Page 86 of Inheritance

Signals of submission.

He didn’t need to raise his voice or beat his chest. They felt the shift, his claim to power.

His hand found my back again as he stepped away from the grave, anchoring me in what came next.

And that, more than his words, more than the turn of the crowd, told me exactly who he was now.

He was the Don.

And I belonged to him.

Sophia

The new office didn’t look anything like the room Gabriel’s father once ruled from. Dark walnut had been replaced by midnight-black paneling, matte instead of glossy, so it swallowed light instead of reflecting it. A low, modern chandelier hovered over a slate desk, The family crest hung on the wall. Shelves behind glass displayed a single Italian dagger, a vintage bottle of Brunello, and one framed photograph: a portrait of Gabriel with Logan, their heads bent over a chessboard. Everything else was minimalist decoration.

I paused in the doorway, fingers grazing the new threshold.

Gabriel stood at the wide window that overlooked the grounds, the late afternoon sun blazing behind him, casting warm golden light across the floor. His suit jacket was off, white shirt sleeves rolled once at the forearm, cufflinks discarded. The Dons heavy ring—black gold, engraved with the family crest—rested on his right hand.His ring.

“Close the door.” He said.

I closed it, the latch clicking into a hush so complete it felt padded.

My heels crossed the marble in deliberate, muted taps. Halfway to him I slowed, eyes tracing the cut of his shouldersbeneath linen, the single dark lock of hair that had fallen loose against his temple. He’d been working—scattered papers lay across the desk, pages edged in red pen. Fresh power looked good on him; it fit like the jacket draped across his chair.

His eyes met mine, softened by something private I doubted anyone else ever saw.

“You’re late,” he said, not accusing, just stating a fact.

“Sorry.” My voice sounded smaller in the room’s hush. I smoothed a non-existent crease in my dress.

His eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of something dark behind them.

“I’m going to have to punish you.” He said.

“Punish me?” I asked, barely more than a breath.

He leaned back against the sill, arms folding without hurry. The ring flashed again as his thumb stroked the opposite wrist, a quiet warning.

“Come here.”

My heels clicked once, twice, then stopped when his gaze sharpened—cool command wrapped in lazy amusement.

“Closer,” he said.

I obeyed until I could feel the warmth of his body. His chest rose, slow and controlled.

“Good,” he murmured, the single word sliding like heat under my skin.

“I warned you, yet you are late again,” His voice dropped lower. “Why?”

To be punished.

“Maybe I want to see if you’ll keep your word.”

The corner of his mouth lifted—half smile, half threat.

“Oh, I keep my word.”