Page 21 of Bound to Him

I place my hand in the valet's, allowing him to assist me from the car. His touch is impersonal, professional, yet it feels strange after so long. As soon as I'm standing, Dante's arm snakes around my waist, pulling me against his side in a clear display of ownership.

"Thank you," he says to the valet, dismissing him with a nod.

The unmarked door opens as we approach, revealing an elegant interior. The restaurant—if that's what it is—seems more like a private club. The lighting is dim, the décor rich with dark woodsand deep burgundy fabrics. A man in an immaculate suit greets Dante by name, his eyes flickering over me with carefully controlled curiosity.

"Mr. Severino, your usual table is ready."

"Thank you, James," Dante replies, his hand still firmly at my waist as we follow the man through the main dining area.

Eyes turn as we pass, subtle glances that quickly avert when Dante looks their way. These people know him, fear him, perhaps. I feel exposed under their gaze, a possession being displayed. The dress Dante chose—emerald green, tight, shorter than anything I'd have worn in my previous life—suddenly feels even more revealing.

Our table is in a secluded corner, partially screened from the rest of the room by an ornate wooden partition. A single candle flickers at the center, casting shadows that dance across the white tablecloth. Dante pulls out my chair, a gesture of politeness that feels grotesque given our reality.

"Sit," he says, not unkindly but with the expectation of immediate obedience.

I sit, arranging the short dress as best I can to cover my thighs. Dante takes the seat opposite, his eyes never leaving me. A waiter appears instantly, pouring water, presenting menus, reciting specials that wash over me in a blur of unfamiliar terms.

"We'll have the chef's selection," Dante decides, not bothering to consult me. "And bring a bottle of the Bordeaux. You know the one I prefer."

The waiter nods, collecting the unopened menus, disappearing as silently as he arrived.

"You look beautiful tonight," Dante says, reaching across the table to take my hand, his thumb brushing over the tattooed ring. "The dress suits you."

"Thank you," I respond automatically, my eyes darting around the room, taking in details that might be useful, though for what purpose, I'm not sure. The exits are likely guarded. Even if I could somehow escape, where would I go? Who would help me against someone like Dante?

"Your mind is wandering," he observes, his grip tightening slightly on my hand. "Stay present, Hannah. This evening is important."

"Important how?" I ask before I can stop myself.

A slight smile touches his lips. "You're becoming more comfortable asking questions. That's good. I want you curious about my world." He leans forward, lowering his voice. "Tonight is the first time I'm presenting you publicly as mine. As my wife."

The word still sends a chill through me, despite the wedding ceremony he forced, despite the tattoothat brands me as his. "These people know who I am? What you did?"

His expression hardens slightly. "What I did was claim what belongs to me. And yes, certain people in my circle are aware of our arrangement. They understand the importance of discretion."

Our arrangement. As if I had any choice, any say in the matter. Before I can respond, the waiter returns with wine, pouring a small amount for Dante to taste. The ritual of it—so normal, so civilized—creates a jarring contrast with the reality of my situation.

Dante sips, nods approval, and the waiter fills both our glasses. I don't touch mine. Alcohol means vulnerability, dulled senses. I need to stay alert, even if escape is impossible.

The first course arrives. It’s something delicate involving seafood that I barely taste. I eat mechanically, knowing Dante watches me, noting each bite, each movement. Conversation flows, one-sided. He speaks of business matters, vague references to deals and territories that mean nothing to me but paint a picture of his world—a world of power, money, and implicit violence.

It's during the second course that it happens. A man at a nearby table looks our way, his gaze lingering on me a beat too long. He's younger thanDante, expensively dressed, handsome in a conventional way. Our eyes meet briefly before I quickly look down at my plate, heart racing at even this small interaction with someone outside Dante's control.

Too late, I realize Dante has noticed. His hand, reaching for his wine glass, freezes mid-air. His entire body goes still, like a predator spotting prey.

"Dante?" I say quietly, hoping to distract him, to defuse whatever is building.

He doesn't respond, doesn't even seem to hear me. His eyes remain fixed on the man, who is now engaged in conversation with his dining companion, unaware of the danger.

"Excuse me for a moment," Dante says finally, his voice eerily calm as he places his napkin beside his plate and stands. "Stay here."

Terror washes through me. "Please," I whisper, reaching for his hand. "Don't?—"

"Stay. Here." Each word is clipped, precise, brooking no argument.

I watch, frozen, as Dante approaches the other table. His posture is relaxed, his movements fluid, but I've learned to recognize the danger signs—the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his hands hang too still at his sides. He speaks to the man, words I can't hear but can imagine. The manlooks confused, then concerned, then afraid. He stands, nodding repeatedly, following as Dante gestures toward a door at the back of the restaurant.

No one in the restaurant seems to notice, or if they do, they deliberately look away. The staff continues serving, guests continue dining, as if nothing unusual is happening. But I know—I know in my bones—that something terrible is about to occur.

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