Page 1 of Bound to Him

CHAPTER 1

Dante

Isee her through a gap in the crowd, and my world stutters to a halt. She's laughing, her head tilted back, exposing the delicate line of her throat. My fingers twitch at my sides, already imagining how that soft skin would feel beneath them. I shouldn't be here. This neighborhood celebration is beneath someone of my standing, but business required a personal touch. Now, as I watch her move with a grace that speaks of innocence I haven't known for decades, I realize this mundane event might be the most important one of my life.

The evening air carries the scent of cheap beer and overcooked meat. This community fundraiser is exactly the kind of gathering I typically avoid, but Brightley owes me money—a lot of it—and I make a point of keeping tabs on my investments. I stand near the edge of the park, partially obscured by an ancient oak tree, my dark suit a stark contrast to the casual attire surrounding me.

"Mr. Severino, would you like a drink?" One of my men appears at my side, his face carefully blank.

I shake my head once, dismissing him without taking my eyes off her. She moves through the crowd with ease, carrying a platter of cookies. Her brown hair falls in waves down her back, catching the fading sunlight. She's young. Too young, perhaps, but there's something in the way she carries herself. A natural confidence that hasn't yet been crushed by the world.

"Who is she?" I ask, my voice low.

"Hannah Brightley, sir. John Brightley's oldest daughter."

The information settles in my chest like a stone. Brightley's daughter. The universe has delivered a gift to my doorstep, wrapped in innocence and tied with opportunity.

"Find out everything about her," I instruct,watching as she sets down the platter and brushes crumbs from her simple blue dress. "Everything."

My man disappears, and I continue my vigil. Hannah. The name rolls around my mind, testing how it feels. It's too plain for someone like her. She deserves something more substantial, something that carries weight when spoken.

She smiles at an elderly woman, leaning down to hear whatever story is being shared. The curve of her neck, the gentle slope of her shoulders. Everything about her is soft, untouched. I want to sink my fingers into that softness, mark it, claim it.

I've had women before. Beautiful women, powerful women, women who knew exactly what I was and what I wanted. But this girl—she's different. The purity radiating from her is almost tangible, like a scent in the air. It awakens something primal in me, a hunger I didn't know I possessed until this moment.

A young man approaches her, and my body tenses. He's close to her age, with the easy smile of someone who has never had to fight for anything in his life. He says something that makes her laugh, and jealousy rips through me with such force that I have to restrain myself from crossing the distance between us.

No one should make her laugh but me. No oneshould stand that close to her. No one should breathe the same air as her.

The realization of these thoughts should disturb me, but instead, they feel right. Natural. Inevitable.

As the evening progresses, I learn more about her through observation. She's kind, stopping to help a child who has dropped his ice cream. She's responsible, checking in with her parents regularly. She's artistic. I notice her hands move as she speaks, graceful and expressive. Those hands would look beautiful against my skin, scratching, pleading.

I find myself moving closer, drawn by an invisible thread. I position myself near enough to hear her voice without being noticed. It's melodic, with a warmth that suggests she sees the best in people. She hasn't noticed me yet—why would she? I'm a shadow at the edge of her world, watching, calculating.

"Dad, I should head back soon. I have that art project due tomorrow," she says to a man I recognize as John Brightley.

"Just a little longer, Hannah," he replies, his voice carrying the slightest slur. "I'm talking business with Mr. Peterson."

I know what kind of "business" Brightley discusses. The man has a gambling problem that'sgrown worse over the years. It's why he owes me money—money he has no hope of repaying. I've been patient, allowing the interest to accumulate, waiting for the right moment to collect.

Now, I understand why I've been so patient. Something inside me knew I was waiting for this—for her.

Brightley's debts are substantial enough to ruin him, to destroy his family. It would be easy to take everything from him—his house, his dignity, perhaps even his life. But why settle for material possessions when I could have something infinitely more valuable?

I could have her.

The thought solidifies, transforming from impulse to plan. I watch as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, unaware that her fate is being decided. She believes she has choices, options, a future of her own making. The illusion of freedom is touching in its naivety.

"Sir," my man returns, speaking softly into my ear. "Hannah Brightley, nineteen, art student at the local university. Lives at home to save money. No boyfriend currently. Comes from a modest background—father's gambling debts have put financial strain on the family."

Nineteen. Young, but not too young. Oldenough to understand what's happening to her, what will happen to her. Old enough to feel the full weight of belonging to me.

"Their financial situation?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

"Precarious. The father has been borrowing from multiple sources, including us. They're one missed payment away from losing everything."

I smile, the expression feeling foreign on my face. "Excellent."

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