The next night, Raven stood outside Room 13 again—same black door, same brass number, same sinking feeling.
Only this time, her hands didn't tremble.
She'd spent the entire day convincing herself she wasn't walking into danger.
That Dante Moretti was just a man. Flesh and blood. Nothing more.
But as she reached for the handle, her heartbeat betrayed her.
Because she knew.
He wasn't just a man.
He was a storm dressed in a tailored suit. The kind of man who didn't ask—he claimed. Who didn't seduce—he devoured.
And for reasons she didn't understand, she was walking willingly into his mouth.
The door creaked open before she could touch it.
Dante stood there, sleeves rolled to his forearms, shirt unbuttoned just enough to hint at the ink spread across his collarbone. His eyes met hers, cool and unreadable.
"You're late."
She was right on time.
"You're early," she replied, stepping inside anyway.
The door shut behind her like a final breath.
🥀"I thought this wasn't a performance," she said as he walked behind her, circling again like the night before.
"It's not."
"Then why am I standing here naked again?"
"Because I said so."
She exhaled slowly. "You really like giving orders, don't you?"
He stepped in close. "You really like pretending you aren't dying to follow them."
His hands went to the straps of her dress, sliding them off her shoulders with a gentleness that made her stomach twist. The fabric pooled at her feet, leaving her in nothing but heels and her breath.
He walked around her, slow and methodical, then returned with something in his hand.
A black leather collar.
No jewels. No leash. Just sleek, dark leather and a single gold ring at the center.
Her body froze.
"What is that?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
His gaze didn't waver. "Mine."
"You want me to wear a collar?" she laughed, but it came out shaky. "What am I—your dog?"
He said nothing. Just approached slowly, like he was giving her time to run—but knowing she wouldn't.
"It's not about the collar," he said, voice low. "It's about what it means."
"And what does it mean?"
"That you're not just one of the girls anymore. That when someone looks at you, they'll know you're untouchable. That you're—"
"Owned," she whispered.
He paused.
"No," he said. "Claimed. There's a difference."
She didn't move as he raised the collar and fastened it gently around her throat. The leather was soft. Expensive. The gold ring cold against her collarbone.
But it wasn't the touch that made her shiver.
It was the possessiveness in his eyes.
Like he'd just branded her soul.
"You can take it off whenever you want," he said.
"Would that change anything?"
"No," he admitted. "But I'd let you pretend it did."
She stared at him, throat dry. "What do you want from me, Dante?"
"Everything."
He took her hand, led her to the same chair he'd sat in the night before—but this time, he didn't sit.
She did.
And he stood over her like a king, gazing down at his new prize.
"You dance for control," he said, slowly unbuttoning his shirt. "But what happens when the one watching sees straight through you?"
She didn't answer.
He stepped forward and ran a finger from the collar around her neck down to the valley between her breasts.
"You're not afraid of me," he murmured. "You should be."
"I'm not afraid of wolves," she said. "Only the ones that pretend to be men."
He chuckled darkly. "You've been bitten before."
"More than once."
"And still you walk into the lion's den?" He leaned down until their lips were almost touching. "Brave. Or stupid."
"Maybe both."
🖤Their lips met in a slow, punishing kiss that tasted like danger and desperation. He kissed her like a man who wanted to ruin her from the inside out. She kissed him like a woman with nothing left to lose.
When his hand gripped her thigh, she arched into him. Not in fear—but need.
She wasn't pretending anymore.
And that terrified her.
Because this wasn't a job. Not tonight.
She wasn't acting.
He pulled back just enough to whisper against her lips, "You're mine now."
And she whispered back, "Then make me forget I ever belonged to anyone else."
🗝️ Later That Night – Back in Her ApartmentThe collar was still around her neck.
She hadn't taken it off.
Even as she stood under the shower, letting scalding water run over her trembling body, she couldn't bring herself to remove it.
It wasn't just leather.
It was proof—that for the first time since she stepped into Inferno, she was no longer invisible.
Dante saw her.
Not the mask. Not the dancer.
Her.
And that made him dangerous in ways even she hadn't prepared for.
She toweled off quickly, stepping into her tiny bedroom. Her apartment was modest—barely more than a studio—but it was clean, quiet, and far from the club.
She dug through the false bottom of her dresser drawer and pulled out a thin burner phone.
No contacts. No camera.
Just a number pre-programmed under the name Hawk.
She dialed.
It rang once.
Then:
"Report."
Her voice was a whisper. "I made contact."
"And?"
"He's suspicious."
"Of what?"
"Everything."
Silence. Then: "Do you have the drive?"
She glanced at her boot by the door. "Yes."
"Keep it hidden. Don't engage unless absolutely necessary."
Raven hesitated.
"I already did."
"You what?"
"He touched me. Marked me."
"You let him mark you?"
"I didn't have a choice."
Silence again. Cold and tense.
"Raven… if he finds out who you are—"
"He won't," she said quickly.
He couldn't.
Because if Dante Moretti discovered that the woman dancing on his stage was actually working undercover for a rival cartel—
—she wouldn't live long enough to explain.