Behind his black eyes

Dante “Vas a casarte.” The words dropped like a gunshot in the study. Cold. Final. No room for discussion. Dante De Luca looked up slowly from the decanter of scotch he was pouring, his expression unreadable. He didn’t respond right away. He simply filled the glass, took a slow sip, and let the burn settle in his chest before speaking. “You’re drunk,” he said flatly. His father Eduardo De Luca, former head of the Familia sat across from him, face like stone. “I’m serious.” Dante set the glass down. “You’re not.” “You turn twenty-eight in a few weeks. You’ve avoided every match, every opportunity. It’s time.” “This isn’t the 1800s, Papá. I don’t need a wife to run the business.” Eduardo leaned forward, hands steepled under his chin. “You don’t need a wife for the business. You need one because no one trusts a man like you alone.” Dante’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “It means you’re dangerous, Dante. You have power, money, blood on your hands, and no softness in your life. No one knows what to expect from you. You are unpredictable.” Dante stood, slow and calculated. His six-foot-three frame filled the room like a shadow. “So your solution is to chain me to some woman I don’t know? That’s what’s going to civilize me?” Eduardo didn’t flinch. “She’s not just some woman. She’s a good girl. Educated. Proper. From a family that owes us a very large debt. And you’ll marry her. End of story.” “¿Y si digo que no?” Dante asked, voice low. And if I say no? His father shrugged. “Then I collect the debt the old way. And her father dies.” The silence that followed was sharp enough to slice skin. Dante walked to the window, watching the lights of Madrid flicker in the distance like dying stars. He didn’t feel guilt—not exactly. But something about forcing a woman into marriage with him left a bitter taste in his mouth. Still… his father was right about one thing. No woman would marry him by choice. They might sleep with him. Chase his wealth. Crave the danger. But they didn’t stay. They couldn’t handle the darkness he carried. And he didn’t blame them. He barely tolerated it himself. “I don’t want a wife,” he said finally. Eduardo stood now too, slow with age but still a presence. “You don’t want one. But you need one. And this girl… she’ll obey. She won’t ask questions. She won’t even know who you really are. Just marry her, and in return, you get peace.” Dante laughed coldly. “You think marriage is peace?” His father stepped closer. “You think your life now is peace? You come home to silence. You drink alone. You trust no one. You kill men by day and sleep with strangers by night. That’s not strength, Dante. That’s emptiness.” The words hit harder than they should have. Dante stared at the flames dancing in the fireplace, jaw clenched. A memory flickered a pair of hands once tangled in his hair, soft laughter, warmth he hadn’t felt in years. Long gone now. He had buried every part of himself that could feel anything deeper than lust or rage. “Who is she?” he asked. “Her name is Ariella Duarte. She turns twenty-three today.” “Latin?” “Sí. From a proud family, though they’ve lost everything. Her father borrowed heavily from us and couldn’t pay back. I told him the price. He agreed.” Dante’s brow furrowed. “He offered his daughter?” Eduardo looked him in the eye. “He didn’t ask who the husband would be.” For the first time, something unfamiliar stirred in Dante’s chest guilt, maybe. Or disgust. “Give me time to think,” he said finally. Eduardo nodded. “You have forty-eight hours. After that, I send the men.” That night, Dante stood alone in his private wing of the estate, glass in hand, eyes trained on the city beyond his bulletproof windows. He thought about the girl. Ariella. He had never seen her. Never spoken to her. Yet now she was being packaged and delivered like merchandise. What kind of man did that to a woman? And worse — what kind of man agreed to it? He could walk away. Let the father die. Let the family crumble. But his father was right — he was losing control. His reputation was fraying. His enemies were circling like wolves. Even the families loyal to him had started to question his… isolation. He was powerful. Feared. Rich beyond measure. But he was also alone. He set the glass down and loosened his tie. The silence was loud tonight. He’d slept with three women in the past week, and still he felt nothing. No warmth. No rest. Just more ghosts crawling through his mind. Women saw his wealth, his body, the way he could break them with a word… but no one ever saw him. Maybe Ariella wouldn’t either. Maybe that was the point. He closed his eyes and whispered under his breath. “¿Sabes lo que estás haciendo, viejo?” Do you even know what you’re doing, old man? Because Dante wasn’t afraid of marrying a stranger. He was afraid of what she might wake in him.