The Don's Obsession

The Devil’s Games

The mansion felt different after Isabella’s arrival.

It wasn’t just the sharp click of her heels echoing through the hallways or the way laughter followed her like perfume. It was the shift in the air itself, charged with an invisible tension that seemed to thrum against Aria’s skin. The house no longer felt like Dante’s alone. Now it felt like a stage, and Isabella revelled in every spotlight it offered her.

Aria, meanwhile, became the audience to a game she hadn’t chosen to play.

The next morning, she awoke to find the maids bustling into her room with clothes, gowns of silk and satin draped over their arms, and dresses far too extravagant for someone locked behind guarded doors. Confused, Aria demanded, “What is this?”

One maid kept her head down as she answered. “Miss Isabella’s orders. She said the Don wanted you dressed properly for dinner tonight.”

Aria’s stomach twisted. Dinner. With Dante. And Isabella.

She wanted to refuse. She wanted to tear the gowns apart, shred them into ribbons, and hurl the pieces into Isabella’s smug face. But her defiance had limits; locked in this cage, she could fight only with her mind. If she played too recklessly, she’d lose before the game had truly begun.

So, she chose. A blood-red dress, sleek and unforgiving, one that clung to her curves and bared her shoulders. Not because Isabella had sent it, but because Aria wanted to weaponise it. If she was going to sit at that table, she would not shrink beneath their gazes. She would burn.

By the time evening fell, her heart was a storm of defiance and dread.

The dining hall was as grand as the rest of the mansion, chandeliers casting golden light over a table that could seat twenty. Tonight, only three chairs mattered.

Dante sat at the head, his presence commanding without effort. He wore black, of course: a black shirt and black slacks, with the first button undone to reveal the edge of a tattoo curling along his collarbone. His gaze lifted as Aria entered, and for a heartbeat, she swore the air thickened. His eyes moved over her dress, lingering at her bare shoulders, before darkening with something unspoken.

Isabella was already seated at his right. Draped in emerald silk that shimmered against her hair, she looked every inch the queen she imagined herself to be. A glass of wine dangled between her fingers, and her lips curved when she saw Aria.

“Lovely,” Isabella purred. “I wasn’t sure red would suit you. But then, desperation often calls for boldness, doesn’t it?”

Aria smiled, though her hands itched to wrap around the woman’s throat. “Boldness”, she said sweetly, “isn’t something I borrow. It’s something I already have.”

For the briefest moment, Isabella’s eyes sharpened. But then Dante’s voice cut through the tension.

“Sit.”

The command was directed at Aria, low and absolute, and though her blood boiled, she obeyed, lowering herself into the chair opposite Isabella.

Dinner began, but food was secondary. Conversation was the true feast, and Isabella carved every word like a knife.

“Did Dante tell you,” she said, sipping her wine, “that he and I go back years? I practically grew up in these halls. Our families, our business… we’ve shared everything.”

Her gaze flicked to Dante, who remained silent, his jaw tight.

Aria’s stomach twisted, but she held Isabella’s stare. “Everything?”

Isabella’s lips curved. “Everything worth having.”

The implication was clear, sharp as glass.

Aria’s pulse raced, but she refused to break. “Then I suppose you’ll understand when I say not everything stays yours forever.”

The air crackled. Dante’s eyes slid to her, unreadable but heavy with an intensity that made her breath catch.

Dinner dragged on, Isabella’s every word a challenge, Aria’s every response a blade. But beneath it all, there was Dante, silent and watchful, his gaze flicking between them like a man caught in a storm he refused to leave.

When the plates were cleared, Isabella rose gracefully. “Well,” she said, “I think I’ll leave you two alone. I wouldn’t want to interrupt… whatever this is.”

Her perfume lingered after she left, cloying and suffocating.

Aria moved to stand, but Dante’s voice stopped her.

“Stay.”

It wasn’t a request.

Slowly, she lowered herself back into the chair, meeting his gaze with defiance. “What do you want from me, Dante?”

His stare was unyielding. “The truth.”

Her throat tightened. “The truth about what?”

“About why you hate me so much. Why do you look at me like I’m your enemy when I’m the only thing standing between you and men who would destroy you?”

Aria’s chest burnt. “You are my enemy.”

His jaw clenched, his voice dropping lower. “You think I don’t know about Marco?”

Her blood turned to ice.

He leaned forward, eyes locked on hers. “I know what he did. And I know you want revenge.”

The air rushed from her lungs. He knew. He saw through her, straight into the dark fire that kept her alive.

But before she could respond, footsteps echoed in the hall.

Isabella’s voice drifted through the door, hushed but sharp, as if she thought no one was listening.

“…she’s a distraction, Dante. She’ll ruin you. Don’t think I’ll let her stay here forever. One way or another, I’ll get rid of her.”

Aria’s heart slammed in her chest.

Dante’s gaze flicked to the door, his expression a storm of fury and restraint. Then his eyes snapped back to Aria, and in that moment, she understood something chilling.

Isabella wasn’t just a rival for his attention.

She was plotting to destroy her.

And Dante, whatever his obsession meant, was the only shield Aria had left in a house where enemies lurked behind silk smiles.

But Aria wasn’t afraid.

If Isabella wanted war, Aria would give her one.

And she would win.