Chapter 11:The Wolves At The Table
960 Words
⸻
Chapter 11 – The Wolves at the Table
The next evening arrived far too quickly.
The mansion didn’t feel like a home. Tonight, it felt like a stage built for predators. Servants moved quietly through the halls, placing crystal glasses and imported wine bottles on trays, their hands steady even though everyone could feel the tension humming through the walls like electricity.
Sophie stood in front of the floor-length mirror as a maid zipped up the back of her dress—a deep black silk that clung to her like liquid shadow. The neckline wasn’t revealing, but the dress gave her presence. Strength. Sharp elegance. She had chosen it deliberately.
Armor disguised as beauty.
Her hair was pulled into a sleek low bun. Minimal makeup. No jewelry except the wedding ring that still felt foreign on her hand. She hated the weight of it, but tonight, it was a shield.
Marco knocked once and entered without waiting. His eyes scanned her from head to toe, assessing, calculating.
“You look dangerous,” he said.
“That’s the point.”
He hesitated. “Don’t challenge anyone unless necessary.”
“I won’t start anything.”
He gave her a thin, humorless smile. “Good. Because these men don’t start fights. They end them.”
Sophie didn’t reply. She already knew.
⸻
Dante descended the grand staircase with the calmness of a god of death. Wearing a dark suit, no tie, shirt open at the throat, he looked like someone who didn’t need armor—someone who was the danger.
When his eyes found Sophie, he paused for a brief second.
Not admiration.
Not softness.
Recognition.
She had stepped into his world properly now.
“Stay close,” he said simply.
“I’m not here to decorate your side, Dante.”
“No,” he replied, offering his arm without warmth. “You’re here so they know you belong to me.”
Her jaw clenched, but she placed her hand lightly on his arm.
His muscles didn’t tense.
But they didn’t relax either.
Together, they walked toward the grand dining hall.
⸻
Inside, the room was filled with men in tailored suits, and women who looked more like ornaments than guests. The air smelled of cigars, polished wood, and old money. Conversations hushed the moment Dante entered.
Sophie felt every stare snap toward her.
A woman near the fireplace whispered to another, eyes narrowing. A man at the far end smirked openly. They didn’t hide the curiosity, the judgement, the hunger.
She straightened.
If they wanted to devour her, she would make them choke.
Dante’s uncle, Matteo Costa, approached them first. Tall, elegant, smile like a razor. He kissed Sophie’s hand, lingering too long.
“So this is the bride,” Matteo murmured. “Beautiful. Unexpected. Expensive, I assume?”
Dante didn’t blink. “Everything worth having costs.”
Matteo’s eyes gleamed as he looked at Sophie again. “Do you bleed easily, dear?”
Sophie smiled, slow and controlled. “Only when I choose to.”
Something dark flickered across Matteo’s features. Surprise. Then interest.
Dante’s hand tightened over hers—just briefly—but enough to tell her she’d handled it correctly.
The predators around the room went silent, watching her now with a different calculation.
Good, she thought.
Let them underestimate her at their own risk.
⸻
During dinner, conversations sharpened like knives. Men discussed territory, shipments, alliances, betrayals. Sophie listened quietly, never flinching even when the topics grew colder—kidnappings, informants, executions.
At one point, an older man leaned forward. “Your wife is quiet, Dante.”
“She listens before she speaks,” he replied.
“And when she speaks?” another man asked.
Dante’s gaze slid to Sophie.
“She cuts.”
A warm chill raced down her spine. He wasn’t praising her—he was warning them.
At some point, Sophie excused herself to the powder room, and two women followed her inside—Matteo’s daughters.
One blocked the door behind her.
“You really think he’ll keep you?” the taller one sneered.
Sophie washed her hands slowly. “I don’t think anything. I survive.”
“You don’t belong here. Women like you get eaten alive.”
Sophie turned to them, drying her hands. “Then let’s hope I taste bitter.”
The shorter woman scoffed. “People disappear for less.”
“So do threats,” Sophie replied calmly.
They exchanged looks. Something hardened in their expressions.
A warning.
She left the room unbothered, but her instinct whispered danger.
When she returned, Dante’s eyes flicked over her, scanning for signs of distress.
He found none.
But he still tensed.
Someone nearby whispered, “She walks like she’s one of us.”
Dante replied coldly, “She walks like she survived before us.”
And just like that—the room began accepting her presence. Not with warmth, but with caution.
⸻
Near the end of the night, Dante leaned close enough for only her to hear. “You handled them well.”
“It was nothing.”
“Nothing,” he repeated, “is what gets people killed here.”
“Then I’ll keep doing something.”
He studied her, expression unreadable. “Sophie… do you fear me yet?”
“Should I?”
“No,” he said softly. “You should fear everyone else.”
She exhaled. “I already do.”
For the first time, he didn’t look away.
⸻
The night ended with tension still thick in the air. Danger circled the mansion like wolves waiting for a weak spot.
Sophie didn’t know it yet…
…but one of those wolves had already found one.
And by the next chapter—
It would strike.
Hard.
And merciless.
- Writer
