The private clinic occupied the entire forty-second floor of a glass tower that belonged, on paper, to a shell company registered in Cyprus. In reality, it belonged to Dante Moretti.
Liliana was escorted (never carried, never dragged, simply escorted) by two silent bodyguards in charcoal suits. Dante walked half a step ahead, one hand resting lightly at the small of her back, thumb brushing the exact spot where his initials were still raw beneath the silk robe. Every time the elevator lurched, the pressure of his thumb reminded her the brand was real.
They stepped into a waiting room that looked more like a five-star hotel than a medical suite: black marble, orchids, low lighting, no magazines. A woman in crisp navy scrubs rose immediately.
"Signor Moretti." Her eyes flicked to Liliana, lingered on the bruises peeking from the robe's neckline, then dropped respectfully. "Doctor Valente is ready."
Dante's hand slid to Liliana's nape, a silent command: behave.
The examination room was warm, almost oppressively so. Soft classical music played. A wide padded table waited beneath recessed lights. Stirrups gleamed like surgical steel promises.
Dr. Valente was younger than Liliana expected (mid-forties, salt-and-pepper hair, calm gray eyes behind rimless glasses). He greeted Dante with the deference of a man who knew exactly whose payroll he was on.
"Signorina Rossi," he said gently. "If you'll disrobe and lie back, we'll make this as quick and comfortable as possible."
Dante didn't leave.
He leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching like this was the most natural thing in the world.
Liliana's fingers fumbled with the robe's tie. It slid from her shoulders and pooled at her feet. She felt every bruise, every bite mark, every fingerprint exposed to the air. Heat flooded her face.
Dr. Valente didn't blink. He'd clearly seen worse.
She climbed onto the table. The paper covering crinkled beneath her. Dante moved closer (not to help, simply to remind her whose permission allowed her to breathe).
The exam began clinically: blood pressure, heart rate, temperature. Then the speculum (cold, unforgiving). Liliana bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper.
"Minor lacerations," Valente murmured, voice low enough that only Dante could hear the details. "Expected with first intercourse of that… intensity. No significant tearing. She'll heal fully in seven to ten days with proper care."
Dante's only response was a soft hum of satisfaction.
Valente swabbed, took blood, checked the brand on her lower back. "This will scar beautifully," he said, almost admiring. "Clean lines. I'll prescribe an antibiotic ointment and a silicone gel for later. Minimal scarring if she follows instructions."
He removed the speculum, snapped off his gloves. "One more thing."
He produced a small handheld device. Ultrasound. Gel, cold on her lower belly. The wand pressed just above her pubic bone.
Dante's gaze sharpened.
"Too early for pregnancy," Valente said, reading the unspoken question. "But her cycle is textbook. Ovulation in approximately nine to eleven days. If conception is the goal, that's your window."
Dante's fingers brushed Liliana's thigh (possessive, proud, terrifying).
"Good," he said.
Valente cleaned the gel away, helped her sit up. "She's healthy. Fertile. No contraindications to… continued vigorous activity." A pause. "Provided adequate recovery time between sessions for the first week."
Dante's smile was slow and lethal. "Understood."
They were alone again thirty seconds later. The door clicked shut.
Dante didn't speak. He simply lifted her off the table, turned her, and bent her forward over it. The paper tore beneath her breasts. Her palms slapped the padded surface.
He didn't enter her (not yet). Instead he traced the fresh bruises on her hips, the faint teeth marks on her shoulder