The morning breeze stirred the leaves of the trees, carrying with it the scent of jasmine and damp earth. The sun barely filtered through the olive branches, casting shadows over the meticulously manicured lawn. Svetlana sat on a stone bench, arms wrapped around her legs, chin resting on her knees. Her blue eyes—cold as a Russian winter—were lost in the horizon, where the sky met the vastness of the estate that, to her, was nothing more than a gilded cage.She couldn’t understand why Dante had confined her to one wing of the mansion after assuring her she was free to roam the house. That contradiction baffled her. She was supposedly no longer a prisoner, yet the locked doors and constant surveillance told a different story. She was like a bird with clipped wings, offered a larger cage but with no chance to fly.Luckily, she had books. Stacks of them. Stories of love, war, and betrayal. Sometimes, she would lose herself in a novel until reality dissolved between the pages. She also had

The hours dragged on, weighed down by a thick silence broken only by the distant ticking of a clock.Svetlana sat on the edge of the bed, knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around them.She was thinking about Dante—about his dark, piercing eyes, the way he’d held her with that volatile mix of fury and desire in every movement.Damn it.She didn’t want to think about him, yet her mind betrayed her over and over again.Across the house, Dante found no rest either.He had poured himself a double whiskey, but the burn in his throat did nothing to silence the storm within.His desire for Svetlana was consuming him, driving him mad.And he couldn’t allow that.He couldn’t afford to be weak.Laughter echoed in the hallway—feminine, light, suggestive—accompanied by the sharp click of heels against the marble floor.Svetlana stiffened instantly, her whole body on alert.She slipped toward the door, pressing her ear to the wood, holding her breath."Move along, girls. The signore do

Dante surveyed the space with a piercing gaze. He knew the construction of the theater would take time, and an idea came to him—unexpectedly, almost like a temporary solution. Why not create a provisional space for Svetlana? A place where she could dance. Where she could rehearse her routines. A space where he could watch her without anyone else interfering.Suddenly, it became clear.“Clear this space,” he ordered firmly, as if he already saw the finished vision in his mind. His voice carried authority, but there was something else beneath it—something more personal, more intense.The workers sprang into action without question. They didn’t need further instructions.“Mirrors,” he commanded, and the sound of tools echoing in the empty room was music to his ears. “Cover every wall. Wooden floors. Soft lighting—but bright enough to catch every movement.”They would use materials intended for the theater, but he’d worry about replacing them later.His eyes swept across the room, visuali

Early in the morning...The roar of the private jet sliced through the sky with the precision of a scalpel dissecting flesh. Inside the cabin, a tense calm prevailed, broken only by the hum of the engines and the faint clink of crystal glasses whenever one of the men impatiently flexed his wrist.Dante sat by the window, a glass of whiskey in hand, his gaze fixed on the void. In the distance, the city lights looked like a swarm of fireflies trapped in the darkness of dawn—but he barely saw them. His mind was elsewhere.Svetlana.Since the night of the dance, since the way their bodies had intertwined with a synchronicity beyond mere movement, he couldn’t get her out of his head. There was something about her that disarmed him. It wasn’t just her fragility or obvious vulnerability, but how, without trying, she was seeping into every crack of his existence.He’d never allowed himself to think of a woman beyond pleasure, convenience, or duty. But her... she was different.“Shit...” he th

The low, steady roar of the engines filled the cabin of the private jet as they cut through the sky, heading back to Aspromonte. Dante reclined in his black leather seat, elbows resting on the armrests, fingers interlaced in front of his mouth. The tension weighed on his shoulders like a heavy slab, and though his gaze was fixed on the window, he saw nothing at all.He had wanted to return the next day, but unfinished business kept him in Milan longer than planned. Endless days with barely a moment to breathe, each hour marked by tension and the burden of decisions that couldn’t be delayed. There was no time to miss Svetlana—or at least that’s what he tried to convince himself. Yet every dawn, in those brief moments before exhaustion pulled him under, her memory struck him with unexpected force.Milan had left a bitter taste. He hadn’t rested for a second, and the responsibility of retrieving Franco’s body only added weight to his already overloaded mind. Now, his only priority was to