Shackled Hearts

Chapter Nine

Dante

The pulse of Il Vizio beat through the walls like a living thing. From his office above, Dante could see everything: bodies pressed together on the dance floor, glasses raised in toasts that meant nothing, deals whispered into ears that could never be trusted. The smoke, the perfume, the greed—it was all his kingdom, his domain. And yet tonight, it felt more like a cage.

He stood at the wide glass window, whiskey in hand, watching the crowd not with pleasure but calculation. Every laugh below was a distraction. Every sway of a woman’s hips was weakness. Normally, he thrived on it. Tonight, it grated.

The door opened with a soft click. Eva’s perfume preceded her, sweet and suffocating. She moved into the room like she owned it, a trained smile plastered on her painted lips.

“You’ve been hiding up here,” she cooed, gliding to the couch and perching on the arm like a cat. “Don’t tell me the great Dante Romano is afraid of a little fun.”

He turned just enough to level his stare on her. “Out.”

Her lashes fluttered. “You don’t mean—”

“I said out.” His voice cracked like a whip.

The smile faltered, her shoulders stiffening under the weight of his gaze. She tried to recover with a pout, her fingers tracing the rim of a glass on the table. “You don’t have to be cruel.”

Dante stepped forward, the shadows sharpening his expression. “Cruel is keeping you here another second. Leave before I forget I ever entertained your presence at all.”

Her lips parted as if to argue, then snapped shut. She huffed, scooped her purse from the couch, and stalked out, the sting of her heels echoing against the floor. The perfume she left behind was an insult.

The silence that followed was cleaner.

The door creaked again. This time it was Matteo. No perfume, just smoke, confidence, and that infuriating smirk. He leaned on the frame, arms folded, eyes glinting with amusement.

“Brooding again?” Matteo asked, his voice mocking. “Dangerous habit. People might start to think you’re sulking over a woman.”

Dante didn’t turn from the window. “Get out.”

“Or maybe,” Matteo continued, strolling inside without invitation, “you’re sulking because Serafina Caruso still manages to get under your skin. Don’t waste your breath denying it—I saw your face when you chased her down outside.”

Dante’s jaw flexed. He picked up his glass, swirling the amber liquid like it might cool the rage simmering in his chest. “Careful.”

Matteo laughed low, pushing further. “Careful? Please. You looked at her like you’d been starving for years. Eva’s been clinging to you for years and you never flinch, but one glare from Serafina and suddenly the mighty Dante Romano is rattled. Admit it—she still owns a piece of you.”

The glass slammed down on the desk hard enough to rattle. Dante turned, stepping into Matteo’s space, his tone lethal. “She owns nothing.”

Matteo only smirked, unfazed. “Then why the hell are you standing up here brooding about her while she’s plotting your downfall with that cousin of hers?”

Dante’s hand hit the desk, the crack of flesh against wood silencing even the muffled music below. “I don’t brood. I plan. And if Serafina thinks she can play me, she’s about to learn how wrong she is.”

Matteo tilted his head, grin lazy, eyes sharp. “Good. Because tomorrow night, the whole world will be watching. Your father. Hers. The lieutenants. If she rattles you even once, you’ll look weak. And Don Romano doesn’t forgive weakness. Neither does Don Caruso.”

Dante leaned back against the desk, arms folded across his chest, his voice calm now but no less dangerous. “I won’t be rattled. She thinks this marriage is her cage. It’s not. It’s mine to command. And she’ll wear it whether she likes it or not.”

Matteo whistled softly. “There’s the cousin I know. Ruthless. Cold. The one who doesn’t take no for an answer.” He stepped closer, tone dropping lower, more serious. “But what if she tries to humiliate you first? What if she flashes those little photos her cousin took? You know she’s desperate enough to do it.”

Dante’s eyes narrowed, a slow smile creeping over his mouth—not amused, but predatory. “Then I’ll make sure she never tries it again. She wants to play games in front of both families? Fine. But I’ll be the one writing the rules. And when she loses—and she will lose—she’ll regret ever thinking she could challenge me.”

Matteo’s smirk returned, broader this time. “That’s what I wanted to hear. Because I’ll be honest, brother, she’s got fire. I like it. But fire burns out fast when it’s smothered.”

Dante turned back to the window, watching the chaos below, his reflection caught in the glass—hard eyes, harder jaw, a man already sealing his vow.

Let Serafina come to that dinner with her chin high, thinking she had cards to play. Let her believe she held the upper hand. He would strip her illusions bare in front of everyone, crush her defiance until all that fire bent to him.

He was Dante Romano. He didn’t lose. He didn’t bend.

And when it was over, Serafina Caruso would understand—power belonged to him.

And he would savor every second of breaking her pride.