The first thing Liliana Rossi felt was the cold bite of marble under her bare feet.
The second was the weight of every gaze in the room sliding over her skin like oil.
She stood on a low dais beneath a single spotlight, wrists bound behind her back with thick crimson rope that had already rubbed the skin raw. The white silk slip they'd forced over her head barely reached mid-thigh, thin enough that the shadows of her nipples showed when she breathed too hard. Which was often. A ball gag stretched her jaw, drool gathering at the corners of her mouth, but pride kept her chin high even as tears blurred the sea of masked faces.
Lot 19. Virgin. Twenty-one years old. Starting bid one million.
The auctioneer's voice was smooth, practiced, bored. He might have been selling a painting.
Liliana's heartbeat thundered so loudly she almost missed the first bids. Two million. Four. Seven. The numbers climbed like smoke, faster than she could follow. She searched the darkness for her father—surely he would stop this, surely he had a plan—but the private balconies were hidden behind velvet and shadow.
Then a new voice cut through the haze. Low, quiet, lethal.
"Twenty-five million."
The room went still. Even the auctioneer faltered.
Liliana's gaze snapped upward to the highest balcony. A man leaned forward into the light just enough for her to see him. Black suit, blacker hair slicked back from a cruel, perfect face. A thin scar sliced through his left eyebrow like a crack in marble. Silver rings glinted on the fingers curled around a crystal tumbler he never drank from.
She knew that face. Everyone in her world did.
Dante Moretti. Il Diavolo. Second-in-command of the Moretti family. The man who smiled while he carved hearts out of chests and mailed them back to grieving widows.
He had just bought her.
The gavel fell like a gunshot. Sold.
Hands seized her arms, dragging her off the stage. She tried to scream behind the gag; it came out a pathetic whimper. Down a corridor, into a private room that smelled of leather and gun oil. Someone shoved her to her knees. A blindfold slipped over her eyes, plunging her into darkness.
She didn't know how much time passed—minutes, an hour—before the blindfold was ripped away.
She was in the back of a car. Armored Maybach, windows blacked out. The partition was up. City lights streaked across the glass like comets. Her wrists were still bound, ankles now tied together. The gag remained.
Dante Moretti sat across from her, one leg crossed over the other, watching her the way a wolf watches a rabbit decide whether to run.
He had removed his jacket. His white shirt was rolled to the elbows, revealing ropey forearms inked with black roses and Latin scripture. A silver watch caught the passing streetlights. He looked relaxed. Civilized.
He was anything but.
The car rolled to a stop. A garage—private, cavernous, lit by cold fluorescents. Dante stood, bent, and lifted her as easily as if she weighed nothing. She thrashed. He didn't seem to notice.
Elevator. Thirty floors up. The doors opened directly into a penthouse that looked carved from night itself: black marble floors, crimson drapes, a wall of glass revealing Manhattan glittering like broken diamonds below.
He carried her through the living room, past a grand piano no one played, past a fireplace big enough to burn bodies. Into the bedroom.
Only then did he set her down.
The bed was enormous, draped in blood-red silk. A St. Andrew's cross stood in one corner like a silent threat. Chains glinted from the headboard.
Dante circled her slowly. She could feel his gaze everywhere the slip didn't cover—which was most places.
He stopped behind her. One tug and the ropes at her wrists loosened, but before she could swing, his hand fisted in her hair and yanked her head back.
The gag came out with a wet sound. She sucked in air, coughing.
"Say it," he murmured against her ear.
She knew exactly what he wanted. "I hate you."
His laugh was soft, dark, deliciously cruel. "Good."
He spun her, pushed her down onto the mattress. The silk was cool against her burning skin. Before she could scramble away, he was on her—knees pinning her thighs, one hand braced beside her head, the other already sliding the slip up her trembling legs.
"Look at me, Liliana."
She did. Those winter-steel eyes were closer now, pupils blown wide with hunger and something colder. Vengeance.
"Your father took the only light I had left in this world," he said, voice velvet over broken glass. "Tonight I take his."
His free hand moved between them. She heard the clink of his belt, the rasp of a zipper. Panic surged.
"No—please—"
"Shh." A finger against her lips. "Virgins beg so prettily."
He shoved the slip higher, baring her completely. No panties—they'd taken those at the auction house. Cool air kissed her exposed sex and she whimpered, thighs clenching.
Dante's gaze dropped. A low growl rumbled in his chest.
"Already wet." He sounded almost angry about it. "Your body knows its master even if your mouth is still lying."
He pushed her legs apart with his knees. She felt the blunt, scorching heat of him nudging her entrance and sobbed.
"Dante—"
"That's the last time you use my name without permission," he warned. "Next time it's Sir. Or Master. Or whatever filthy thing I decide I want to hear dripping from these lips."
He leaned down, mouth brushing the shell of her ear. "But tonight I'll let you scream it while I ruin you."
Then he thrust.
One brutal stroke and he was seated to the hilt inside her virgin body.
Pain exploded white-hot behind her eyes. She screamed—raw, broken, animal. Her nails clawed at his shoulders through the shirt, tearing fabric. He didn't move, letting her feel every thick inch stretching her open, claiming what had never been touched.
Tears streamed down her temples into her hair.
"Breathe, principessa," he whispered, almost gentle. Almost. "It only hurts the first time."
He pulled back slowly, dragging against raw nerves, then slammed home again. And again. The pain began to blur at the edges, morphing into something darker, hungrier. Her hips jerked involuntarily.
"That's it," he crooned, voice rough now. "Take what you were born for."
He set a punishing rhythm, the headboard knocking against the wall with every thrust. One hand pinned both her wrists above her head; the other slid between their bodies, finding her clit with merciless precision.
She shattered almost instantly—an orgasm torn from her like a confession, back arching off the bed, a keening cry ripping from her throat.
He didn't stop.
He fucked her through it, drawing it out until she was sobbing from overstimulation, then flipped her onto her stomach and took her from behind, one hand fisted in her hair, the other leaving bruises on her hip.
When he finally came, it was with a guttural Italian curse against the back of her neck, flooding her with heat. He stayed buried deep, grinding slowly, making sure every drop stayed inside.
Only then did he pull out.
Liliana collapsed, trembling, thighs slick with blood and seed. She couldn't move. Could barely think.
Dante zipped himself up, calm again, as if he hadn't just destroyed her world.
He walked to the nightstand, opened a drawer, and withdrew a small, ornate knife. The blade caught the low light like a wicked smile.
She tried to crawl away. He caught her ankle, dragged her back.
"Stay still, amore."
He straddled her thighs, pinning her. The cold flat of the blade traced her spine, making her shiver.
"Payment comes in many forms," he said conversationally. "Tonight was interest. This—" the knife pressed just above the curve of her ass, "—is the first installment on the principal."
He carved slowly, deliberately. She felt every letter burn into her skin.
D. M.
When he finished, he bent and licked the blood away, tongue soothing the raw wounds. She was crying again, but her traitorous body arched into his mouth.
He kissed the brand he'd just made, gentle as a lover.
"Sleep, Liliana," he murmured. "Tomorrow the real fun begins."
He pulled the crimson duvet over her naked, shaking body, tucked her in like a child. Then he walked to the door, pausing only to flick off the light.
In the sudden darkness, his voice floated back, soft and lethal.
"Welcome home, wife."