Chapter Three – The One Who Ran
1153 Words
Dante
The house was too quiet.
Dante stood by the massive arched window in his study, staring out at the long gravel driveway that cut through the pines like a silver knife. The estate was pristine his men had seen to every inch. White roses lined the gates. Marble floors had been polished to a mirror finish. Every chandelier in the villa had been cleaned, reset, and dusted, even though he hated the way they glittered. Too delicate. Too ornamental. Like her.
His future wife.
The thought didn’t sit right in his chest. He had a hundred things to do deals to close, shipments to oversee, names to strike off but instead, he was waiting on some girl. Some innocent, sheltered girl who’d been promised to him like she was an item to be delivered.
He hated it.
He also needed it.
His father had been very clear. A “normal” wife, one untouched by the underworld, would help soften his image. Create stability. Shift attention. The political climate had changed. Deals weren’t sealed in blood anymore they were disguised in wedding rings and charitable foundations. Dante knew the game. And so he’d agreed.
Almost.
He hadn’t even seen a photo of her.
He knew only her name: Ariella Duarte.
Duarte. A name that once carried weight in business. Her father, Mateo, had been a respected trader. But Dante had little use for the man. Weak. Foolish. Drowning in debts he couldn’t pay until he’d offered the one thing that still had value.
His daughter.
Dante had accepted. Begrudgingly.
Because she was clean. Quiet. Beautiful, according to the intel.
A good girl.
His father’s voice echoed in his mind:
“This is your chance, Dante. A woman who doesn’t know the life. One who can give you sons without giving you problems. No one else would marry you not once they know the truth.”
Dante had clenched his jaw. He didn’t need to be reminded of what he was.
He wasn’t a good man.
But he was an efficient one.
And so the arrangements were made. Her twenty-third birthday had passed, and his men had gone to retrieve her. It should have been simple. Quiet. Clean.
Instead, it was turning into a goddamn disaster.
The knock came sharp and fast on the study door. Lorenzo entered without waiting for a response.
His right-hand man. Loyal, brutal, and utterly without grace.
“She’s not there,” Lorenzo said flatly. “The house was empty. They left in a hurry.”
Dante didn’t move.
Lorenzo hesitated. “You want to sit down?”
“I’m standing,” Dante said.
A long silence stretched between them. Lorenzo shifted uncomfortably. “There’s no sign of struggle. No forced entry. Her parents are still there. They say she ran off with a man.”
Dante’s gaze sharpened. “A man?”
“Boyfriend. Name’s Elijah Cruz. Local mechanic. They’d been dating for a while, apparently.”
Dante’s jaw ticked. “And the parents let her go?”
Lorenzo snorted. “They’re claiming they didn’t know. Her mother looked like she was about to faint. The father tried to say he’s still honoring the deal. That she’ll come back.”
He turned away from the window slowly, his hands curling into fists at his sides.
“I don’t want her to come back,” Dante said, voice low. “I want her brought back.”
“Understood.”
“No damage. No marks. But make it clear if she disappears again, I’ll bury the entire family.”
Lorenzo gave a nod and turned to leave.
“Wait.”
Dante walked to his desk and opened the drawer. Inside was a small black envelope her file. Sparse. Just a few notes: birthday, schooling, habits. A single photograph from her graduation, grainy and distant.
He hadn’t cared before. She was a transaction. A symbol.
But now?
Now she was a problem.
He pulled out the photo. She was standing next to an older woman, likely her grandmother, in a pale blue dress that clung to her curves and fell just above the knee. Long, dark curls tumbled over her shoulders. Her smile was wide, honest, bright. Too bright.
Innocent.
He hated that word.
He wanted to hate her this girl who thought she could run from him, who dared to think a contract signed in blood meant nothing. But as he stared at her face, a strange tug pulled at the base of his chest.
He should’ve been angrier.
He should’ve felt insulted. Betrayed.
Instead, he felt… curious.
What kind of woman runs from a man like him?
What kind of woman defies a deal made by her father to protect his life?
He slid the photo back into the drawer and closed it with a soft click.
By nightfall, the mood in the villa had soured.
His men were scattered across the region, searching highways and bus stations. Dante sat in the dining hall alone, untouched food in front of him. The seat across from him was empty.
He had it prepared anyway, like a fool.
He imagined what she’d look like sitting there stiff, awkward, terrified. He imagined the sound of her voice, maybe soft and accented. He wondered if she’d have questions, or if she’d just scream at him. He wondered if she’d cry.
He wondered what it would be like to break her spirit.
Then he pushed the thought away. That wasn’t the plan.
He wasn’t going to hurt her. He needed a wife, not a corpse.
But if she pushed him…
He reached for his glass of wine, swirling the red liquid before taking a slow sip.
His phone buzzed.
A message from Lorenzo:
– Found the boyfriend’s car abandoned outside a train station. No ticket records. Possible fake IDs. We’re checking cameras.
Another buzz.
– They had help. She planned this.
Dante’s lips curved into a cold, humorless smile.
Planned. Calculated.
So she wasn’t as naive as he’d been led to believe.
He respected that.
He’d still drag her back.
Later that night, Dante stood shirtless on the balcony of his bedroom, cigarette in hand, staring at the dark trees below. A storm was coming he could smell it. The air was thick with tension, with rain, with the promise of something breaking.
He ran a hand through his black hair and exhaled smoke into the wind.
“Do you believe in fate?” he murmured to the night.
No answer. Just the hush of distant thunder.
He didn’t. Not really. But something about this girl unsettled him in a way nothing else did. He couldn’t even remember the last time a woman ran from him.
They usually came begging.
He dropped the cigarette, ground it under his heel, and turned back inside.
Sleep would be impossible tonight.
And in the morning, if she still hadn’t been found…
He would stop asking politely.
- Writer
