Page 18 of In His Name

"Please," I whisper, opening my eyes to meet his gaze, desperate to be spared this additional trauma. "I've learned the lesson. I understand what happens to people who try to help me. Don't make me watch another death. Please."

His hand moves to my face, fingers tracing the outline of the tattoo on my neck—his initials, his brand. "This is necessary, Hannah. For you to truly understand the futility of escape attempts, the price others pay for interference in our relationship. Elena Vasquez chose her fate the moment she approached you, just as Rivera chose his."

There's no arguing with him when he's like this—cold, determined, certain of his righteousness. I nod once, defeat washing through me. Another death to witness, another nightmare to add to the collection, another layer of guilt to carry.

As Dante leads me from the suite, his hand possessive at the small of my back, I understand with devastating clarity what Elena meant about some things being worth dying for. The problem is, my freedom may be worth dying for to people like her and Rivera, but their deaths accomplish nothing. They die, and I remain exactly where I was—Dante's possession, his object, his obsession.

Their sacrifices change nothing except to reinforce the impossibility of escape, the deadly consequences of hope. Which is precisely why Dante makes me watch them die.

CHAPTER 9

Dante

The dress is blood red—a deliberate choice, symbolic of both passion and warning. I selected it myself, had it custom made to my specifications: modest enough to avoid appearing vulgar, revealing enough to display what's mine, structured to emphasize Hannah's delicate frame while remaining undeniably elegant. The color against her pale skin creates a striking contrast, drawing the eye while the message remains clear: this is something precious, something valuable, something dangerous to touch. As she stands before me in our bedroom, the final adjustments being made by the stylist I've brought in for the occasion, I feel the familiar surge of possessive pride. Tonight, I will present her to society for the first time—a calculated risk, but a necessary one. The rumors must be addressed, the questions silenced. Hannah is not a prisoner; she is my wife. And tonight, everyone who matters will see her as such, will witness my ownership not as captivity but as protection, as devotion, as the natural order of things.

"The neckline needs to be slightly lower," I instruct the stylist, a nervous woman who understands the importance of absolute perfection. "I want the tattoo visible."

She nods, making the adjustment without comment. The altered neckline now reveals the edge of my initials on Hannah's neck—a deliberate display of ownership, a warning branded into her flesh for all to see.

Hannah remains perfectly still during these adjustments, her face a careful mask, her eyes lowered. She's lost weight since her arrival in my life, her collarbones more prominent, her wrists more delicate. The effect is ethereal, haunting—a fragility that only increases my desire to possess her completely, to encompass her entire existence within my control.

"The jewelry," I say, opening the velvet box on the dresser. Inside rests a diamond and ruby necklace, the stones arranged in an intricate pattern that echoes the script of my initials on her neck. Not covering the tattoo but enhancing it, drawing attention to it. "And the bracelet."

The bracelet serves dual purposes—beautiful adornment and sophisticated tracking device, ensuring that Hannah's exact location is monitored continuously throughout the evening. The technology is embedded within the platinum settings, undetectable to anyone but me.

As the stylist fastens the jewelry, I circle Hannah slowly, examining every detail. Her hair has been styled in an elegant updo, exposing the nape of her neck, the vulnerability of her throat. Her makeup is subtle but enhancing—red lips to match the dress, eyes defined but not overly dramatic. Perfect. A living masterpiece, shaped by my preferences, displayed for my satisfaction.

"Leave us," I instruct the stylist, who gathers her supplies and exits quickly, sensing my impatience to be alone with my creation.

When the door closes, I approach Hannah, standing close enough to feel the heat radiating from her skin, to catch the scent of the perfume I selected—jasmine and vanilla, innocent yet sensual. "Look at me," I command softly.

She raises her eyes to mine, and I search for signs of the defiance that once burned there so brightly. It's muted now, banked beneath layers of conditioning and fear, but not entirely extinguished. Good. I don't want a shell, an automaton. I want Hannah—her spirit, her intelligence, her capacity for feeling—all harnessed to my will, all existing within the boundaries I've established.

"Tonight is important," I tell her, my hands moving to adjust the necklace, fingers brushing against her skin in a casual claiming. "You will be seen by many people—associates, competitors, the upper echelons of society and the underworld alike. Your behavior will reflect directly on me."

"I understand," she says, her voice carefully modulated, neither too eager nor too reluctant.

"Do you?" I trace the outline of her lips, smudging the red slightly, then repairing it with my thumb. "Let me be explicit about my expectations. You will remain at my side at all times unless I specifically direct otherwise. You will speak only when spoken to, and then only in response to direct questions about innocuous topics—the weather, the venue, appreciation for the event. If asked about our relationship, you will smile and express your happiness. Nothing more."

Her pulse quickens beneath my fingers as they trail down to her throat, resting lightly over the tattoo of my initials. "You will not engage in extended conversations with anyone, regardless of who initiates. You will accept no food or drink except from my hand. You will not enter any room or area without me. You will maintain appropriate physical contact with me throughout the evening—my hand, my arm, whatever is offered to you."

Each instruction lands with the weight of implicit threat. Hannah knows the consequences of disobedience, has witnessed them directly with Rivera and Elena. Two examples that have effectively communicated the price of defiance.

"Most importantly," I continue, my grip tightening slightly on her throat, "you will remember who you belong to. Every moment, every interaction, every breath is a privilege granted by my goodwill. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Dante," she replies, using my name without the honorific—a small liberty I allow in private moments like this, when compliance in larger matters is assured.

"Good girl," I murmur, releasing her throat to cup her face in both hands. I kiss her, careful not to disturb the lipstick too severely. A claiming rather than passion, a reminder of ownership before the public performance begins. "You look beautiful. You'll be the envy of every man there, the subject of every whispered conversation. And they'll all know you're mine."

The car ride to the charity gala is silent, Hannah sitting perfectly still beside me, careful not to wrinkle the dress or disturb her appearance. The tracking app on my phone shows her location as a pulsing red dot, updating every three seconds. A redundancy, perhaps, given her physical presence beside me, but one that satisfies my need for absolute certainty, for multiple layers of control.

"The Castellano family will be there tonight," I inform her as we approach the venue, lights from the grand hotel illuminating the interior of the car. "Francesco Castellano has a reputation for appreciating beautiful women who belong to other men. His gaze may linger. His words may suggest impropriety. You will give him nothing—not a smile, not a glance, nothing that could be interpreted as encouragement or interest."

"Yes, Dante," she says, her hands folded neatly in her lap, the diamond bracelet catching the light as we pass beneath streetlamps.

"The Russo brothers as well—particularly Antonio. He's young, impulsive, prone to misinterpreting politeness as invitation. Keep your responses to him minimal. Single words if possible."

She nods, absorbing these instructions with the serious attention they require. She's learning, adapting, understanding that her survival depends on perfect adherence to my expectations.

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