Page 17 of Savage Devotion

His smile is terrifying in its gentleness. "We both know that isn't true."

He rises suddenly, moving toward me with that predatory grace that sets my pulse racing. I hold my ground, refusing to retreat despite every instinct screaming danger.

"Consider this your first lesson of the day, Francesca," he says, stopping close enough that I can smell his cologne, that intoxicating blend of citrus, mint and something darker. "Your body belongs to me. Your health, therefore, is very much my concern."

He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers brushing my skin with deliberate slowness.

"Sit. Eat. Or I'll have Marco hold you down while I feed you myself."

The threat isn't pretend. I can see it in his eyes, the sheer certainty of a man accustomed to absolute obedience.

I sit.

He watches with evident satisfaction as I take a pastry, biting into it with defiance rather than hunger. The sweetness explodes on my tongue, a reminder of simple pleasures now weaponized against me.

"Good girl," he murmurs, returning to his seat.

The condescension burns, but I swallow it with my breakfast, storing the rage for a more opportune moment.

After breakfast, Dante leads me to a door I hadn't yet discovered in my explorations. We step into a hidden elevator requiring both his fingerprint and a numerical code to operate.

"You have questions," he says as we ascend. "Ask them."

"Where are we going?"

"I am taking you to see the full extent of your new home." The elevator stops, doors sliding open to reveal a narrow hallway that appears brighter at the end where a door remains shut. "You'll have to excuse my mess as my father's death has forced me to take residence sooner than I anticipated."

Right.

His father.

The legendary don who built the Ravelli empire through blood and terror, is dead. Yet Dante speaks of it as casually as mentioning a change in the weather.

I study Dante's face for any sign of grief. No redness around the eyes, no tension in his jaw that suggests he's holding back emotion. Nothing.

But then, what did I expect? Tears? A trembling voice?

Men like Dante aren't raised to mourn; they're raised to calculate what each death means for their ambitions.

Would I be any different if it were my father? If he died tomorrow, would I weep? Or would I feel that first breath of freedom, that terrible, wonderful lightness of knowing his control had finally ended?

The thought slides into my mind like a knife between ribs, as Dante holds the door at the end of the corridor open for me.

"Welcome to the rooftop garden."

"Rooftop what—"

I step out and the space is absolutely breathtaking. Literally.

My chest stutters at the sight of a lush oasis twenty stories above London, enclosed in glass that creates a perpetual summer beneath it, despite the cool autumn air beyond. Rare flowers bloom in carefully arranged beds, small trees provide dappled shade, and a central fountain creates a gentle ambient music with falling water.

It's beautiful, peaceful. But oddly, it's just as much a prison as the penthouse below.

"Dante… This is… Impressive," I concede, stepping onto the moss-soft pathway. "I mean, it's another cage."

"But the most beautiful cage in London," he finishes, following close behind me as I take in all the plants and flowers. "I had it custom-designed, climate-controlled, completely private. Only I have access."

I trail my fingers over a delicate orchid, its petals a deep burgundy that reminds me of wine.

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