The Transfer
1046 Words
Bianca’s Pov
The car smelled like leather and gun oil.
I noticed it because my brain needed something small to hold onto. Something ordinary. If I thought about anything else about the blood soaking into my dress, about the way Don Moretti’s body hit the floor I felt like I might stop breathing.
Dante sat beside me, relaxed, one arm stretched along the back of the seat. He didn’t crowd me, didn’t touch me, and somehow that made it worse. The space between us felt intentional. Measured.
The car moved fast. Too fast for traffic. No one tried to stop us.
I kept my hands in my lap. They were still shaking. I pressed my fingers together until my nails dug into my skin, grounding myself in the sting. The ring on my finger caught the light again. I twisted it without thinking.
“Don’t,” Dante said.
My hand froze.
“That ring belonged to a dead man,” he continued. “You’ll take it off when I tell you to.”
I swallowed. My throat felt dry, like I’d been screaming for hours even though I hadn’t made a sound since the cathedral.
“I didn’t know,” I said again, because I didn’t know what else to say. “About any debt.”
Dante glanced at me, brief and assessing. “Ignorance doesn’t change ownership.”
The word hit harder than the explosion had.
Ownership.
I turned my face toward the window. The city blurred past, familiar streets turning into something distant and unrecognizable. My chest felt tight, like the air was thinner inside the car.
“Where are you taking me?” I asked.
“Home,” he replied.
I let out a short, humorless breath. “That’s not my home.”
He tilted his head slightly. “It is now.”
I stopped asking questions after that.
The drive felt endless. I watched the city disappear, replaced by winding roads and open space. My phone was gone. My purse too. I didn’t remember anyone taking them, but they were missing all the same.
When the car finally slowed, my stomach dropped.
The estate sat on the edge of a cliff, tall and isolated, lights glowing softly against the dark. It didn’t look like a prison. It looked worse. Permanent.
The gates opened without pause.
The car stopped in front of the entrance, and one of Dante’s men opened my door. I hesitated, my legs stiff, my body slow to obey. Dante stepped out smoothly and turned back toward me.
“Bianca,” he said.
It was the first time he’d said my name.
I looked up at him.
“Walk,” he added. “No one’s dragging you.”
I stepped out.
The cold hit me immediately. The night air brushed against the bare skin of my arms, and I shivered. Someone draped a coat over my shoulders before I could react. I didn’t see who. I didn’t thank them.
Inside, the estate was quiet. Too quiet. No shouting. No panic. Just controlled movement. People who knew exactly where they were meant to be and what they were meant to do.
I was led upstairs, past doors I wasn’t allowed to open, into a bedroom that was larger than my father’s entire apartment.
I stopped short.
The room wasn’t generic. It wasn’t cold. It was… prepared.
Books lined the shelves. The same kind I liked. Heavy curtains. A bed dressed in neutral colors. A small table by the window with a glass of water already waiting.
I turned slowly, my chest tightening.
“You’ve been here before,” I said quietly.
Dante stood in the doorway, watching me like he’d been waiting for the realization to hit.
“No,” he said. “But I knew you would be.”
I hugged the coat tighter around myself.
“How?”
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. Not locking it. Just closing it.
“You’re not a hostage,” he said calmly.
“You’re not a guest either.”
I laughed, sharp and broken. “That’s comforting.”
“You are collateral,” he corrected. “A blood debt doesn’t vanish because the debtor dies. Don Moretti owed me. He failed to pay. Under our law, the debt is transferred to his widow.”
“I was married for less than an hour.”
“That’s irrelevant.”
My nails dug into my palms. “So what happens now?”
Dante studied me for a moment, like he was deciding how much truth to give.
“You stay,” he said. “You live. You follow my rules.”
“And if I don’t?”
His voice stayed even. “Then the people who want you will come looking. And they won’t be as patient as I am.”
I felt my knees weaken. I moved to the edge of the bed and sat down before they gave out completely.
“My father,” I said. “He’ll..”
“He already tried to negotiate,” Dante cut in.
I looked up sharply. “What?”
“He begged,” Dante continued,
unbothered. “He offered money he doesn’t have and loyalty he can’t afford. I declined.”
Something cold settled in my chest. “You killed my husband. You take me. And you just… turn him away?”
“He sold you,” Dante said flatly. “Twice.”
The words landed like a slap.
I shook my head. “No. He did what he had to.”
Dante’s expression didn’t change. “So did I.”
Silence stretched between us.
Finally, he turned toward the door. “You’ll eat. You’ll sleep. Tomorrow, we’ll talk about rules.”
“And if I try to leave?” I asked.
He paused, his hand on the handle.
“Then I’ll stop you,” he said. “And you won’t like how.”
The door closed behind him.
I sat there for a long time, staring at the floor, listening to the quiet hum of a house that already knew me too well.
That was when it sank in.
This wasn’t temporary.
I wasn’t being held until something better came along.
I had been transferred.
- Writer
