Page 30 of In His Name

Hannah responds perfectly. Appropriate words. Soft tone. Correct posture.

Junior, however, takes a step forward. Extending his hand. “José Alvarez. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”

I intercept, grasping his hand myself before Hannah can respond. “She’s not fond of physical contact with strangers.” The words are polite; the warning beneath them is not.

Junior laughs, unfazed. “A handshake is hardly intimate.” His gaze drags over Hannah again, lingering too long. “Especially with someone who may become a regular acquaintance. I’ll be relocating to New York next month.”

My blood turns molten. The suggestion in his tone—the casual presumption of proximity to Hannah—seals his fate. My grip on her waist tightens. “How interesting.”

Senior shifts uncomfortably, sensing the tension. Good. Let him. “Vincent mentioned you wished to discuss the Miami shipment,” I say smoothly. “Perhaps you and I should step inside.”

Senior hesitates, clearly reluctant to leave his son. But he complies. Which leaves me and Junior. Alone.

“Your wife is stunning,” Junior says once his father is out of earshot. “Where did you find someone so…delicate?” His gaze slides over her like a touch. “She seems almost too young for a man of your…” a smirk, “reputation.”

The kill instinct flares sharp and cold. But I don’t react. Not outwardly. Instead, I turn to Hannah, brushing my knuckles down her arm. “Darling, would you check on the dessert service?”

She understands instantly. Go. Remove yourself.

“Yes, of course.” Her voice is soft, but the brief flicker of fear in her eyes doesn’t escape me. Nor does Junior’s continued stare as she walks away.

The second she’s out of earshot, I turn to him, my voice deathly calm. “You have a tendency to overstep.”

Junior grins. Arrogant. Careless. “Just admiring.”

“You mistake my civility for leniency.” I take a measured step closer. “I don’t share.”

His grin falters.

“She’s mine,” I state plainly, my voice edged in steel. “Her body. Her mind. Her will. All of it belongs to me.” I lean in, my tone dropping to something deadly. “And men who forget that?” I smile coldly. “Don’t live long enough to repeat the mistake.”

The blood drains from his face. He laughs it off, but his throat bobs. “You’re serious.”

I don’t blink. “Deadly.”

A moment of silence hangs heavy between us. Then I smile. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

I turn, walking back toward the house, already calculating how soon I can eliminate José Alvarez Jr. from existence. Because one thing is certain—he looked at what’s mine. And that is unforgivable.

CHAPTER 15

Hannah

Itrace the black ring tattooed on my finger, the permanent circle of ink that marks me as Dante's. I used to hide it—fold my hands to conceal it, tuck it beneath my other fingers, wear real rings to disguise it. Not anymore. The fight has drained from me like blood from a wound, leaving me pale and weak and empty. What's the point of hiding what can never be removed? The mark is there whether visible or not, etched into my skin with the same permanence as Dante's claim on my life.

Sunlight catches on my hand as I hold it up, examining the tattoo against the bright backdrop of morning. The lines are clean, the black ink stark against my pale skin. Professional work. Dante would never accept anything less, even in a violation. Especially in a violation. Each marking on my body has been executed with the same terrible precision as his control over my life—meticulous, deliberate, permanent.

I remember the night he marked me with this ring. After my first escape attempt. After the initials tattooed on my neck andwrist. The restraint chair, the buzz of the tattoo machine, his voice soft in my ear—"With this ring, I thee wed." A mockery of traditional vows, transformed into another chain. I screamed inside while my face remained frozen, tears tracking silently down my temples into my hair.

I cried for days after, not from the physical pain, which was minimal compared to other things I'd endured, but from the symbolism. A wedding ring should be removable. It should symbolize choice, commitment, love. This black circle burned into my skin represents none of those things. It's possession, pure and simple. A brand, like those used on cattle.

For months afterward, I hid it obsessively. When Dante would take me to public functions—carefully orchestrated appearances designed to reinforce the fiction of our relationship—I would tuck my tattooed finger beneath the others when holding a glass. I'd wear an actual diamond ring over it, a beautiful, expensive prison disguising the true prison beneath. I'd fold my hands just so during conversations, keeping that finger out of sight.

Such small rebellions. Such pointless defiance. Each time Dante would notice—he notices everything—and later, in the privacy of our bedroom, he would punish me for it. Nothing obvious, nothing that would leave marks visitors might see. Just a tightening of restrictions, an increase in surveillance, a withdrawal of the tiny privileges I'd earned through compliance.

"Why hide what you are?" he would ask, forcing my hand flat against the mattress, staring at the tattoo with possessive satisfaction. "Why pretend you're not mine when every inch of you belongs to me?"

I had no answer that wouldn't earn worse punishment. So I would lie there, silent, seething, clinging to my tiny acts of resistance as proof that something inside me still fought, still rejected this perversion of love he forced upon me.

---