Chapter 3 — Shadows and Introductions
Dante
The heavy oak doors of the Russo Estate’s study clicked shut behind Dante, the sound reverberating in the quiet room like the closing of a vault. He loosened his tie with a sharp tug, the silk sliding between his fingers as he crossed to the bar. The amber liquid poured into the glass with a steady stream, its faint aroma mingling with the scent of polished wood and aged leather.
The day had been long, his patience worn thin by a parade of sycophants and schemers. And then there was her—Vivienne Moreau. His new wife. His new liability.
He took a measured sip, the burn of the whiskey grounding him. The image of her from earlier pressed against his thoughts: her chin held high despite the weight of her resentment, her hazel eyes sharp enough to cut through steel. She was defiant, that much was clear. But defiance didn’t concern Dante. A controlled burn could be useful. What concerned him was the unpredictability she brought into his meticulously ordered world.
His gaze drifted to the portrait of his father, hanging prominently on the wall. The stern, unyielding expression on the painted face mirrored the weight Dante carried now. Leadership was a legacy carved in blood and silence, a mantle that offered no room for uncertainty. Yet doubt crept in, uninvited, as he thought of her—of the way she refused to play the role he’d assigned her. A flicker of something—admiration, perhaps—bubbled beneath his frustration, but he quickly buried it.
A creak of hinges broke his reverie. Renzo Bellini entered with his usual flair, adjusting his gold cufflinks as he stepped into the room. His polished shoes made no sound on the floor, but Dante had long since learned to listen for the silence Renzo carried like an accomplice.
“You look like a man reconsidering his choices,” Renzo said, gesturing lazily toward the glass in Dante’s hand. “Marriage troubles already?”
Dante set the glass down with deliberate precision, the faint clink of crystal against wood punctuating the tension. “What do you want, Renzo?”
Renzo chuckled, unbothered by Dante’s clipped tone. “Just thought I’d check in. The inner circle’s restless. They’re wondering if your… arrangement with the Moreau girl is as strategic as it seems. I, of course, assured them you have everything under control.”
Dante’s jaw tightened. “I don’t need you to assure anyone of anything.”
Renzo raised his hands in mock surrender, his grin widening. “Of course not. You’re the boss. But the timing, Dante—it’s delicate. The Moreau family’s reputation is less than pristine, and some are questioning what kind of baggage she might bring with her.”
“And you?” Dante asked, his voice low and steady. “What do you think of her baggage?”
Renzo took his time answering, his fingers brushing an invisible speck of dust from his lapel. “I think she’s a beautiful woman with a dangerous last name. That makes her either an asset or a risk. The trick is figuring out which.”
Dante leaned back against the edge of the desk, crossing his arms. Renzo’s game was as familiar to him as the weight of the ring on his finger: plant the seed of doubt, watch it grow. “She’s my wife. That makes her my responsibility. Anyone who questions that will answer to me.”
“Understood,” Renzo said smoothly, though the glint in his eyes suggested otherwise. “I’ll leave you to it, then. But if you ever need someone to… lighten the load, you know where to find me.”
As Renzo turned to leave, Dante’s voice cut through the room like a blade. “Don’t mistake courtesy for trust, Renzo. You’re here because I allow it. Nothing more.”
The consigliere paused in the doorway, his smile faltering for the briefest of moments. “Of course, Dante. I wouldn’t dream of forgetting.”
The door closed softly behind him, but the tension lingered, wrapping itself around Dante like a second skin. He drained the rest of his whiskey, his gaze returning to his father’s portrait. The weight of the Russo legacy loomed large—not just in the painted eyes that seemed to judge him, but in the secrets that lay locked away behind the safe in the bookshelf. He ran his fingers along the safe’s edge, his touch lingering as memories of his father’s confidences and warnings pressed against his mind like a phantom whisper.
Later, in the dining room, the atmosphere was no less stifling. The long mahogany table stretched between him and Vivi, her posture as sharp and unyielding as the edge of a blade. She picked at her food with deliberate disinterest, her silence louder than any argument they could have had.
“You’re wasting a good meal,” Dante said, breaking the quiet.
Her fork clinked against the plate as she set it down. “Forgive me if I’m not in the mood to celebrate my captivity.”
He leaned back in his chair, studying her. “Captivity implies chains. You’re free to leave the estate whenever you like. Within reason.”
Her laugh was bitter, a sound that grated against his composure. “How generous of you. Shall I thank you for the guards who’ll be trailing my every move?”
Dante’s gaze narrowed. “You’re not a prisoner, Vivienne. But you are my wife. That comes with certain expectations.”
“Expectations,” she echoed, her tone laced with disdain. “You mean obedience.”
“Call it loyalty,” he countered, his voice like tempered steel. “It’s a concept I suggest you familiarize yourself with.”
For a moment, her hazel eyes locked with his, a clash of wills that neither seemed eager to lose. Then, to his surprise, she smiled—a small, enigmatic curve of her lips that unsettled him more than her defiance.
“Loyalty, Dante?” she said softly. “That’s an interesting word, coming from a man surrounded by people who would stab him in the back the moment it became convenient.”
His fist clenched under the table, though his expression remained composed. “Be careful, Vivienne. You’re playing a dangerous game.”
“And you’re underestimating your opponent,” she shot back.
A tense silence fell between them, the air thick with unspoken challenges. Finally, Dante stood, the scrape of his chair against the floor breaking the stillness.
“Enjoy your evening,” he said, his tone curt. “I have matters to attend to.”
As he left the room, her parting words echoed in his mind, needling at the edges of his control. She was more than he had bargained for—a puzzle with too many missing pieces. And in his world, mysteries were dangerous.
In his private study, Dante stared at the locked safe behind the bookshelf. Its presence loomed large, a vault of secrets that could shatter the fragile equilibrium he had built. His fingers brushed the surface of the desk, the cool wood grounding him as his thoughts drifted to his father. Had he felt this same weight, this same gnawing uncertainty about who to trust and what to believe?
The sound of footsteps in the hallway pulled him from his thoughts. He turned just as Enzo peeked into the room, his small frame dwarfed by the heavy door.
“Uncle Dante?” the boy said hesitantly. “Can I come in?”
Dante’s stern expression softened, a rare crack in his armor. “Of course.”
Enzo shuffled in, clutching his sketchbook to his chest. His wide brown eyes were filled with a quiet curiosity that reminded Dante of his brother—the boy’s father—before the world had hardened him.
“Did you finish your drawing?” Dante asked, nodding toward the sketchbook.
Enzo nodded, holding it out. “It’s the garden. I tried to draw the jasmine, but it’s hard to get the petals right.”
Dante took the sketchbook, flipping through the pages with careful hands. The drawing was simple but earnest, the flowers rendered with a child’s attention to detail. Among the blossoms, Dante noticed a small symbol—a locked door sketched faintly in the corner. It was subtle, almost hidden, but it struck him as poignant.
“It’s good,” he said, handing the sketchbook back. “You have talent.”
Enzo’s face lit up with a shy smile. “Do you think Aunt Vivi would like it? She likes art, right?”
Dante hesitated, the boy’s question catching him off guard. “She might,” he said finally. “You should show her.”
Enzo nodded, clutching the sketchbook tightly as he turned to leave. “Goodnight, Uncle Dante.”
“Goodnight, Enzo,” Dante replied, his voice softer than before.
As the door closed, Dante leaned back in his chair, the weight of the day settling over him once more. Vivi’s words echoed in his mind, a reminder of the fragility of the alliances he’d built and the danger of the woman now sharing his home.
She was right about one thing: in his world, loyalty was a rare and fleeting thing. But he intended to ensure that hers, at least, would not waver.
