Sweet Poison, Dark Vows

Chapter 3: The Wolves at the Gate

The silk of my emerald green gown felt like ice against my skin, cold and entirely too tight. It was a beautiful dress, plunging at the back and tailored perfectly to curves I usually tried to hide under baggy sweaters. Dante had sent it to my room at dusk, along with a velvet box containing a diamond necklace heavy enough to feel like a collar.

"Keep your head up," Dante murmured beside me, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that barely carried over the roar of the rain outside.

We were sitting in the back of his armored town car, idling outside the grand entrance of the Grand Bellevue Hotel. Tonight was the annual Autumn Gala, the one night of the year where every crime syndicate, old-money family, and dirty politician in the city gathered under one roof to pretend they weren't all monsters.

"I know how to behave at a gala, Dante," I said quietly, looking out the tinted window. My hands were clamped tightly in my lap, hiding the slight tremor in my fingers.

"You know how to behave as a Rossi princess," he corrected smoothly. He reached across the leather seat, his large, gloved hand capping over mine. He didn't squeeze, but the heavy, unyielding weight of his palm instantly grounded me. "Tonight, you are a Vane. The rules are different. If someone insults you, you don't look to your father or your uncle for permission to smile. You look at me. And you let me tear them apart."

I looked down at his hand over mine. It was dark, possessive, and entirely for show, the tinted windows were completely opaque, but Dante never broke character. He was a man who lived the lie until it became reality.

The door was opened by a valet, and the blinding flash of cameras instantly pierced the dark interior of the car. Tabloids, underground press, syndicate photographers, they were all starved for a headline. And tonight, we were giving them a feast.

Dante stepped out first, adjusting the button of his charcoal gray suit. Then, he turned and offered me his hand.

I took it. The moment my heels hit the wet pavement, he pulled me flush against his side. His heavy arm wrapped securely around my waist, his fingers digging into the silk of my dress, anchoring me to him. The flashes were dizzying, but I forced a serene, elegant smile onto my face, tilting my head toward him just as rule number one demanded.

"Smile, lines," he whispered, his lips brushing my temple as we walked up the red-carpeted stairs. "They’re looking for blood."

The ballroom was a sprawling expanse of crystal chandeliers, gold leaf molding, and the suffocating scent of expensive perfumes masking cheap morals. The moment the double doors opened and the announcer called out our names, the orchestra seemed to fade. The hundreds of low conversations in the room dropped into a tense, ringing silence.

Dante Vane and Clara Rossi.

The upstart king and the fallen princess, walking hand-in-hand.

"Look at them," I heard a matriarch from the southern factions whisper as we glided past a cocktail table. "Her father isn't even cold in his grave, and she’s sleeping with the man who dug it."

My jaw clenched, but Dante’s grip on my waist tightened, a silent warning. We made our rounds, playing the parts of the perfect, fiercely attached newlyweds. Dante was a master of silent dominance; he didn't need to speak to command a circle. Men twice his age bowed their heads out of sheer survival instinct.

But the peace couldn't last. Not in a room full of wolves.

"Well, well. I didn't believe the registry filings until I saw it with my own eyes."

The grating, nasal voice cut through the air behind us. I froze. The blood in my veins turned to liquid nitrogen.

Uncle Silvio.

He was standing there, a half-empty champagne flute in his hand, his eyes bloodshot and malicious. Beside him stood Sergio—the sixty-two-year-old mobster he had tried to sell me to. Sergio looked at me with a disgusting, hungry appraisal, his eyes lingering on the plunging neckline of my dress.

"Silvio," Dante said, turning slowly. He didn't pull away from me; instead, he shifted his body slightly, placing himself half a step in front of me, shielding me from their line of sight. "I don't recall approving your invitation to this table."

"I don't need your approval to attend a gala I’ve funded for twenty years, Vane," Silvio spat, though his eyes darted nervously to the two massive security guards standing just a few paces behind Dante. He looked past Dante’s shoulder, focusing his venom on me. "You think you’re clever, Clara? Running to a stray dog because you didn't want to honor your family’s obligations? You’re a w***e trading one master for another."

The word hung in the air like a foul odor. Several nearby guests gasped, stepping back to give us a wide berth.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I wanted to scream, to hit him, to remind him of what he had threatened to do to Leo. But before I could even draw a breath, the temperature in the room plummeted to absolute zero.

Dante didn't yell. He didn't draw a weapon. He simply moved.

In a fraction of a second, Dante closed the distance between them. His hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around Silvio’s throat with terrifying speed and precision. He slammed my uncle backward against a marble pillar, the heavy thud echoing across the ballroom floor. Silvio’s champagne glass shattered on the parquet, shards of crystal and alcohol spraying over the expensive shoes of the onlookers.

"Dante..." Sergio stepped forward, his face pale, but one look from Dante’s security guards pinned him to the spot.

"Let me make something perfectly clear to you, Silvio," Dante whispered, his voice dangerously quiet, yet carrying an edge that made every throat in the room go dry. He leaned in, his face inches from my choking uncle's. "The Rossi family debts are wiped clean because Clara’s blood belongs to me now. She is a Vane. And if you ever speak to my wife in that tone again, if you even breathe the same air as her without my permission, I won't just pull the plug on your operations. I will bury you in an unmarked grave beneath the southern docks."

Silvio gasped for air, his face turning a deep, mottled purple as his hands clawed uselessly at Dante’s iron grip.

"Do you understand me?" Dante demanded, his gray eyes flashing with a primal, terrifying ruthlessness.

Silvio managed a weak, terrified nod.

Dante released him disgustedly, letting my uncle slump against the pillar, coughing and clutching his throat. Dante didn't look back at him. He pulled out a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket, slowly wiped his gloved hands, and tossed the cloth onto Silvio’s lap.

Then, he turned back to me. The murderous rage in his eyes vanished, replaced instantly by that cold, unreadable mask. He extended his arm toward me.

"Our dance, wife," he said smoothly.

I swallowed hard, stepping over the shattered glass, and slid my hand onto his forearm. As he led me toward the center of the dance floor under the terrified, awestruck gazes of the entire city syndicate, I realized something terrifying.

Dante Vane hadn't just protected me. He had shown the world exactly what happened to anyone who tried to touch his property.

And as his large hand settled against the bare skin of my back for the waltz, the line between my hatred for him and my need for his protection began to blur into a terrifying, sweet poison.