In Love With The Mafia Kings Son

Chapter 10

Isabella clapped her hands, cutting the tossing routine short. "Alright, Nicolette, stay up here. Everyone else, run the tumbling sequence."

Dante remained rigid in the cabana's shade, still projecting a silent, coiled fury that the rest of the squad wisely ignored. Isabella led Letty to an empty stretch of lawn, turning her attention to the dance and transition portion of the routine.

"The throws are easy," Isabella said, her voice dropping to a harsh, instructional tone. "The dance is what makes us look good. Watch me."

Isabella executed a series of sharp, hip-hop-influenced movements, precise and aggressive. When she finished, she barked, "Your turn. Follow the counts."

Letty swallowed the anxiety and focused. Her old ballet training was a phantom limb; the disciplined muscle memory of grace, turnout, and carriage snapped into place beneath her "nerdy" demeanor.

She was a very fast learner, absorbing the complicated footwork and hip isolations immediately.

The routine was aggressive, but Letty's interpretation was surprisingly fluid and graceful.

Isabella watched, her initial impatience dissolving into focused concentration. When Letty finished the sequence perfectly on the first full run, Isabella actually stopped.

"Huh," Isabella muttered, a sound of genuine surprise.

"You actually have some moves under that thrift-store shell. The ballet helps. You’re flexible, and you pick up choreography fast. That’s good." She nodded decisively. "Alright, we'll take a break. Then we run it again with the squad. You’re actually pretty good. I can see why my brother is 'interested' in you."

Letty’s breath hitched slightly. The casual confirmation of Dante's proprietary claim, right there in the glaring sunlight, sent a fresh wave of heat through her. She flinched, a look of slight confusion crossing her face, but she didn't dare speak.

Isabella noticed the reaction, and her expression turned darkly serious. She leaned in conspiratorially.

"Listen, scholarship girl. You're useful, so I'm giving you some advice." She scoffed, shaking her head. "But I'd watch my back if I were you. You’re not the first to catch his eye. Chloe is obsessed with him, and she’s crazy as f**k. She's territorial, and she doesn't like surprises."

The chilling warning settled over Letty like a layer of cold ice. She simply gave another tight, submissive nod.

Isabella didn't wait for a response. She led Letty and the rest of the squad toward a large patio table laden with chilled bottles and glasses.

A waiter, dressed in a pristine white uniform, was already setting down a tray of freshly squeezed lemonade. As he finished, he offered a quiet, professional pleasantry.

“Voilà, Madame,” he said quietly in French.

Isabella and the clique immediately descended on the glasses, their heads already deep in gossip about weekend plans. No one acknowledged the waiter or the gesture.

No one, except Letty.

As the man turned to walk away, Letty instinctively spoke, the fluent French of her childhood surprising even herself. “Merci, Monsieur.”

The waiter froze, startled. He turned back, his expression replaced with a wide, genuine smile, and he gave her a deep nod before finally walking away.

The small exchange was noticed. Isabella raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at Letty.

“You know French?” she asked, the curiosity in her voice genuine.

Letty shyly nodded, wishing she had kept her mouth shut.

Isabella’s smile was sharp and cutting. “Interesting.”

From his post in the shade, Dante had watched the entire exchange. The smile, the seamless command of a foreign language, the polite acknowledgment of a servant—it was a subtle yet profound signal of a background far more sophisticated than "scholarship kid from Detroit." The smirk that flashed across his lips was deep and satisfied. The safe he was trying to crack was far more complex than he originally thought.

Everyone was seated around the patio table, the large, ornate glasses of lemonade sweating in the California heat. Letty was acutely aware of her exposed position.

A moment later, the space beside her tightened. Dante Rossi walked over from the cabana and, with a silent, heavy assertion of force, placed himself between Letty and Dylan. The move was immediately proprietary, boxing Letty in with his immense size.

Dylan shifted, looking slightly annoyed, but said nothing.

As Dante leaned back, one arm casually draped over the back of Letty's chair, the scent of sweet tobacco and spice enveloped her. Across the table, Chloe, the girl Isabella had warned her about, narrowed her eyes at Letty, her entire body language radiating territorial disdain.

The conversation around the table was casual, entitled, and filled with easy profanity. Isabella, refreshed by the lemonade, leaned forward.

"God, Finch is such a cunt," Isabella declared, referring to the Advanced Health teacher. She then looked directly at Letty, offering a rare moment of camaraderie. "But thankfully, Nicolette saved me. If she hadn't recited that bullshit about cells, I would have had to cut a class for the rest of the year."

Letty felt the spotlight snap onto her again. She quickly looked down, avoiding eye contact, and took a large sip of her lemonade. Her timid and shy behavior only made Dante's smirk grow wider. He seemed to enjoy her lack of pretense.

The conversation drifted, but Dylan, still rankled by being displaced by Dante, decided to draw attention back to the new girl.

"So, Nicolette," Dylan asked, his tone too casual. "You never mentioned—do you have a boyfriend back home?"

Letty almost choked on her drink. The question was a massive invasion of the privacy she guarded so fiercely. She slowly set her glass down, her cheeks beginning to flush pink.

She spoke shyly, barely audible. "No. I've never had a boyfriend."

The entire table froze. Their casual chatter died, replaced by a sudden, intense silence as they stared at her. For the elite of Westwood, this was a far greater anomaly than a high GPA.

Isabella scoffed, throwing her head back in disbelief.

“Are you f*****g kidding me? You’ve never had a boyfriend before?”

Letty sank down into her chair, hating the exposure. She shook her head no.

Chloe, sensing weakness, pounced, a vicious smirk lighting up her face. "Wait, wait, wait." Her voice was high and mocking. "Are you a virgin?"

Letty’s face completely flushed pink with embarrassment. She felt tears prick at her eyes. Her submission was absolute. All she could do was nod slowly, hating that her body was betraying her so thoroughly.

A few students giggled nervously. Chloe pressed the attack, her eyes cruel. "Have you even kissed a boy before, Nicolette?"

Letty bit her lip, unable to meet any gaze. Her face was entirely red from humiliation. The truth—that she had never had s*x or even shared a kiss—was too vulnerable to utter. She was trapped.

Just as the hot sting of tears reached her eyes and the urge to bolt from the table became overwhelming, Dante spoke. His voice was low, dangerously calm, and absolutely final.

“Shut your mouth, Chloe.”

The silence that followed was instant and absolute. The command wasn't a request; it was an order from the King's Heir. Chloe’s face dropped, the triumphant smirk vanishing into a terrified, submissive slump.

She immediately began apologizing, her voice hushed and hurried. "I'm sorry, Dante. I didn't mean anything."

Isabella smirked, highly amused by the public demonstration of her brother's proprietary claim and the instantaneous submission of his territorial conquest. Letty, trembling slightly, finally had a protector, but that protection came with an undeniable, terrifying price.

The conversation at the table immediately shifted, smoothly moving away from the uncomfortable topic of Letty's virginity once Dante delivered his command. The rest of the group jumped back into typical high-society gossip about trips and parties, but Letty remained utterly still, her embarrassment cooling into a timid silence.

Dante, however, was no longer participating in the conversation. The girl next to him—the girl who looked like she would shatter under any real pressure—was entirely untouched. The thought of Nicolette never having been kissed, never having been claimed, drove something savage, something intensely proprietary, through him.

His usual motives—power, control, conquest—suddenly felt hollow. He had conquered hundreds, dominating women until they were obsessed. But Letty was pure, a perfectly formed vessel that had never been tainted. That purity didn't just pique his interest; it amplified his desire a thousandfold. He wanted to claim her firsts, not just for the sake of power, but because the thought of anyone else touching that quiet submission and sharp intellect felt wrong. She fascinated him. He actually wanted to know her, not just break her.

The depth of the thought was startling, forcing him to momentarily forget his surroundings.

"Dante?"

Isabella’s voice snapped him back to the patio table. She was looking at him with a knowing, half-amused expression, having clearly witnessed his mental absence.

“Do you have that MMA fight Friday night or are you going to stare into the distance until we all leave?”

Dante cleared his throat, pushing the raw, possessive thoughts back down. He nodded. "Yeah. Friday night. The usual venue."

Isabella smirked, enjoying the subtle discomfort she had created. She immediately shifted her gaze to Letty. “Nicolette, you just joined the squad, so you’re required to be enthusiastic. Would you like to come see my brother fight?”

Letty looked up, completely hesitant. Going to the fight meant more exposure, more proximity, more danger. But saying no meant defying Isabella again. Before she could stop herself, the word was out, soft and weak.

“Sure.”

Isabella clapped her hands, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Great. And listen, normally after Dante’s fights, we come back here to party. You’re coming anyway, and you can't bus home late from the hills. You can spend the night since you’ll have to come back here anyway Saturday for practice.”

Letty’s eyes widened in shock and dread. The thought of sleeping under the same roof as Dante, in the very fortress where he was undisputed king, was a terrifying escalation. She had walked directly into the lion's den and had just been invited to stay.

The rest of the cheer practice was a blur of motion and stifled adrenaline. As soon as the practice officially broke, Dante walked directly to Letty, his massive presence dismissing any need for an excuse. He didn't ask her if she was ready; he simply said, "Come on."

​The walk back through the compound and into the opulent garage was silent, the pressure of his proprietary ownership heavy and palpable.

​Dante opened the passenger door of the black Shelby GT500 for her this time, waiting until she was seated before moving to the driver's side. He started the engine, but didn't immediately pull out of the garage.

He leaned back, his eyes fixed on her. The cool, red glow of the dashboard lights illuminated the light stubble on his jaw and the intense focus of his gaze.

​"We need to get some things straight," he began, his voice low, gravelly, and entirely serious.

​Letty nodded immediately, her heart thudding against her ribs.

​"First rule: You're done with the bus, Nicolette." Dante stated it not as a suggestion, but a decree. "From now on, I will be picking you up and taking you to and from school. I don't like you exposed like that."

​The shock of the command was immediate, but Letty simply absorbed it. It was both controlling and protective, a mix she was rapidly growing accustomed to. "Okay," she whispered.

​"Good." Dante allowed a hint of a smirk to return. He reached over, his huge hand landing on the center console, close enough for the radiating heat of his body to warm her leg through the leggings.

​"Now for Friday. You're going to the fight, and you're coming back to the house for the party. During all of it, you stick with Isabella. And more importantly, you don't talk to any men—no one from the gym, no one from the table, no one at the fight. You only talk to me or my sister. Understood?"

​Letty managed a quiet, "Yes. Stick with Isabella, don't talk to other men."

​Dante’s eyes held hers, a deep, proprietary satisfaction settling in his gaze. "As for the sleepover," he continued, referring to Isabella's casual invitation. Letty was operating under the assumption that she would be sleeping in Isabella's room, which was the only safe conclusion she could draw. "You won't be wandering the house alone. There will be a lot of people at the party. You're to stay in the general vicinity of the cheer squad, and you don't leave the main guest wing without me or Isabella. Is that clear?"

​Letty managed to nod. The explicit rule about not wandering heightened the sense of danger, but the fact that he was imposing control to ensure her safety was a dark, seductive comfort.

​Dante finally pulled out of the garage, the powerful car accelerating quickly down the long driveway. The tension in the car remained thick, now compounded by a clear understanding: Dante Rossi was her owner for the weekend, and that came with the non-negotiable price of absolute obedience.