Between Loyalty and You

Chapter 17 (Sofia's POV)

The invitation came through my father the next evening.

Dante would be joining us for dinner. Business to discuss. The kind of quiet conversation that happened over good wine and better food when two men who trusted each other needed to speak without an audience of soldiers. I received the news with a carefully blank face and then spent the next hour in my room trying to steady the sudden, sharp kick of my pulse.

Seeing him again so soon felt both like a gift and a threat.

I chose a simple deep-green dress that covered the last fading marks on my wrists and sat modestly at the knee. Nothing that would draw my father’s eye. Nothing that would remind Dante too openly of the woman who had worn sheer black lace on his kitchen counter. When I came downstairs the table was already set for three. My father at the head, as always. The place to his right left open for Dante. Mine across from it.

He arrived precisely on time.

I heard the low exchange of greetings in the foyer, the solid sound of the front door closing, and then Dante stepped into the dining room. Dark suit. No tie. The same controlled presence that filled every space he entered. His eyes found me for half a second—long enough for something private and heated to pass between us—before he turned fully to my father and clasped his hand.

“Marco.”

“Dante. Sit. Wine?”

They settled into the easy rhythm of men who had known each other for decades. I took my seat and kept my hands steady as the first course was served. Conversation stayed light at first—updates on the cleaned-up threat at the estate, a shipment that had come in clean, a mutual acquaintance who was causing minor problems on the docks. I ate. I nodded when appropriate. I tried not to stare at the way Dante’s fingers curled around the stem of his glass and remember how those same fingers had looked wrapped around my throat.

Halfway through the main course my father set his fork down and reached for his wine.

“There’s another matter,” he said. His tone shifted—still calm, but carrying the weight of something already decided. “Don Ricci reached out yesterday. He’s proposing a marriage alliance. His son, Matteo, and Sofia. The territories on the eastern docks have been contested for too long. A union would settle the blood between the families and give both sides clear lines.”

The sip of wine I had just taken went down the wrong way.

I coughed hard, eyes stinging, and grabbed for the napkin. My father glanced at me with mild concern.

“You all right?”

“Fine,” I managed, still clearing my throat. “Went down wrong.”

I forced myself to look up.

Dante was already watching me.

Whatever I had expected to find in his expression—careful blankness, the masked neutrality of the don, even the banked heat I had grown used to—was not there. What looked back at me was something I had never seen on his face before. Not in all the years I had known him. Not in the weeks of tension and denial. Not even in the raw moments when he had finally stopped holding back.

It was cold. Absolute. A quiet, lethal stillness that made the air around the table feel thinner. His eyes had gone flat and dark, the same way I imagined they looked when he decided a man would not live to see morning. There was no jealousy in the theatrical sense. No flared temper. Just pure, possessive calculation, as if my father had casually announced that someone else intended to take a thing Dante had already claimed in blood and body and had no intention of releasing.

My father continued, oblivious.

“Matteo is twenty-seven. Educated. Already handling a portion of Ricci’s operations. It would be a strong match, and it would end the low-level fighting that’s been costing us men and money. I’ve told Ricci I’m willing to discuss terms. Nothing is finalized, of course. I wanted Sofia to hear it first.”

I set my glass down with care. My pulse was a hard, uneven drum in my throat. Across the table Dante had not moved. He still held my gaze for another full second before he finally turned his head toward my father, the deadly stillness folding inward until his face was once again only the controlled mask of a trusted friend.

“Ricci’s son,” Dante said. His voice was even, almost thoughtful. “I’ve met him. Ambitious. A little reckless with his personal habits, but that can be corrected.” He reached for his wine and took a slow sip. “A marriage alliance would solve the eastern problem cleanly. You’re right about that.”

The words were reasonable. Supportive, even. But I had seen what lived underneath them. I still felt the weight of that look like a physical brand.

My father nodded, clearly pleased that the man he trusted most saw the strategic value. “I’ll arrange a meeting. Something informal at first. Let the two of them sit in the same room and see if there’s any natural ease. Sofia will have a voice in this—I’m not in the business of selling my daughter—but the benefits are significant.”

I found my own voice, careful and steady. “When would this meeting happen?”

“Within the next two weeks. Ricci is eager.” My father glanced between us. “Dante, I’ll want your read on the boy as well. You’ve always been better at seeing through polished manners than I am.”

“Of course,” Dante answered. “I’ll make myself available.”

The rest of dinner passed in a blur of logistics and surface conversation. I spoke when spoken to. I smiled when it was required. Inside, every nerve felt stretched tight. Every time I looked up, Dante’s expression was once again the composed, loyal face my father expected. But I had seen the truth beneath it. I knew what that cold, lethal stillness meant.

When the meal ended my father excused himself to take a call in his study, leaving the two of us alone in the dining room for the first time all evening. The staff had already cleared the plates. The door to the hallway stood half-open.

Dante remained seated. He didn’t look at me right away. When he finally did, the mask had thinned enough that I could see the same lethal quiet still burning underneath.

“You will not marry Matteo Ricci,” he said, voice low enough that it would not carry. “I don’t care what treaty it secures. I don’t care how clean the alliance looks on paper. It will not happen.”

“My father seems to think it might.”

“Then your father will be persuaded otherwise.” The words were soft and absolute. “I told you in the penthouse that you were mine in that room. I should have been clearer. You’re mine, Sofia. In every way that matters. Another man putting his name on you—putting his hands on you—is not something I will allow.”

The possessive certainty in his voice sent a dark, helpless heat through me even as the danger of it settled cold in my stomach.

“And how exactly do you plan to stop it without telling him why?” I asked.

Dante’s eyes held mine. For a moment the careful distance of the dinner table vanished, and I was looking at the man who had restrained me, flogged me, and f****d me while I begged. The man who had washed me afterward and admitted my father would kill him if he ever knew.

“I’ll find a way,” he said. “Quietly. Permanently. Ricci’s son will become an unsuitable match for reasons that have nothing to do with you. And you will remain exactly where you belong.”

Footsteps sounded in the hallway. My father’s voice carried as he ended his call. Dante’s expression smoothed back into polite neutrality so quickly it was almost frightening.

He stood as my father re-entered, buttoning his jacket with unhurried calm.

“I should go,” he said. “Early meetings tomorrow. Marco, we’ll speak more about the Ricci proposal once you’ve set the initial meeting. Sofia.” He inclined his head to me with perfect, distant courtesy. “Glad to see you recovering so well at home.”

Then he left, the front door closing solidly behind him.

I sat alone at the table for a long moment after my father had also retired, the echo of Dante’s private words still ringing in my ears.

*You will not marry Matteo Ricci.*

*You’re mine.*

The bubble we had lived in at the penthouse was gone. The danger had always been real. But tonight, for the first time, I had seen exactly what Dante Moretti looked like when something he had claimed was threatened.

And I understood that the quiet war that had just started at my father’s dinner table would not end without blood.