Irresistible Distance

The penthouse suite sat fifty floors above Milan. It From here up here, the city looked peaceful, with amber streetlights bleeding into white, the headlights crawling like slow-moving stars, making the whole world reduced to something small. Valentina Marchese wished she felt the same. She stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows in a milk-white silk nightgown. Her bare feet against the cold marble, and she wrapped her arms around herself, trying to hold her pieces together by sheer willpower. Just a few hours ago, she had stood at an altar in a cathedral that smelled of incense and old money. She had been surrounded by men with eyes like vultures and women in pearls who smiled with their mouths but not their faces. She had repeated vows she didn’t mean to a man she didn’t know, and he slid a ring onto her finger that felt heavier than gold ever should, and was then delivered here to this cage like a package, signed, sealed, and received. The room behind her was a masterpiece of intimidation. A king-sized bed with a carved mahogany headboard dominated the center, draped in white linens so pristine they looked like it’s has never been touched. Crystal chandeliers scattered light across gold accents, and deep burgundy velvet curtains pooled against the floor. A vase of fresh white roses sat on the dresser, their heavy sweetness hanging in the air like a cruel joke. Everything in this room was designed to make a person feel small and it was working. “You’re a virgin?” The question came from behind her, so slow and very low. Dante Rossetti’s voice carried no surprise, no hunger, and no emotion. He asked it as casually as if he were inquiring whether the car was waiting downstairs or if the wine had been served and was properly chilled. That frightened her more than anger would have. Valentina turned slowly. She had avoided looking at him since the ceremony at the church, that cold, beautiful ritual that felt more like a property transfer than a wedding. But now she made herself look, like really looked at him. Dante stood near the center of the room. His jacket was tossed over a chair, and his shirt collar was half unbuttoned. He was broad-shouldered and dark-eyed, possessing a physical presence that seemed to rearrange the air in the room. He wasn’t handsome in a soft or approachable way; he was dangerously handsome, without apology. He was the kind of man who never had to raise his voice to make an entire room go quiet. She nodded, a small, tight movement, her chin dipping toward her chest. He started walking toward her. He didn’t rush. Each step was slow and intimidating, carrying the confidence of a man who had never needed to chase anything in his life. Valentina’s instincts kicked in immediately. She stepped backward until her back hit the wall. The surface was solid and cold through her thin silk nightgown. She had nowhere left to go because she was trapped. He stopped close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him. She caught the scent of his cologne cedar, smoke, and something darker beneath it that made her throat tighten. She felt painfully exposed in his shadow and pressed her palms flat against the wall behind her as if she could disappear into it. “Please,” she whispered. Her voice cracked, stripping away her last bit of dignity. “Don’t hurt me.” Dante said nothing. His expression didn’t soften or harden; he remained unnervingly still. Then, his arm rose. Valentina slammed her eyes shut and locked every muscle in her body. She held her breath, waiting for the impact. CRACK. His fist hit the wall just above her head. The vibration shook through the surface and into her shoulder blades. She let out a sharp, involuntary cry, but he didn't stop. He drove his knuckles into the wall again, and again, and again, with the composed intensity of a man punishing the wall rather than the woman in front of him. When he finally stopped, the silence that followed felt heavy, suffocating. Valentina opened her eyes. His hand hung at his side, knuckles split and raw, blood welling dark against his skin. He stared at his own hand with the detached look of a man checking a minor inconvenience. “I am not going to hurt you.” His voice was calm. It wasn't meant to comfort her; it was a fact, expressed as plainly as a contract term. That is non-negotiable and permanent. He turned to the bed, glanced at his injured hand, and pressed it firmly against the pristine white sheets. He dragged it across the fabric, leaving a red stain on the perfect linen. Valentina pushed off the wall. “What are you doing?” “Take a picture,” he said, his dark eyes locking onto hers. “And send it to your stepfather.” The mention of Salvatore felt like a cold stone in her stomach. She understood now this was the proof of consummation. The proof of intimacy. She had spent days trying not to think about it, but here it was. Dante wasn’t taking her innocence; he was forging proof of it. She reached for her phone with trembling hands. As she lifted it to take the shot, he said, “Wait.” He tilted his head, a cold glint in his eyes. “No. Salvatore is too careful. He’ll recognize this is a lie. Give me the phone.” She handed it over. He navigated the screen with his bloodied fingers, opened the voice recorder, and held the phone toward her. “Moan for me.” The words fell into the silence like a stone dropped into still water. Valentina stared at him, sure she had misheard. “I… what?” “You heard me,” he said, his tone flat and bored. “Salvatore wants confirmation that this marriage was sealed. Give him a voice recording to match the visual.” Heat rushed into her face. It was humiliating. “I can’t just… I don’t know how to…” “Valentina,” he said, his voice a quiet command. “Now.” She closed her eyes. “Oh… ah… yeah…” It came out small and strained, dying in the air between them. “Stop,” he said, lowering the phone. Before she could react, he moved. His hand came up to her face not roughly, but not softly either. His thumb settled at the corner of her jaw, his fingers threading into her hair, forcing her to look directly into his eyes. Up close, she saw gold flecks in his irises and felt the heat of his breath. “I have a reputation to maintain,” he said, his voice dropping low. “If my name is going to be attached to a recording, it will not sound like a nervous girl in a church choir. When I say make it believable, I mean give me something that sounds like you are being touched for real, not pretense or rehearsed.” He held her gaze. “Make it real.” He released her and stepped back. This time, Valentina didn’t think. She stopped stuttering and let her fear, her confusion, and the overwhelming tension of the night pour into a low, breathless sound. “Ahh… yes…” “Please…” “Ah… yes… right there…” Dante leaned in, his lips close to her ear. “Say my name.” The command moved through her like a jolt of electricity. “Oh God… Dante…” His name left her lips like a confession. He stopped the recording and handed the phone back. A flicker of something crossed his face not warmth, exactly, but a rare moment of acknowledgment. “That will do,” he said. “Send both files. Now.” She did, surprisingly calm. As the "delivered" mark appeared on the screen, she felt something heavy settle inside her. It wasn't relief; it was the realization that everything had changed, and there was no going back. The room went quiet. Dante stood there, staring at the stained sheets, his hand still bleeding. “Most women in your position,” he said, “would have seen tonight as an opportunity. They would have tried to get me into their bed to ensure I claimed them. But you’ve spent the last four hours looking like you’re waiting for the first chance to run.” Valentina said nothing. He wasn't wrong. “I don’t take what isn’t freely given to me,” he continued. His voice lacked kindness, but it held a strange sort of truth. “It’s not a favor. It’s a line I don’t cross. Remember that.” He turned fully toward her, his power effortless. “One day, you’ll understand what this name protects you from. You’ll see what really exists beneath this city, and you’ll realize that being mine is the only thing standing between you and all of it. And when that day comes, things between us will be different. You won’t need convincing.” He paused, his eyes dark. “And one day, you’ll moan my name for real.” His arrogance should have made her angry. Instead, the words settled deep inside her, impossible to ignore. He walked toward the double doors, adjusting his cuffs. “Where are you going?” The question slipped out before she could stop it. “You’re not staying?” She couldn't tell if she felt relief or disappointment. Dante let out a soft, amused breath. “I sleep better alone.” He walked out. The door clicked shut, the sound echoing through the massive suite. Valentina stood in the middle of a room worth more than everything she had ever owned. She was surrounded by gold light, bloodstained sheets, and the lingering scent of his cologne. The white roses on the dresser no longer looked beautiful they looked mocking. She was a Rossetti now. The name belonged to her, whether she wanted it or not, written in legal papers, in the blood on the bed, and in the recording sitting in her stepfather’s inbox. The cage was beautiful. And it was locked. The man who held the key had walked away without looking back. Outside, Milan glittered, distant and uncaring. Valentina sat on the edge of the bed, as far from the stain as possible. She realized then: the marriage hadn’t begun at the altar. It had begun here, in blood and silence. And as her heart kept racing, long after he was gone, she knew she was no longer the girl who had walked into that cathedral.