Ch 7 - Mine
1633 Words
The clink of silverware was the only sound in the dining room until Isabella’s small voice piped up.
“Uncle, can I have some apple slices? Please?”
Dante didn’t look up from his coffee, only flicked his fingers at a servant. The maid hurried to the sideboard, pulling a fresh apple from a bowl, and began slicing it on a small plate.
Her hands trembled in her haste to please the little girl, and the knife slipped.
A sharp gasp escaped her lips as the blade nicked her skin. A bead of red blossomed against pale flesh, trailing down her finger and staining the tablecloth beneath.
The maid paled, bowing her head in apology. “I—I’m sorry, sir—”
Dante’s jaw tightened, his eyes cold and sharp as steel. “Get lost,” he snapped, his voice laced with annoyance. “Now.”
The servant scurried away, clutching her hand. Isabella frowned, but Elena barely heard her.
Her gaze had locked on the crimson stain spreading across the white linen.
Her chest constricted, her breath quickened. The image blurred into something else—blood soaking through her hands, a body in her arms, her own cries echoing in her ears.
“No…” Elena’s whisper was barely audible.
Her vision tunneled, and she clutched her chest with trembling hands, fighting to breathe. Her lungs burned as if the air had been ripped away from her.
Across the table, Dante’s eyes flicked up, a frown etching into his brow. He followed her line of sight and saw it—the way her green eyes fixated on the blood like it was poison, like it was dragging her somewhere else entirely.
“Elena,” he said quietly, a warning—or perhaps something else—but she didn’t hear him.
Her chair scraped back with a screech that startled Isabella. Elena stumbled to her feet, her breaths ragged, her eyes wide as she turned and fled the dining room.
“Ms. Elena!” Isabella called after her, but Elena didn’t stop.
She pushed past the heavy doors, her slippers slapping against the polished floor, until the grand entry opened before her.
Only when her feet hit the grass of the garden and the cold morning breeze kissed her face did she inhale, desperately, greedily, like she had been drowning and only now surfaced.
Her trembling fingers pressed against her lips as tears blurred her vision.
The blood. The dream. The suffocating terror she couldn’t explain.
Something deep inside her was screaming.
And for the first time, Elena realized that maybe her mind hadn’t forgotten everything. Maybe it was protecting her.
Elena stood in the middle of the garden, chest rising and falling in erratic rhythm as she pressed her hands to her chest. The sharp, clean air cooled her skin, but it did nothing to slow the storm raging inside her. She gulped air like a drowning woman, trembling from head to toe.
The sound of deliberate footsteps reached her ears. Heavy, unhurried, each one carrying a weight that made her blood run colder. She knew before she turned who it was.
Dante Luciano.
He stopped a few feet behind her, his presence looming like a shadow stretching across the lawn. For a moment, he said nothing. Just watched. Observed.
“You ran,” he finally said, his voice low, smooth, but edged with something dangerous. “Why?”
Elena stiffened, but she didn’t turn. Her lips parted, but no words came out.
What could she say? That the sight of blood made her want to scream? That she’d seen flashes of someone dying in her arms? That she had no explanation for why her entire body reacted as if she’d lived that moment before?
Her silence stretched between them.
Dante’s eyes narrowed. He stepped closer, his hands clasped behind his back, every inch of him radiating control. But beneath that control, his gaze was sharp with something he wasn’t ready to name.
“I asked you a question,” he said, firmer now, his tone carrying the authority of a man who was used to obedience. “You will answer me, Elena.”
She turned her head slightly, enough to glance at him. His dark eyes burned into hers, demanding, commanding. Her throat tightened.
“I…” her voice broke, trembling. “It was nothing. I just… needed air.”
It was a weak excuse, and they both knew it.
Dante studied her, his gaze scanning her pale face, the redness around her eyes, the way her shoulders still rose and fell too quickly. She was lying. He could see it as clearly as he could see the green of her eyes.
He exhaled slowly, frustration flickering across his face. “So the sight of blood makes you panic,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. His jaw tightened, his thoughts sharpening. “Interesting.”
Her lips parted, surprise flashing in her expression. He had noticed. He always noticed.
Dante’s eyes lingered on her, unblinking. He didn’t like the way his chest had tightened when he’d seen her stagger from the dining room, pale and shaken. He didn’t like the unspoken tug that made him follow her out here instead of letting her collapse on her own.
And yet, here he was.
Masking the unwelcome concern with his usual coldness, he stepped closer, close enough that Elena instinctively backed away until the hedge brushed against her. His shadow fell over her, and she trembled beneath his stare.
“Listen to me carefully,” he said, his tone sharp, cutting. “Whatever ghosts are in your head… whatever makes you weak—” his eyes narrowed, “—don’t ever let it show in this house again. Do you understand?”
Her lips trembled. She gave a quick nod, though fear hollowed her eyes.
Dante lingered one moment longer, as though trying to read her, then turned sharply on his heel and walked back toward the mansion.
But long after he disappeared inside, Elena’s hands still shook.
And Dante, though he told himself it was nothing, couldn’t stop thinking about the way she had looked at that blood—like it was tied to something far darker than fear.
~~~~~~
The study smelled faintly of cigar smoke and old leather, a room where secrets were kept and decisions were made. Dante leaned against the edge of his heavy oak desk, his jacket discarded over the chair, his shirt sleeves rolled up. His expression was unreadable, carved from stone, but the tension in his jaw betrayed the storm beneath.
Marco, his most trusted aide, stood near the door, hands clasped behind his back, waiting for his master to speak.
Finally, Dante broke the silence. His voice was low, but it carried a weight that filled the room.
“Find out what you can about Elena. Everything. Her past, her habits, the things she hides. I don’t like what I saw this morning.”
Marco’s brows furrowed. “You mean… her reaction to the blood?”
Dante’s dark eyes lifted, narrowing. “She froze. Panicked. Like she’d never seen it before.” His voice hardened. “But that doesn’t make sense.”
He pushed off the desk, pacing slowly. His footsteps echoed like a ticking clock.
“Her father, Vincent, has lived his life in blood. A man like him doesn’t shield his family from it. If Elena is truly his daughter, she should have been hardened to violence long ago. Yet she flinches at the smallest drop.” His tone turned sharp, almost bitter. “Explain that to me.”
Marco hesitated before offering carefully, “Perhaps… she’s pretending. Maybe she hasn’t lost her memory at all. Maybe it’s an act to deceive you.”
Dante stilled, his back to Marco. The thought lingered in the air like smoke. Slowly, he shook his head.
“No. If she were pretending, it would have slipped by now. A look, a word, something would have betrayed her. She is… empty.” His voice lowered, colder. “Like a clean slate.”
He turned then, his gaze cutting like glass.
“What I don’t understand,” Dante muttered, his tone edged with suppressed rage, “is Vincent.”
Marco tilted his head slightly.
“When I took Elena from him, I expected him to fight. To beg. To bleed for his daughter.” Dante’s jaw clenched, his hand curling into a fist at his side. “But he didn’t. He let her go. As though she meant nothing.”
The anger in his chest burned hotter, bitterer than he cared to admit. “Did Elena even matter to him? Or was she just another pawn on his board?”
Marco wisely kept silent.
Dante’s gaze darkened further, his next words heavy, deliberate.
“She is not my fiancée.”
The truth settled in the room, cold and unyielding.
“She was sold to me,” he continued, his voice sharp as a blade. “Vincent begged for forgiveness for what he did to my family, and this—” he spat the word, “—was his bargain. His daughter in exchange for his life.”
For a long moment, silence stretched, heavy as stone.
Marco shifted uncomfortably. “So what will you do with her?”
Dante didn’t answer immediately. His mind wandered back to the image of Elena in the garden, clutching her chest, pale as death, haunted by something she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—name.
Something in his gut twisted, and he hated it.
Finally, he turned away, his voice low, merciless.
“What I always intended. She will stay here, whether she likes it or not. Elena Vincenti is mine now. And I don’t share what’s mine.”
- Writer
