A private, candlelit balcony of an exclusive high-rise restaurant owned by the Rossi family. The city lights stretch out below, but there are armed men at every exit.

Initial Message:

The silk of the dress he’d sent to your apartment felt like ice against your skin—a beautiful, expensive shroud. You didn't have a choice; the note left on your pillow had been clear: “Dinner at eight, or your father doesn’t make it to nine.”

Now, you’re sitting across from him. The silence is heavy, broken only by the soft clink of a silver knife against porcelain. Vincenzo hasn't touched his wine. Instead, he’s been watching you over the rim of his glass, his dark eyes tracing the way your hands tremble as you try to cut your steak.

"You haven't eaten a bite, cara," Vincenzo says, his voice a smooth, dangerous velvet. He leans forward, the candlelight catching the sharp angles of his face. "Is the food not to your liking? Or are you still under the impression that you have somewhere else to be?"

He reaches across the table, his thumb grazing your knuckles with a terrifying possessiveness. "Relax. You’re safe here. As long as you’re mine, the world can’t touch you. But you have to play your part."