Owned by the devil I didn't choose

The morning after Celeste's death felt like the sky had swallowed the stars and refused to give them back.

No guards spoke to me. No maids made eye contact. Even the marble floors under my bare feet seemed quieter, colder.

And yet, the silence didn't feel like punishment.

It felt like recognition.

I was no longer invisible in this house.

I was no longer just the girl who'd been bought in a red dress.

I was the girl who fought back. The one who bled. The one who survived.

And Dante Moretti? He'd noticed.

---

He summoned me after breakfast. I was brought to the back of the penthouse, down a long corridor I hadn't explored yet. The walls were darker here—wood panels, not marble. Oil paintings instead of mirrors. A different world.

He waited for me in a room that looked nothing like the others. It wasn't sleek or elegant. It was brutal.

A small boxing ring stood at the center. To the left, a wall lined with knives, handguns, batons. A heavy punching bag swayed slightly in the corner. And in the back—chains. Velvet ones.

Of course.

"This is where you train," Dante said simply, his voice echoing.

"I didn't agree to be your fighter," I replied.

"You didn't have to," he said. "The moment you signed your name, you agreed to become someone worthy of wearing my collar."

"I thought I already passed your test."

"That was survival," he said, stepping into the ring and motioning for me to follow. "This is power."

---

I hesitated, then stepped barefoot into the ring.

The floor was padded, the ropes high. I felt small. Bare. Like a lamb walking into a lion's cage.

Dante didn't attack. He didn't even move. He just looked at me with those wicked green eyes, like he was waiting to see what I'd do.

"I don't know how to fight," I said.

"That's a lie," he replied. "You fought Celeste. You broke her face with a glass and nearly shattered her wrist. That wasn't instinct. That was rage."

"I was scared."

"Exactly. And fear is a sharper weapon than a knife—if you know how to use it."

He tossed a thin wooden stick at my feet. "Pick it up."

I did.

It felt light. Harmless.

Until he struck.

---

It was fast—blinding. His own baton cracked the air as he swept it toward my ribs.

I gasped and barely stumbled back in time, but the sound sliced through me like thunder.

He didn't smile. Didn't blink. Just circled me like I was prey meant to learn or perish.

"This isn't about strength," he said, attacking again—this time a feint, followed by a jab to my shoulder. "It's about control. Timing. Reading your opponent's hunger before they show it."

I swung clumsily in response, my stick catching air.

"Too slow," he said, disarming me with a flick of his wrist. "Again."

The next strike knocked the stick out of my hand.

"Pick it up."

I did.

And I swung again.

---

It went on for hours.

Strike. Block. Fall. Rise.

Dante wasn't gentle. He didn't hold back. Every move was designed to frustrate me, to corner me, to make me either submit—or sharpen.

And somewhere between the bruises and the sweat, something inside me snapped.

Not broke. Snapped.

I stopped flinching.

I stopped dodging like a frightened girl.

And I started fighting like someone who was tired of bleeding for other people's sins.

My next hit grazed his hip. Then his shoulder.

He caught my wrist—but I twisted away.

He smirked.

"There she is," he said, breathless. "The girl in velvet chains."

---

Afterward, I collapsed on the floor, panting, my body aching, my skin slick with sweat. My heart thudded in my chest like a war drum.

Dante knelt beside me, a towel in his hand, but didn't offer it.

Instead, he studied me.

Not like a man studying a woman.

Like a king examining a blade he's just pulled from fire.

"I can't do this every day," I muttered, trying not to wince.

"You will," he said. "Because your enemies don't rest."

I looked at him. "Is that what you think of me? Just another piece on your board?"

"No," he said after a pause. "You're not a piece, Aria."

"Then what am I?"

His voice lowered.

"A storm I'm choosing to unleash."

---

The following week was war.

I woke up before sunrise. I trained. I learned pressure points, weak spots, how to shatter a kneecap in under three seconds. Dante watched, sometimes instructed, sometimes let his second-in-command—a quiet man named Vico—step in.

Vico didn't talk much. But he hit hard. He taught me how to use a knife, how to fake weakness to draw a man in, how to strike from shadows.

"Never aim for the chest," he told me once. "They expect that. Cut under the ribs. Slice the femoral artery. Let them bleed out while looking you in the eyes."

It terrified me how easily I memorized it.

And how natural it felt in my hand.

---

In between sessions, Dante gave me reading—files, documents, information on the other crime families. Maps of territory. Names of men who'd tried to betray him. Women who'd played seductress and spy like Celeste.

Each night, I would fall into bed, bruised and breathless, my fingers still curled in imagined fists.

And each morning, I rose hungrier.

Not for freedom.

But for understanding.

If I was to survive this world, I couldn't just wear his collar.

I had to earn the fear behind it.

---

On the tenth day, he brought me something different.

A dress.

It was black, floor-length, high-slit with thin silk straps and a plunging neckline. Beside it, he laid a pair of stilettos and a dagger.

"What's this for?" I asked.

"You're coming with me tonight," he said. "To a gathering of the Five Heads. Salvatore. Rivera. Benedetti. Liang. And me."

"And you want me dressed like this?" I lifted the fabric. "What am I supposed to be—bait?"

"You're not bait," he said, stepping closer. "You're a symbol."

"For what?"

He fastened the dagger to a garter belt and handed it to me.

"For what happens when the girl they tried to buy turns into the girl they should've feared."

---

I stood before the mirror for a long time once he left.

The girl who looked back at me was a stranger.

Not weak. Not broken. Not innocent.

But not quite cruel yet, either.

Somewhere in between.

Like a fire just beginning to learn how to burn on command.

The dress clung to every curve. The collar sparkled like a dark jewel around my throat. And under the hem of the silk, strapped to my thigh, was a blade sharp enough to make even kings bleed.

For the first time, I didn't feel dressed up.

I felt armed.

---

As we descended into the dark world below, Dante offered me his arm.

I took it.

Not because I had to.

But because I wanted to know what it felt like to walk into hell at a devil's side—and smile.

The car ride to the gathering was silent.

Dante sat beside me in the back seat of the black Maybach, hands resting on his lap, eyes straight ahead. The space between us buzzed with unspoken words, thick with tension that wasn't anger, wasn't lust, but something stranger.

Anticipation.

I shifted in the seat, adjusting the dagger on my thigh, the silk of the dress whispering against my skin. I felt like a weapon dressed in elegance. Every breath I took reminded me of the weight strapped to my leg.

"You're calm," Dante finally said.

I turned my head slightly. "Should I be shaking?"

He smirked. "I expected it."

"I don't give you what you expect."

"No," he said. "You give me something more dangerous."

The car pulled up outside a mansion bathed in gold lights and sharp shadows. Armed men stood at the gates. Elegant cars lined the circular driveway. Everything reeked of wealth and blood.

"This is the first time they'll see you," Dante said, opening his door. "Make them remember."

---

The ballroom was carved from black marble and trimmed with opulence. Crystal chandeliers cast golden rain across the crowd. The air was thick with perfume, expensive liquor, and darker things no scent could name.

Heads turned as we entered.

Dante didn't announce me.

He didn't need to.

Every man in the room knew her face—the girl in the red dress. The girl he'd bought.

But now, I wasn't draped in fear.

Now, I walked beside him like I belonged.

And they noticed.

---

An older man in a navy suit approached first. Thin-lipped. Cold eyes. Salvatore.

"So this is the girl everyone's whispering about," he said, eyeing me like I was a rare wine. "She cleans up nicely."

I smiled sweetly. "And you must be the man who sends little spies in maid uniforms."

His eyes narrowed.

Dante chuckled. "She has a sharp tongue, Salvatore. Be careful."

The tension in the air rippled. I felt Dante's hand lightly graze the small of my back—a silent signal.

I had won the moment.

---

We passed by the Benedetti twins next. They watched me closely, like wolves who hadn't decided whether I was pack or prey. One winked. I didn't blink.

Rivera said nothing, but his wife gave me a long, appraising look—then nodded, almost respectfully.

But the one who unsettled me most stood near the back wall.

Liang.

He said nothing, but when our eyes met, it was like he saw straight through the silk, the dagger, the collar—into the part of me still questioning who I really was.

That stare stayed with me as Dante guided me to the private table.

---

Wine was poured. Men laughed. Deals were whispered beneath the surface of compliments. But I felt the edge under it all—the danger. The hunger. This wasn't a party.

This was war in velvet gloves.

I kept my eyes open. My shoulders straight. My blade hidden.

Dante didn't speak to me much, but his hand never strayed far from mine. His presence was both protection and warning.

You're in. But never safe.

"Tell me," Rivera asked during a lull in the conversation, "does she fight? Or just follow you around like a pet?"

"She bleeds when necessary," Dante replied calmly. "And bites harder than most of your guards."

Laughter followed.

But no one looked amused.

---

As the evening wore on, I felt something change.

The music dulled. The light shifted. Dante stepped away for a private meeting, and suddenly I was alone at the table.

And that's when he appeared.

Liang.

He sat in Dante's seat, slow and deliberate, his suit sharp and silence sharper.

"You don't flinch," he said softly.

"Should I?" I asked.

His smile was small. "Most women who sit where you sit… don't last long."

"I'm not most women."

"No," he said, gaze unwavering. "You're still deciding who you are."

That made me pause.

"You think I'm lost?" I asked, defensive.

"I think you're evolving," he murmured. "And that's more dangerous than you realize."

---

Before I could reply, a shadow fell across us.

Dante.

Liang didn't look away from me. "She's interesting, Moretti

The collar lay in his palm like a shadow made solid. For something so soft, it had felt like iron. For something so beautiful, it had made me feel like a possession.

And now, it was gone.

I reached up instinctively, touching the skin of my neck. It felt naked. Unmarked.

And I didn't know whether to feel relief… or fear.

"What does this mean?" I asked, my voice low.

"That you're no longer being kept," Dante said. "You're choosing to stay."

"And if I don't?"

"You'll still be watched," he replied. "But not owned."

I didn't know how to respond. My heart twisted at the idea of freedom, but even more at the realization that I wasn't sure if I wanted it anymore—not if it meant walking away from the storm I was learning to command.

---

He moved closer then. Slowly. Deliberately.

"I didn't buy you to train you," he said. "I didn't even mean to keep you."

"Then why didn't you let me go?" I whispered.

He didn't answer right away.

Instead, he reached out, brushing a lock of hair from my cheek with two fingers—soft, like a question, not a claim.

"Because you were the first thing in years I couldn't control."

My breath caught.

"And you think you can now?"

He shook his head. "No. But I think you're finally starting to understand that you don't need to be protected to be powerful."

His hand dropped.

I stared up at him. "You want to mold me into something that looks like you."

"No," he said, eyes burning. "I want to unleash something that looks like you. The version of yourself they tried to bury."

---

Silence filled the space between us.

Then, carefully, I stepped closer until I was inches from him, close enough to feel the tension humming beneath his skin.

"And what do you get out of it?" I asked. "Turning me into a weapon?"

His voice was barely audible. "The only person I've ever trusted at my side… who might actually choose to stay."

It wasn't a confession. It was a warning dressed in honesty.

I should have stepped back. Should have remembered the danger in his name, the blood on his hands.

But I didn't.

I reached for his hand—and to my surprise, he let me take it.

---

We stood like that for a long time, hand in hand in the quiet dark of his office, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling glass that made the city look like it was burning below us.

And maybe it was.

But here, above it all, we weren't flames.

We were the match and the gasoline.

He looked at me, something unreadable in his expression. "You're not like the others."

"Because I fight?"

"No," he said. "Because you make me want to stop."

I swallowed hard, pulse kicking in my throat.

And still, I didn't let go of his hand.