Page 59 of Ruthless Desire

His eyes glitter with dark amusement. "Oh, I've taken care of that. Your gown awaits in your room. I think you'll find it... suitable."

An hour later, I'm staring at my reflection in the full-length mirror, barely recognizing the woman looking back at me. The gown Dante has chosen is a masterpiece of sin and seduction - blood-red silk that clings to every curve, with a neckline that plunges dangerously low and a slit that climbs obscenely high. Diamonds drip from my ears and encircle my throat - a collar of wealth and possession.

I look like a mafia princess, a kept woman. Dante's most prized piece.

The door opens behind me, and I watch in the mirror as Dante enters. His eyes rake over me, hunger and satisfaction plain on his face. "Exquisite," he purrs, coming to stand behind me. His hands settle on my hips, proprietary and possessive. "You'll be the belle of the ball, solnyshko. The jewel of my empire."

I meet his gaze in the mirror, steeling myself. "And what if I refuse? What if I don't feel like playing dress-up and making nice with your sycophants tonight?"

His grip tightens, fingers digging into my flesh hard enough to bruise. "Oh, Natalie," he murmurs, his lips brushing my ear. "Still clinging to the illusion of choice? When will you learn that my desires are not requests, but commands?"

He spins me to face him, one hand coming up to cradle my face in a mockery of tenderness. "You will attend the gala. You will smile, and charm, and dazzle the crowds with your beauty and talent. And when the time comes, when I tire of the charade and ache to possess you once more?" His thumb traces my lower lip, his eyes burning with dark promise. "You will come to me, eager and willing, begging for my touch."

I swallow hard, fighting the traitorous shiver that runs through me at his words. "I'm not your plaything," I whisper, but the protest sounds weak even to my own ears.

Dante's smile is slow and predatory. "Oh, but you are, moy voron. You're my masterpiece, my greatest creation. And tonight, the whole world will see it."

The gala is everything I feared and more - a dizzying whirl of opulence and excess. The great and wicked of Dante's world preen and posture, their smiles as false as their hearts. I cling to his arm, playing my part even as my skin crawls at their appraising looks and the whispers that follow in our wake.

"Exquisite," they murmur, their eyes devouring me. "Corleone's done it again, bagged himself a true masterpiece."

I grit my teeth, bile rising at the casual objectification. To them, I'm nothing more than a possession, a pretty bauble to be coveted and displayed.

But even as I simmer with impotent rage, my eyes are scanning, searching for a chance. A lapse in Dante's iron control, a crack in the facade of this glittering nightmare. And then I see it - a glimmer of hope in the form of an unattended phone, carelessly left on a table by a tipsy guest.

My heart pounds, adrenaline surging through my veins. It's risky, foolish even. But what choice do I have? To stay passive, compliant, slowly suffocating under Dante's control?

No. I'd rather burn than fade away.

I make my move when the auction begins, the buzz of excitement over my painting reaching a fevered pitch. Dante's attention is momentarily diverted, his focus drawn to the stage and the frenzy of bids.

It's now or never.

I slip away, my steps measured and casual. No one spares me a second glance, too caught up in the spectacle of wealth and power changing hands.

The phone is sleek and unfamiliar in my trembling hands. I punch in the number from memory, my breath coming in quick, shallow gasps.

It rings once, twice. Come on, pick up, please god, pick-

"911, what's your emergency?"

The operator's voice is tiny and distant, but it's the most beautiful sound I've ever heard. A sob catches in my throat, relief and dread warring in my chest.

"Please," I whisper, my voice breaking. "I need help. I'm being held against my will, I'm-"

A hand closes over mine, vice-like and crushing. The phone clatters to the ground, my lifeline shattering with one ruthless squeeze.

"Tsk tsk," Dante murmurs, his breath hot on my neck. "Naughty girl, trying to run away from me."

He spins me to face him, his eyes black with barely contained fury. His grip on my arm is bruising, a brand of ownership.

"I-I wasn't," I stammer, my bravery withering under his glare. "I was just-"

"Lying," he hisses, his face a mask of cold rage. "Deceiving. Betraying me, after all I've done for you."

He drags me forward, his lips grazing my ear. "Did you think I wouldn't know? Did you think I'd let you out of my sight for even an instant? Oh, Natalie. Sweet, foolish Natalie. When will you learn?"

His grip tightens, a punishment and a promise. "You're mine. There is no escape, no sanctuary. Not from me. Not ever."

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