Episode 7: Dinner with the Devil
1028 Words
The next evening, the mansion felt heavier.
Elara could almost hear the silence pressing down on her — the kind that whispers secrets through the walls.
Adriana had come earlier with a soft smile and a black dress draped over her arm.
“The master requested you wear this,” she said gently, though her tone suggested that “request” meant command.
Elara stared at the gown. Silk. Long, sleeveless, the color of midnight. Elegant, yet haunting.
“Requested?” Elara repeated softly, almost to herself. “Or ordered?”
Adriana’s eyes flickered. “He doesn’t need to order twice.”
When she was alone again, Elara took a deep breath and slipped into the dress. The fabric clung to her like a secret she couldn’t shake off. She twisted her hair into a low bun, leaving loose strands to soften her face. When she looked in the mirror, she barely recognized the girl staring back — the one who had once picked wildflowers and dreamed of freedom.
Now, she looked like someone’s possession. Someone’s promise.
---
By the time she reached the dining hall, Dante was already there.
He sat at the head of the long table, his suit blacker than night, his expression unreadable. The chandelier’s golden light glinted off his cufflinks, and the faint scent of tobacco and cedarwood filled the air.
He looked up as she entered. For a moment — just a fraction of one — something flickered across his face. Surprise? Admiration? She couldn’t tell.
“Sit,” he said, his voice low, smooth.
Elara obeyed, her heart pounding. The table was smaller tonight, more intimate. Only two plates. No servants.
“Do you… always dine alone?” she asked quietly.
Dante raised his glass. “Always. Until now.”
Her fingers tightened around the edge of her chair. “Then why now?”
His gaze met hers — steady, unreadable. “Because my wife should know what kind of man she married.”
“I didn’t marry you,” she said before she could stop herself. “My grandfather—”
“Your grandfather signed a contract,” Dante interrupted, his tone sharper now. “But you said the vows. You wear the ring.” He leaned back, swirling his wine. “That makes you mine.”
The word mine echoed in the air, heavy and dangerous.
Elara’s chest ached. She hated how calm he sounded — as if ownership and marriage were the same thing.
She stared down at her untouched plate. “I didn’t choose this.”
He watched her quietly, then said, “Neither did I.”
That silenced her. His voice had shifted — deeper, quieter, touched with something she couldn’t name. Pain, maybe. Regret, even.
For a moment, the air between them softened.
Then, he placed his fork down, his expression hard again. “Eat,” he said. “You’ll need your strength here.”
She looked up. “Why? To survive you?”
Dante’s lips curved slightly, but it wasn’t a smile. “Smart girl.”
---
They ate in tense silence. The sound of silverware scraping porcelain was louder than thunder.
Every few minutes, Dante’s gaze drifted toward her — slow, assessing, as if he was trying to read something written on her soul.
Finally, she couldn’t bear it anymore.
“What is this place to you?” she asked. “A home? A fortress?”
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table.
“It’s both,” he said simply. “And a cage, if you don’t learn the rules.”
Her breath caught. “Then why bring me here?”
He tilted his head slightly, studying her as if testing her courage.
“Because,” he said after a long pause, “debts must be paid. Even in vows.”
The room grew colder.
Elara set her fork down, her voice trembling. “So that’s all I am to you? A debt?”
His eyes darkened — something dangerous flashing behind them.
“Careful, Elara.”
“No,” she whispered, standing abruptly. “I want to understand. You ruin people’s lives for control, for power — but why me? Why not just—”
“Enough.”
The single word sliced through her like a blade.
His voice didn’t rise, but the authority in it silenced the world around them.
Dante stood too, slowly, deliberately.
When he stepped toward her, she backed away, her pulse hammering.
He stopped just inches from her, his gaze locking with hers — gray fire meeting trembling defiance.
“Do you think I wanted this?” he said quietly. “Do you think I enjoy taking what doesn’t belong to me?”
Elara’s breath hitched. “Then why do it?”
“Because sometimes,” he said, his tone dropping to a whisper, “power is the only way to stay alive.”
She stared at him — the man who terrified half of Italy, the man who held her freedom in his hand — and for the first time, she saw something human flicker in his eyes.
Not cruelty.
Not pride.
But loneliness.
---
The air between them pulsed with something unspoken.
Dante reached past her to pour another glass of wine, his hand brushing hers by accident. The contact was brief, electric — enough to make her heart stutter.
He didn’t move for a moment.
Then, softly: “You should stay out of the east wing.”
She frowned. “Why?”
He turned, his face now shadowed by the dim light.
“Because,” he said, “some ghosts don’t like being disturbed.”
And just like that, he left — leaving her standing there, shaken and breathless, surrounded by the echo of a truth she didn’t yet understand.
---
That night, as Elara lay awake in her bed, she could still feel his presence — his voice, his gaze, his warning.
The mansion was quiet, but the silence no longer felt empty.
It felt alive.
And somewhere deep inside, she began to realize that the devil she was forced to marry might not have horns…
But he definitely had scars.
- Writer
