Page 4 of In His Name

I'm on my feet before he finishes the sentence, moving with a speed that surprises even me. My hand closes around his throat, cutting off his words and his air supply in one movement. The other executives scramble back from the table, chairs scrapingon expensive hardwood. Only Vincent and Marco remain seated, watching with resigned expressions, as if they'd anticipated this outcome.

"Finish that sentence," I dare Antonio, my fingers tightening on his windpipe. "Say one more word about my wife, about our relationship, about what she is or isn't to me."

Antonio's eyes bulge, his face reddening as he claws ineffectually at my hand. He's old, weak, no match for the strength fury lends me. The rational part of my mind—the part that built an empire, that navigates complex alliances and vendettas—knows this is a mistake. Antonio has been loyal for decades. He's valuable. Connected. Killing him has consequences.

But that rational part is submerged beneath a tide of rage, of possessive fury that acknowledges no consequences, no limitations. Hannah ismine. Mine alone. Anyone who questions that, who dares suggest our relationship is anything but what I say it is, becomes an enemy. And enemies are eliminated.

I feel bones shifting beneath my fingers, cartilage compressing. Antonio's struggles weaken, his eyes rolling back. Someone is shouting—Vincent, perhaps, or Marco—but the words don't register. There is only the offense, the insult, the need to erase it with violence.

Hands pull at me—Marco and another executive, trying to break my grip without directly challenging me. "Boss," Marco says urgently, "not like this. Not here. Think about the mess, the questions. There are better ways."

His words penetrate the red haze, appealing to the strategic part of my brain that hasn't completely shut down. He's right. A boardroom execution is messy, complicated, difficult to explain. And Antonio, for all his disrespect, deserves a more considered fate.

I release my grip, watching dispassionately as Antonio collapses forward onto the table, gasping and coughing, hands at his throat where bruises are already forming. The other executives remain frozen, eyes averted, pretending not to witness what's happening. They've learned survival in my world requires selective blindness.

"Get him out of my sight," I instruct Marco, straightening my cuffs, adjusting my tie. The rage recedes slightly, enough for calculation to reassert itself. "Take him to the warehouse on Fulton. I'll decide his fate later."

Marco nods, gesturing to two security personnel who materialize at the boardroom door as if summoned by thought alone. They lift Antonio, still wheezing and disoriented, and remove him from the room. The remaining executives stare fixedly at their tablets, their papers, anything but me.

"The meeting is concluded," I announce, buttoning my suit jacket. "Vincent, prepare a statement for the consortium. Hannah will not be attending the dinner. I will not be attending the dinner. Our relationship with the consortium will continue on the same terms as always, or it will not continue at all. Their choice."

"Sir," Vincent begins, a note of caution in his voice, "the consortium represents over forty percent of our legitimate business interests. Alienating them could?—"

"I don't care," I interrupt, the words simple but absolute. "They will respect my privacy, my marriage, or they will find their access to our services and protection suddenly limited. Make that clear."

Vincent nods, knowing better than to argue further. "And Antonio?"

I consider this as I move toward the door. Antonio's offense was severe, but he's been loyal for decades. His connections arevaluable, his knowledge of our operations extensive. Killing him would be satisfying but potentially costly.

"He lives," I decide. "But not unscathed. Remove two fingers from his right hand—a reminder that pointing at what's mine has consequences. Then return him to his family with a message: further speculation about my wife will result in more permanent consequences."

"Understood," Vincent says, making a note on his tablet.

I leave without further discussion, striding through the corridors of the office building that serves as the legitimate face of my operations. Employees scatter before me, sensing my mood, making themselves invisible as I pass. My driver has the car waiting, door open before I reach the curb.

"The mansion," I instruct as I slide into the backseat. "Quickly."

As the car pulls into traffic, I check my watch. Seven hours and three minutes away from Hannah now. Too long. The separation feels physical, an ache beneath my ribs, a hunger that grows rather than diminishes with time. I need to see her, touch her, reassure myself of her presence, her reality, her status as mine.

The incident in the boardroom has shaken me more than I care to admit. Not the violence itself—violence has been a constant companion throughout my life—but the loss of control. The rage that overtook me was instantaneous, overwhelming, bypassing the careful calculation that usually governs my actions. For Hannah, because of Hannah, I acted with pure instinct rather than strategy.

It's dangerous, this obsession. I recognize that intellectually, can see how it's affecting my business, my relationships, my standing in the community I've built and ruled for decades. But recognition doesn't equal change, doesn't diminish the need, thehunger, the all-consuming focus on one girl with haunted eyes and skin that marks so beautifully.

Let them talk. Let them wonder. Let them speculate about the nature of my relationship with Hannah. Their opinions mean nothing compared to the reality of what exists between us—a bond forged through possession, through claiming, through breaking and reshaping. They could never understand the purity of that connection, the totality of ownership that transcends conventional relationships.

Hannah is mine. Mine to protect, to keep isolated from the world and its judgments. The rumors Antonio mentioned only strengthen my resolve to keep her separate, contained, preserved in the perfect bubble I've created for her. For us.

The car can't move fast enough. Seven hours and ten minutes now. My hands twitch with the need to touch her, to verify her continued existence in my world. After the rage, after the violence, I need the calming effect of her presence, her submission, her acceptance of her place in my life.

I need Hannah.

CHAPTER 3

Hannah

The blinds have been opened again, a privilege restored after two weeks of darkness. I sit in the window seat, forehead pressed against the glass, watching clouds drift across a sky that feels as unreachable as my former life. Sometimes I struggle to remember what freedom felt like—the simple act of walking outside without permission, of choosing what to wear, what to eat, when to sleep. Those memories slip away like water through cupped hands, no matter how desperately I try to hold onto them. What remains vivid are the consequences of defiance—Michael's terrified face, the bruises on my wrists from restraints, the psychological torture of darkness and isolation. A pattern has emerged with devastating clarity: resistance brings punishment, not just for me but for anyone unfortunate enough to be caught in Dante's obsession. And each punishment leaves me weaker, less able to maintain the inner core of self I've tried so hard to protect.

I trace my finger along the tattooed ring, the mark that never fades, never allows me to forget even for a moment who claims ownership of my body. My hip bears his name, my finger his ring, my neck the golden locket that declares me property. The external markings are just the visible manifestations of deeper changes—the conditioned responses, the learned behaviors, the gradual reshaping of my thoughts and expectations.

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