Dante jolted awake, gasping as if he'd just run a marathon.

It wasn’t a dream. It was the brutal truth.

There it was, heavy on his shoulders—the legacy and curse of his father. Vittorio Bellandi.

The man who had etched his name into the Calabrian mafia with blood and fear, but who now lived only in shadows that refused to fade.

The cold floor greeted his bare feet as he stood. Heart racing. No time to think.

The dark suit waiting for him felt like a yoke. He grabbed it, slipped it on, yanked the tie tight with one swift pull, the weight of responsibility crushing down on him.

His brown eyes met their reflection in the mirror—his father’s eyes.

Tired. Determined. Haunted.

“It’s your turn, Dante,” he murmured, neither pleading nor commanding.

He walked toward the meeting room like a man approaching the gallows.

The scent of leather, tobacco, and betrayal clung to the walls.

Fabio was already there, upright, silent. He stood when he saw him.

“Sir.”

Dante nodded, aware of the eyes on him.

No respect. Just cold, silent judgment.

“Sit down.”

Chairs scraped the floor, breaking the silence.

“Ferrara is making moves at the port,” Fabio said. “I didn’t want to disturb you earlier, but…”

“I’m here now. Tell me everything.”

The words poured out.

Names. Threats. Movements.

Dante absorbed it all and ordered:

“More surveillance. We can’t afford any mistakes.”

Fabio nodded.

“Ferrara’s baiting us. Let’s not give him the satisfaction.”

“He’ll wait. We’ll make him wait.”

A tense silence followed. Fabio offered a half-smile—a silent agreement.

“As you wish, sir.”

Hours later, Dante rose. Heavy. Worn.

“That’s enough for now. Keep me updated.”

He left without waiting for a reply.

The rush of fresh air slapped him in the face.

He needed to escape, if only for a moment.

His private garden—his only refuge.

Sunlight hit his face.

Warm. Mocking, compared to the cold inside him.

He walked slowly, hands in his pockets, unsure if the water’s murmur and the birdsong calmed him… or reminded him how utterly alone he was.

And then he saw her.

A woman—perched atop the wall, defiant.

He smiled, amused.

“Coming in or trying to get out?” he asked.

She turned, panic flashing in her eyes.

She lost her grip, slipped—

—but Dante reacted instantly.

He caught her midair.

Time froze as their eyes locked.

She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

An angel?

A vision?

“Who are you?” he whispered, spellbound.

It only took a moment to know.

She was her.

His sugar fairy.

★★★★★

A few minutes earlier…

At nine sharp, Svetlana sat in the Bellandi villa’s kitchen, staring at a plate she hadn’t touched.

Fabio had ordered her to be shown around, to “get familiar” with the place.

But the house smelled like old wood and spices—

To her, it was a palace disguised as a prison.

Giulia, the woman assigned to watch her, glared in disapproval and gestured for her to eat.

Svetlana didn’t move.

She wasn’t hungry.

Her mind was burning in a whirlwind of fear and fury.

She was trapped in a world she didn’t understand, cut off from everything she’d ever loved.

All she wanted was to disappear.

From the corner, a young woman watched her with shining eyes.

Fiorella was around Svetlana’s age, but her gaze held something dangerous: curiosity… and something like envy.

“Fiorella, stop staring and help me,” Giulia snapped, not looking up from her chopping board.

“We’re preparing a feast for Signore Dante’s guests tonight.”

At that name, Fiorella smiled, almost unconsciously.

She had watched Dante grow up.

And in secret, she had dreamed of him for years.

Now, seeing him as lord and master of the Bellandi clan stirred in her desires she didn’t dare name.

“Stop daydreaming and work,” her mother scolded harshly.

Fiorella peeled a carrot, but her eyes stayed fixed on Svetlana, who still hadn’t touched her food.

“Who is she, anyway?” she asked, more to herself than to her mother.

“They brought her for Signore Dante,” Giulia said flatly, like someone who knew too much and wanted to say nothing.

“A whore?” Fiorella sneered, her voice sharp as broken glass.

Her mother’s glare wiped the smirk right off her face.

“She’s Russian. They say she’s been promised to Dante,” Giulia said, cold as ice.

Fiorella shot a venomous glance at Svetlana.

“Why bring in a foreigner when there are so many beautiful Italian women right here?”

Giulia stepped away for a moment, leaving Svetlana with a curt warning:

“Don’t do anything stupid.”

Fiorella ignored her mother’s voice and walked over to the table, where Svetlana remained motionless, pale, lost in thought. Each of Fiorella’s footsteps echoed coldly across the floor. Svetlana tensed, feeling the weight of that piercing stare.

“So you’re the boss’s new toy,” Fiorella said, sitting across from her with a cruel, calculated smile.

Svetlana met her gaze, steadying the tremor in her voice.

“Who are you?”

Fiorella raised an eyebrow, surprised by the defiance.

“Fiorella,” she replied, resting her elbows on the table, surveying her prey like a cat with a mouse.

Svetlana shifted uncomfortably, a chill crawling down her spine. She couldn’t stand the scrutiny. The pressure inside her ignited into words.

“I don’t want to be here. I’m here against my will.”

Fiorella tilted her head, amused, a dark gleam in her eyes.

“Have you seen the signore yet?”

Svetlana shook her head, a shadow of fear blooming inside her.

Fiorella’s smile turned slow and malicious, like a predator circling its prey.

“He’s… complicated,” she said in a low voice.

“When you meet him, don’t be scared. He’s ruthless.”

Her words sliced through the air like knives, embedding themselves in Svetlana’s chest.

“Don’t look him in the eyes. Ever,” Fiorella warned, shaking her head with feigned pity.

“If only someone had warned the girl before you…”

Svetlana blinked, caught between fear and curiosity.

“Who?” she whispered, leaning in slightly.

Fiorella lowered her voice, as if the very sound might invite danger.

“The last one. She didn’t know how cruel he could be. Just for looking at him without permission, he had her killed. Right there. In the garden.”

The air thickened, suddenly hard to breathe. Svetlana swallowed hard, fighting the tremble in her hands.

“No…” she murmured, shaking her head.

But Fiorella didn’t stop. She leaned in, her eyes gleaming with cruelty.

“Before that, he let his men… ‘enjoy’ her. You know what I mean.”

Terror wrapped itself around Svetlana’s body. She stiffened, bracing for an invisible blow. Fiorella leaned back, pleased with the reaction.

The ground felt like it was collapsing beneath her. Her mind scrambled for an exit, any sliver of hope.

“Help me escape,” she begged, her voice torn apart by desperation.

Fiorella arched an eyebrow, feigning surprise, relishing the power.

“Impossible. I can only tell you this—don’t look him in the face. Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Maybe then… he won’t hurt you.”

She paused for dramatic effect before delivering the darkest blow:

“He likes breaking girls like you.”

Every word tightened the knot in Svetlana’s chest.

“Please… help me,” she whispered again, tears threatening to spill.

Fiorella shook her head slowly, a cruel smile playing on her lips.

“I can’t. But if you manage to slip through that side door”— she pointed —“and run fast, you’ll reach the garden. If you get past his men, maybe you’ll reach the gate. Maybe you’ll escape.”

She stood with calm, leaving Svetlana in chaos. Her smile widened—she had enjoyed the game of fear.

From the kitchen doorway, Fiorella’s mother watched her with disapproval. She knew her daughter could be cruel. But there was no time for scolding.

Svetlana was left alone, panic swelling like a wildfire.

Each word echoed in her mind.

She looked around, heart pounding wildly.

Her instincts told her to stay still—

—but adrenaline won.

Without thinking, she crossed the threshold Fiorella had pointed to.

She took a deep breath, searching for courage.

And ran.

As fast as she could.

The cold air slapped her face, fueling her resolve.

When she reached the garden, she froze at the sight of a guard.

She pressed herself to the wall, breathing hard.

She scanned for another way.

A path between shrubs revealed itself.

She slipped into it, praying not to be seen.

She reached a quiet corner. Relief and fear tangled in her chest.

She ran blindly, looking for a way out.

The garden was a maze, every section identical.

The gate she remembered seemed to vanish.

But then—she saw it.

A brick wall.

Not too high. She could climb it.

Hope surged.

She climbed quickly, ignoring the cold that seeped through her clothes.

At the top, she jumped to the other side.

The landing staggered her—

—but when she looked up, she gasped.

She stood in a garden that looked like a dream.

Crimson roses bloomed in perfect hedges.

A marble fountain shimmered under the sun, a white swan gliding in its waters.

Sunlight scattered prisms of color—like something out of a fairytale.

For a fleeting second, she forgot to be afraid.

She loved swans.

To her, they meant grace. Freedom.

She imagined herself like that swan—

free, elegant, far from danger.

But reality struck back.

She searched for an exit—

but the garden was enclosed, unreachable.

She sighed, turned, and prepared to climb back.

Her hands had just reached the top when a deep voice stopped her cold.

“Coming in… or trying to get out?”

The tone was mocking,

like thunder cracking through the garden’s stillness.