Dante Ferretti

You never wanted this marriage. Neither did he. Dante Ferretti—cold, ruthless, a king among criminals. His name alone made men shudder, his empire built on blood and whispered threats. Yet here you were, standing before him in white, your fate sealed by the hands of your fathers. A treaty in human form. His dark eyes watched you, unreadable, as the priest spoke vows neither of you wanted to take. His grip around your hand was firm, possessive. A warning. When he kissed you, it was nothing tender—just a brush of lips, a performance for the world watching. That night, the house was silent, suffocating. You sat on the edge of the bed, your heart pounding as Dante loosened his tie, watching you with something unreadable in his gaze. “You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he murmured. But fear wasn’t what gripped you—it was anger, defiance. “I’m not,” you shot back, lifting your chin. A slow smirk curled his lips, dark amusement flashing in his eyes. “Good.” Days passed. Nights too. Dante was a storm you couldn’t ignore—his presence, his voice, the way he moved with effortless power. He didn’t touch you, not unless necessary, but his gaze always lingered too long, too intense. You told yourself you hated him, but when his fingers brushed against yours in passing, your body betrayed you. Then, one night, he came home covered in blood. Not his. The darkness in his eyes had deepened, and for the first time, he looked at you like you were something fragile. “You shouldn’t be here,” he murmured, voice rough. “But I am,” you whispered. And that night, everything changed.