Chapter 4 - Into the Lion’s Den
The heavy mahogany doors slammed shut behind them, cutting off the suffocating orchestra music and plunging the corridor into sudden, echoing quiet. Sloan wrenched her arm free from Dante's grasp as soon as they cleared the threshold, her chest heaving as she glared at him under the emergency exit lights.
“Don't touch me,” she hissed, rubbing her skin where his fingers had gripped her like steel bands. Dante didn't flinch or look offended; he simply watched her with those flat, unreadable gray eyes, leaning slightly against the limestone pillar of the hotel foyer. His bodyguards stood a respectful distance away, facing the ballroom doors like statues carved from granite.
“You have a fiery spirit, Sloan. Your father neglected to mention that part in the paperwork,” Dante observed, his voice rich and deep in the enclosed space.
“Paperwork?” Sloan let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. “You make it sound like a real estate transaction. My father doesn't own me. He doesn't have the right to hand me over to a criminal syndicate just because he gambled away money he didn't have!”
“Your father signed a binding contract three years ago, right after my father died and your family’s shipping empire was drowning in bad debt,” Dante said calmly, stepping closer without threatening her. “He offered collateral. When the deadlines passed, I came to collect.”
“And he chose me,” Sloan whispered, the bitter truth finally settling into her bones. Paige was the golden investment, protected at all costs; Sloan was the expendable asset, kept around only until she could be traded for survival. The realization didn't make her cry; it hardened her core into something sharp and unyielding.
“He offered your shares in the logistics firm first,” Dante corrected quietly, surprising her. “I told him I didn't want his paper assets. I wanted the piece of his life he cared about the least—the one he kept hidden in the shadows.” Dante reached out, his thumb gently catching a stray tear she hadn't realized she’d shed. She jerked her head back, refusing his comfort.
“And what are you going to do with me? Torture me? Lock me in a basement?”
“My home has many rooms, Sloan, but none of them are cages,” Dante replied smoothly, gesturing toward the frosted glass doors where a sleek, black armored sedan idled against the curb, its engine rumbling like a sleeping predator. “You are coming with me because your father’s debt is paid in full, and you are my wife under the old blood-pact laws whether you say the words or not.”
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“I will never marry you,” she spat defiantly. Dante only offered a slow, dangerous smile that promised an endless war of wills.
“Get in the car, Sloan. We are going home.”
