The Lion's Den
1774 Words
The interior of the Escalade smelled of expensive leather and the lingering scent of Dante’s woodsy cologne. I pressed myself against the door, the cold glass of the window biting into my shoulder. Outside, the familiar neon lights of Chicago blurred into streaks of garish color. Only an hour ago, I was worried about a snapped cello string. Now, I was a line item in a ledger—a payment for a debt I hadn't contracted.
Dante Moretti sat in the shadows of the far side of the bench seat. He hadn't looked at me once since the car started moving. He was focused on a tablet, the blue light reflecting off the sharp planes of his face, making him look like a statue carved from ice.
"Where are you taking me?" I asked. My voice sounded small, thin. I hated it.
Dante didn't look up. "To your new reality, Elena. I suggest you get used to the silence. It’s the only thing that’s free in my world."
"You can't just buy a person," I snapped, the Ricci blood in me finally boiling past the fear. "There are laws. There are—"
"There is the Outfit, and there is the grave," Dante interrupted, his voice a low, dangerous hum. He finally turned his head, his gray eyes locking onto mine. "Your father chose the Outfit for you. If you’d prefer the grave, I can have the driver stop the car right now."
I choked on my next word. He wasn't posturing. The sheer weight of his indifference was more terrifying than a raised voice. To him, I wasn't a woman; I was an asset. A trophy to be stored away.
I turned back to the window, my hand white-knuckled around the handle of my cello case. I wouldn't cry. I had spent my childhood watching my mother cry over my father’s "business trips." I knew where tears got you in this world: nowhere.
We pulled into the Gold Coast, the wealthiest neighborhood in the city. But we didn't stop at one of the high-rise penthouses. Instead, the car turned toward a massive, limestone estate hidden behind a ten-foot stone wall topped with discreet iron spikes. The gates opened silently, and we swept up a gravel drive lined with weeping willow trees that looked like ghosts in the moonlight.
The house was a fortress.
"Out," Dante commanded as the car came to a halt.
A guard opened my door. I stepped out, the gravel crunching under my thin heels. The air here was colder, biting through my silk blouse. Dante stepped out from the other side, buttoning his suit jacket with a slow, methodical grace.
"Follow me. And keep your mouth shut. The staff doesn't need to hear your grievances."
He led me through a grand foyer of black marble and gold leaf. A massive crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, but it wasn't lit. Instead, dim sconces provided just enough light to see the shadows. It felt less like a home and more like a museum—beautiful, expensive, and dead.
"This is the North Wing," Dante said, his footsteps echoing as we climbed a wide staircase. "Your rooms are at the end of the hall. You will stay there unless I summon you."
"Summon me?" I echoed, my heart hammering. "Like a dog?"
Dante stopped so abruptly I nearly walked into his back. He turned, leaning down until his face was inches from mine. I could see the faint silver of a scar running through his eyebrow—a mark of a life lived in violence.
"Like a wife," he corrected softly. "You will be at my side for dinners. You will attend the functions I deem necessary. You will smile when I tell you to smile, and you will play that instrument when I want to be entertained. In exchange, your father keeps his head, and you keep your skin. Do we have an agreement, Elena?"
I stared into those smoke-gray eyes. I wanted to spit on him. I wanted to scream that I wasn't for sale. But I saw the image of my father on that rug, a gun to his head.
"Yes," I whispered.
"Yes, what?"
The air grew heavy. He was testing my submission.
"Yes, Dante," I forced out, the name tasting like ash.
"Good." He straightened up, his expression returning to that unreadable mask. "You’ll find clothes in the wardrobe. Throw away whatever you brought in that suitcase. You’re a Moretti now. You will dress like one."
He gestured to a set of heavy oak doors. "Go. Someone will bring you food."
I didn't wait. I pushed past him, my cello case banging against my leg, and vanished into the room.
It was a suite larger than my father’s entire living room. A canopy bed with charcoal silk sheets, a fireplace that was already crackling with a low flame, and a wall of windows that looked out over the dark expanse of Lake Michigan. It was a palace. It was a prison.
I slumped against the door, the click of the lock sounding like a gunshot. I walked to the window, watching the black waves crash against the shore. I felt like one of those waves—thrown against a cold, hard reality until there was nothing left but foam.
I opened the wardrobe, as Dante had said. It was filled with dresses. Deep reds, emerald greens, midnight blacks. All silk, all lace, all expensive. And all chosen by him. I felt a shiver of revulsion. He had planned this. He hadn't just taken me tonight; he had prepared for me.
I moved to my cello case, clicking the latches open. It was the only thing in this room that belonged to me. I pulled the instrument out, the polished wood glowing in the firelight. I sat on the edge of the bed, the cold floor biting into my feet, and began to play.
I didn't play the concerto I had been practicing. I played something dark, something jagged. I let my anger and my fear bleed into the strings. The music filled the room, a mourning song for the girl I used to be.
I was so lost in the sound that I didn't hear the door open.
I didn't notice the shadow in the doorway until the bow slipped, a harsh, screeching note cutting through the air.
I spun around. Dante was leaning against the doorframe, his tie loosened, a glass of dark liquid in his hand. He wasn't looking at me; he was looking at the cello.
"You're out of tune," he said quietly.
"How would you know?" I snapped, clutching the neck of the cello.
He walked into the room, his movements slow and deliberate. He stopped in front of me, reaching out to touch the scroll of the instrument. His fingers were long and scarred, yet he touched the wood with a strange, unexpected reverence.
"I know a broken thing when I hear it," he murmured.
He looked down at me, and for a split second, the ice in his eyes seemed to crack. There was something there—a flicker of hunger, or perhaps a memory. But it was gone before I could catch it.
"Dinner is in ten minutes," he said, his voice turning cold again. "Wear the green dress. It matches the color your eyes turn when you're afraid."
He turned to leave, but stopped at the threshold.
"And Elena?"
"What?"
"Don't play that song again. I don't like the sound of ghosts."
He closed the door, leaving me alone with the dying fire. I looked at the wardrobe, at the emerald green silk peeking through the doors. He wanted me to be his doll. He wanted to dress me up and show me off to a world of monsters.
I walked to the wardrobe and pulled the dress out. The silk felt like water in my hands. I caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror—pale, trembling, a girl lost in a storm.
But as I zipped the dress up, the fit was perfect. Too perfect.
I realized then that Dante Moretti didn't just know my father’s debts. He knew my measurements. He knew my music.
A knock sounded at the door. "Mr. Moretti is waiting, Miss Ricci."
I took a deep breath, smoothing the silk over my hips. I wasn't Elena Ricci the student anymore. I was a debt to be paid. But as I walked toward the door, I made a silent vow.
He might have bought the music. But I would make sure he hated the song.
I stepped out into the hall, where a guard was waiting to lead me to the dining room. But as we passed a set of double doors, I heard a voice—a frantic, hushed whisper coming from behind the wood.
"He’s going to kill him, isn't he? If the girl doesn't cooperate, the old man is dead by dawn."
I froze. The guard nudged me forward, but I had heard enough. This wasn't just a five-year sentence. This was a minefield.
We reached the dining room, a long, narrow hall with a table that could seat thirty. Dante sat at the head, a single candle burning in front of him. He looked up as I entered, his eyes scanning me from head to toe.
"The green suits you," he said.
"Is my father safe?" I asked, ignoring the compliment.
Dante took a slow sip of his drink. "That depends entirely on how you enjoy your soup, Elena."
He gestured to the chair at his right hand. The seat of the "Donna."
As I sat down, I noticed something under my bread plate. A small, folded piece of paper. I looked at Dante, but he was busy cutting into a piece of rare steak, his expression blank.
I slid the paper into my lap and opened it under the table.
Don’t eat the salt.
My blood ran cold. I looked at the small crystal cellar of salt sitting next to my plate. Then I looked at Dante. He was watching me now, a faint, predatory smile touching his lips.
"Something wrong, Elena?" he asked. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
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