and pulled a custom switchblade black handle, engraved with her initials.

He pressed the blade to Nikolai's eye.

"Apologise!!"

"S-sor-Miss," the man choked.

"Again."

"Sorry!"

"Good."

Dante leaned in closer.

"You see her again, I remove your eyelids and make you stare at her until you go blind."

Then he smiled. And let go.

The dining hall remained shrouded in stunned silence.

Nikolai's blood was still fresh on the marble floor. No one moved. No one dared breathe.

Except Dante.

He walked back to the head of the table, his stride slow and relaxed, like he hadn't just shattered a man's face for looking at what he owned.

The switchblade gleamed in his hand as he returned to Isolde's side.

He didn't sit.

Instead, he turned to her.

"Stand up," he murmured low.

She blinked, hesitant. "Dante...?"

His voice darkened, silk-wrapped steel.

"Up."

She obeyed, rising slowly.

Dante towered behind her, his chest nearly flush with her back. One hand slid up her spine, not tender-claiming.

His fingers found the choker at her throat, hooked beneath it possessively, and tilted her head slightly for everyone to see the bruises he'd left earlier.

He said to the room, voice low and vicious. "The rest of you-watch."

Gasps and startled glances scattered across the table. Even seasoned killers had no words for what followed.

His hand snaked around her waist, fingers slipping lower.

Isolde trembled.

"You think she's a trophy?" he whispered, tongue grazing the curve of her ear. "You think this is for show?"

He spun her gently to face him, his hands now locked around her hips.

He didn't care who watched. Didn't flinch under the weight of their stares.

"She is mine, my Wife!! I won't tolerate any disrespect to her from anyone." he said to no one in particular-yet everyone heard it.

Then he kissed her.

Hard.

Hot.

Violent.

In front of them all.

One hand buried in her hair, yanking just enough to tilt her head.

The other pulled her flush against the rigid line of his body. Her moan was swallowed.

Her fingers curled around his lapel like she couldn't decide if she wanted to fight or melt.

Chairs scraped. Glasses clinked. But no one dared move.

Dante broke the kiss, chest heaving slightly. His pupils were blown wide, animal black.

"I bleed men for this woman," he said to the room. "And I'll do worse for less."

He slid a hand up her thigh, fingers vanishing beneath the slit of her dress, letting them all imagine just how far they traveled.

She whimpered.

He smiled darkly.

"Every time you look at her, remember anyone walks tonight because I let them."

Then he sat down.

Pulled her into his lap.

The room never looked at her the same again.

Later at Penthouse.

The air was thick with silence and lust.

Dante stood by the bar, rolling the bloodied sleeves of his dress shirt up past his elbows.

His forearms flexed with each turn, veins shadowing the muscle beneath. His tie hung loose. He looked like war in a three-piece suit.

Isolde stood by the bed, her bare feet silent against the polished stone floor.

"You didn't have to hurt him like that," she whispered.

He looked at her, turning his head just enough to reveal a cold profile.

"Did he touch you?"

"No."

"Did he look at you like he wanted to?"

She hesitated.

"Yes."

He nodded. "Then I was restrained."

He stepped toward her.

She backed up, her breath catching.

She tried to speak, but he grabbed her wrist, pulled her flush to his chest.

His voice dropped.

"Do you want to see what I'd do to protect what's mine?"

His mouth crashed to hers. He caged her against the window, one hand slamming beside her head.

"And...You don't get to be shy when you moan my name louder than my enemies beg for mercy."

He gripped her hips. Turned her.

Lifted her.

Slid her up the glass. She gasped.

"Do you know why I made you cry in front of them?" he asked.

"Why?" she breathed.

He then lifted her again without effort, carried her to the glass table, and laid her down on it.

His jacket hit the floor. Then his tie. His shirt.

Each movement revealed more of him-scarred abs, veined forearms, power stitched into every line of his body.

He knelt.

Spread her legs.

And kissed the inside of her thigh.

"So they'd know your tears don't belong to God. They belong to me."

He entered her with one sharp, perfect thrust.

Her cry shattered the night.

He moved slowly, deeply, every thrust deliberate.

"Dante-please-don't stop-"

He growled into her throat.

And took her like a man possessed. Like a beast with no god but her.