Page 11 of Marked for Life

"I'm sorry," he whispers, the words empty of meaning in the face of such betrayal. "I didn't realize?—"

"No," I agree, "you didn't. And that's the problem."

The knife slides between his ribs with surgical precision, finding the heart on the first thrust. His eyes widen in shock, in disbelief that conversation could carry such a lethal price. I step back as he slumps forward, blood pooling beneath the chair, life extinguished for the crime of noticing what belongs exclusively to me.

Marco observes without comment, without judgment. He understands the necessity, the message that must be sent through every level of my organization.

"Bring in Thomas," I instruct, wiping the blade clean on Stefano's uniform. "Then the others."

The night proceeds with mechanical efficiency—interrogations followed by executions for any who admit to discussing Hannah, observing Hannah, acknowledging her existence beyond the strict parameters I've established. Some protest innocence; others confess to casual comments made without understanding their significance. The result is the same regardless. By dawn, seventeen bodies await disposal—kitchen staff, security personnel, housekeepers, even one of Vincent's administrative assistants who admitted to curiosity about "the boss's wife."

Not all were part of an organized network. Most were guilty only of human nature—curiosity, gossip, the natural observation of an unusual situation. But intention is irrelevant. Results matter. And the result of their actions, however innocent in their minds, was potential threat to my possession of Hannah, to my absolute claim on what's mine.

"Send the message throughout the organization," I instruct Marco and Vincent as sunlight begins filtering through the high windows of the interrogation level. "Hannah Severino does not exist to anyone but me. She is not to be seen, not to be heard, not to be discussed, not to be considered in any capacity by anyone without my explicit instruction. The consequence for violating this directive has been demonstrated."

They nod, faces carefully blank despite the carnage surrounding us. Self-preservation has taught them well—curiosity about Hannah, about my relationship with her, about my obsession with her, is a death sentence. One they've now seen carried out with methodical thoroughness.

I return to my chambers, showering away the physical evidence of the night's necessary eliminations before checking the surveillance feeds once more. Hannah remains asleep, undisturbed by the purge that has just occurred throughout the household. Her face in repose shows none of the distance, the withdrawal that characterizes her waking hours. Sleep renders her vulnerable, transparent, unable to maintain the emotional barriers she's constructed against my possession.

Soon I'll join her, will hold her sleeping form against mine, will breathe in the scent that belongs exclusively to me. But first, I study the monitors one last time, searching for any sign, any hint, any indication that she knows more than she should about potential escape routes, about sympathetic staff, about networks that might steal what I've claimed so absolutely.

I find nothing in her sleeping face but the peace of unconsciousness. Yet the night's revelations have sharpened my vigilance, intensified my determination to eliminate any threat to my possession, however slight, however theoretical.

Hannah is mine. Exclusively. Irrevocably. Eternally. Anyone who fails to understand this fundamental truth, who dares to perceive her as separate from my ownership, who imagines the possibility of her existence outside my absolute claim, has signed their own death warrant.

A necessary message has been sent tonight. A lesson written in blood that will resonate throughout my organization, eliminating the whispers, the observations, the dangerous idea that Hannah could ever be anything but mine.

CHAPTER 7

Hannah

Something has changed in the mansion. I sense it in the eerie quiet, in the way staff members refuse to meet my eyes now, in how they seem to look through me rather than at me when performing their duties. The already minimal interaction has become nonexistent—meals delivered with mechanical efficiency, rooms maintained as if by ghosts, my questions met with single-word responses or silence. Dante hasn't explained this new development, this heightened isolation, but I know it's deliberate. Another layer of control, another barrier between me and any human connection that doesn't include him. I pace my suite, hands resting on my slightly rounded stomach, feeling more like a ghost myself with each passing day—visible only to Dante, existing only for him, fading from everyone else's reality like a photograph left too long in sunlight.

Fourteen weeks pregnant now, my body changing in ways impossible to hide. The curve of my stomach is subtle butdefinite, a physical manifestation of the chains binding me to this life. My hand traces the outline through the thin fabric of my dress, feeling the firmness beneath soft skin. Despite everything—the circumstances of conception, the way this pregnancy traps me here—I can't help the protective instinct that grows alongside this child. My resentment is directed at Dante, at this captivity, never at the innocent life developing inside me.

The Severino family crest has healed completely on my lower back, no longer tender when I move or stretch. Just another permanent mark of ownership joining the others scattered across my skin—Dante's initials on my neck and wrist, the tattooed ring on my finger, and now this symbol of dynastic possession. My body has become a record of captivity, a map of Dante's obsession, each tattoo marking another boundary erased between self and possession.

I move to the window, staring out at gardens I'm rarely permitted to visit anymore. Another restriction implemented without explanation, another freedom casually revoked. The pregnancy has made Dante even more protective, more controlling, more obsessed with keeping me confined to spaces he can perfectly monitor and secure. For my safety, he claims. For the baby's well-being. The justifications change but the reality remains constant—walls closing in tighter with each passing week, each new development, each sign that his ownership has become more complete.

The door opens without warning—it always does. Dante enters, his presence immediately filling the space, making the large suite feel suddenly small, airless. He watches me for a moment before approaching, his dark eyes scanning my body with that proprietary gaze I've come to recognize, to anticipate, to dread.

"You look beautiful today," he says, his voice carrying that particular tone of possession disguised as affection. "Pregnancy suits you."

"Thank you," I respond automatically, the words empty but necessary for survival. These programmed exchanges have become our dance, our script, our performance of normalcy within the most abnormal circumstances.

He crosses to where I stand by the window, his hand reaching to rest against my stomach—a gesture that's become increasingly frequent as my pregnancy progresses. The heat of his palm penetrates the thin fabric of my dress, warming the skin beneath. I try not to stiffen at his touch, knowing resistance only prolongs contact, only intensifies his determination to make me submit.

"How do you feel?" he asks, his voice gentler than usual, his attention focused on the slight curve where our child grows.

"Fine," I say, the single word revealing nothing of the storm constantly raging inside me. "Just tired sometimes."

His hand slides from my stomach to my waist, drawing me closer with subtle pressure I could theoretically resist but have learned not to. "You should rest more," he says, his breath warm against my hair. "The doctor said fatigue is normal but should be addressed."

I nod, acknowledging the instruction disguised as concern. Dante has assembled a team of specialists for my pregnancy—the best obstetrician, nutritionist, prenatal experts money and fear can procure. They visit the mansion on precisely scheduled appointments, treating me with professional courtesy that never quite disguises their awareness of who I belong to, what will happen if anything goes wrong under their care.

His other hand rises to my face, tilting my chin to make me look at him. "You're quiet today," he observes, his thumb tracingmy lower lip in a gesture that's become familiar, expected, routine in its invasion of personal space. "More than usual."

"Just thinking," I offer, the vague response unlikely to satisfy but all I'm willing to give.

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