chapter 8
1191 Words
After the storm, after the escape…
Alessia finds herself somewhere she cannot leave.
Alessia’s POV
The gown clung to me like it belonged to someone else. Midnight silk, corseted at the waist, with a skirt that whispered across marble as I walked. Dante’s men had delivered it that afternoon along with diamond earrings that glittered too brightly, like stars captured and forced into cages. I hadn’t wanted to wear them, but when I’d seen the way Dante’s gaze lingered on me, heavy and unrelenting, I knew refusal wasn’t an option.
Now I stood at the foot of the grand staircase, mask in hand, my heart hammering against my ribs as the doors to the ballroom opened.
Music swelled — violins, polished and cold. The chandeliers above blazed with hundreds of candles, casting golden fire over a sea of masked faces. Men in black suits, women in gowns that shimmered like liquid jewels. Diamonds glistened at every throat. Laughter echoed, high-pitched and sharp, slicing through the music like knives.
And every head turned when Dante Romano entered.
He didn’t need a mask. His presence was mask enough. Power radiated from him, coiling around the room until even the boldest men shifted nervously. His hand pressed lightly against the small of my back, guiding me forward.
“Smile,” he murmured, his voice brushing against my ear. “They smell fear faster than blood.”
I stiffened, lifting my chin, forcing my lips into a curve that felt foreign.
“Good girl,” he added, so softly I almost thought I imagined it.
---
The ballroom was a world of masks and whispers. Women with ruby lips leaned close, their laughter sweet as poison. Men clinked glasses, eyes darting toward Dante with a mixture of admiration and dread.
I felt like a lamb paraded through a den of wolves.
“Is this her?” a woman whispered, not even bothering to lower her voice. “The Moretti girl?”
“Romano’s wife,” another replied, the word wife coated in venom.
Their stares slid over me, assessing, dissecting, deciding whether I was worthy to breathe their perfumed air. I wanted to shrink, but instead, I straightened my shoulders. If they wanted a show, I’d give them one.
---
Dante’s grip tightened slightly on my waist. “Ignore them.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” I muttered. “You don’t have daggers for eyes aimed at you.”
His lips curved in the ghost of a smile. “I always have daggers aimed at me, Alessia. Learn to enjoy it.”
Enjoy it. The words scraped against my ears like steel. How could anyone enjoy this?
---
It didn’t take long before she appeared.
Valentina.
Her gown was crimson, clinging to her curves like it was painted on, her mask adorned with black feathers that arched dramatically above her head. She glided across the marble floor with the confidence of a queen returning to her throne.
“Dante,” she purred, her voice dripping with familiarity. She didn’t even glance at me at first. “You didn’t tell me you’d be attending tonight.”
Dante’s expression didn’t change. “Valentina.”
Finally, her gaze slid toward me, sharp as glass. She tilted her head, smiling sweetly, though her eyes glimmered with cruelty. “And this must be the new bride.”
“Alessia,” Dante said evenly. “My wife.”
The word landed heavy. A declaration. A warning.
Valentina’s smile widened. “How precious. She looks… delicate.” Her eyes raked over me, slow and deliberate. “I suppose every king needs a porcelain doll to decorate his throne.”
The surrounding crowd chuckled softly, polite laughter laced with malice. Heat flared across my face. Every instinct screamed at me to lower my gaze, to let the humiliation wash over me. But something inside snapped instead.
I stepped forward, my voice steady though my heart thundered. “Better a porcelain doll than a used toy, wouldn’t you agree, Valentina?”
The laughter cut off abruptly.
Valentina’s smile faltered, her painted lips stiffening. The silence stretched, heavy, until someone gasped softly behind a mask.
Dante’s eyes flickered toward me, something unreadable flashing in their depths. Amusement. Surprise. Approval.
Valentina’s nostrils flared. She leaned in, her whisper slicing like a blade. “Careful, little wife. In this world, sharp tongues get cut out.”
I held her gaze, my voice low. “Then I’ll sharpen mine until it cuts deeper than theirs.”
Her eyes narrowed, but before she could respond, Dante’s arm slipped firmly around my waist.
“That’s enough,” he said, his voice cool and final. “Valentina, you’ve overstayed your welcome.”
The dismissal was brutal. Valentina’s mask of charm cracked, but she forced a smile, dipped her head, and glided away.
The whispers that followed were louder than the music.
“Did you hear what she said?”
“She has fire, that one.”
“She won’t survive long with a mouth like that.”
And through it all, Dante’s hand remained on me, heavy, grounding, unyielding.
---
The night blurred into a haze of champagne, music, and whispers. I danced with Dante — or rather, he moved me effortlessly across the floor while I tried to keep from stepping on his shoes. His grip was strong, his movements precise.
“You surprised me,” he said finally, his eyes locked on mine above the mask.
“With what?”
“The way you handled Valentina. I thought you’d wilt.”
“I’m not a flower.”
“No,” he said softly, his voice curling like smoke. “You’re not.”
Something in his tone unsettled me more than Valentina’s threats had.
---
Hours later, after the last toast and the final waltz, Dante guided me through a side corridor of the estate. I assumed we were leaving, but he stopped suddenly at a heavy oak door.
“I need to speak with someone,” he said. “Wait here. Don’t wander.”
His tone left no room for argument. He disappeared inside, the door shutting firmly behind him.
Left alone, I leaned against the wall, the muffled sound of laughter echoing faintly down the corridor. My eyes wandered, restless. That’s when I saw it — another door slightly ajar at the end of the hall.
Curiosity tugged at me like a string. Against my better judgment, I slipped inside.
The room was dark, lit only by the faint glow of moonlight through tall windows. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with ledgers, books, and papers. A study. My eyes scanned the surfaces, drawn to the large desk at the center.
And there it was.
An envelope, sealed with red wax. The crest stamped into it made my blood run cold.
The Moretti crest.
My father’s crest.
My hands trembled as I reached for it, the seal smooth beneath my fingertips.
Behind me, the door creaked.
“Alessia,” Dante’s voice cut through the silence, low and sharp.
I froze, the letter still in my hand, my heart hammering loud enough to drown out the music.
- Writer
