THE DEVIL’S PLAYGROUND

"Dante!" Alma skipped into his bedroom, her voice bright and overly cheerful. He'd just gotten back from work, the long day evident in the slight slump of his shoulders, and was loosening his tie. Her unannounced entrance, as always, irritated him. "What do you want?" he groaned, seeing her holding her phone up, its camera lens pointed his way. Alma was a social media fanatic, perpetually filming, constantly posting. "Help me out, will you? Ronan isn't around, and I want to take this picture," she said, hopping onto his bed. She thrust the phone towards him, displaying an image on the screen. Dante rolled his eyes and pushed the phone away. "I'm not doing that. Go bother Ronan or Zade." "Please! Ronan and Zade aren't home," she pleaded, her voice taking on a whiny edge. "It's just a quick picture." The picture on her phone depicted a shirtless man with intricate, dark tattoos similar to his own, his chest and arms pressed against a wall. A girl had her hand on his neck, positioned in a stylized, choking grip. "You're always doing stupid challenges with your friends," he mumbled, a note of disdain in his voice. "It's for our dark romance page," she told him, as if that explained everything. "You shouldn't be reading books like that," he replied, casting a disapproving glance at the image. She pulled her tongue at him childishly, watching as he unlaced his expensive shoes then peeled off his socks. "So...?" she prompted. He sighed, a long-suffering sound. "Fine. Hurry. I want to shower. I'm exhausted." Alma sprang off the bed, radiating excitement. She set the camera on a tripod, angling it carefully, then c****d her brows at him when he just stood there, waiting. "What?" he hissed, catching her unspoken cue. "Take off your shirt," she instructed, her eyes wide and innocent, yet firm. A faint, amused chuckle escaped him. He shrugged off his custom-tailored shirt, revealing the hard, muscled expanse of his chest and arms, crisscrossed with the very tattoos Alma admired. Alma then stepped towards him, placing her hand delicately on his neck, mimicking the pose in the picture. She held the camera's remote in her other hand, ready to snap the shot. He watched her, a curious detachment in his gaze. She barely reached his chest, her long hair pulled into a perfect, neat bun, her lashes thick and long, framing innocent eyes. He remembered the day their father had brought her home. Alma, a scared, bewildered child. His father had rescued her from a fire he had been ordered to set into a rivals home. Their father, Don Russo, had been an underdog then, a ruthless operator carving out his territory within the Italian mafia. Now, Dante and his brothers ruled the underworld of Italy, their power absolute, their reach undeniable. He had been a part of shaping this empire, forging it with cunning and calculated ruthlessness. Alma was simply another small piece in his elaborate, controlled world. "Done!" she chirped, a bright smile on her face, letting go of him and snapping him back to the present. "Aawww," she cooed, looking at the picture on her phone. "It's so cute! Thank you, Dante." "Is that it?" he feigned disappointment, a low, smooth cadence to his voice, his eyes twinkling with a predatory amusement. She rolled her eyes at him, gathering her phone and remote, ready to leave. But before she could turn, he moved. His hand shot out, grabbing her arm, and with a swift, powerful motion, he flung her onto the bed. She landed with a startled yelp, sprawled on the soft mattress. He hovered over her, his body a formidable shadow, pinning her hands effortlessly above her head with one of his own. "Dante!" Alma screamed, fear suddenly replacing her earlier excitement. "What are you doing?!" He ignored her cries, a dark smile playing on his lips. His free hand, deliberate and slow, went under her blouse, finding her side, then moving to her breast, pulling at her n*****s through the fabric. "Dante, no! Stop it!" she pleaded, her voice rising in panic. "What? Is that not how dark romance works?" he chuckled, a chilling sound devoid of warmth. His eyes, cold and assessing, fixed on her face, watching the fear bloom in her eyes. Satisfied with her terror, he suddenly let her go, releasing her hands and stepping back. "I hate you," she murmured, her voice trembling, a single tear slipping down her cheek. Without another word, she scrambled off the bed and ran out of his room, leaving him alone in the quiet space, his predatory amusement lingering in the air.