Bound by Blood and BeastI looked down at the enormous dog, who had now settled comfortably against my leg.

The east wing suite was larger than any apartment I had ever rented. The floors were dark walnut covered in plush Persian rugs; the bed was an emperor-sized canopy draped in slate silk. French doors opened onto a stone terrace overlooking the mist-shrouded river, but when I tested the handles, they were locked with heavy magnetic deadbolts.

I was a prisoner in a palace.

Orion had made himself entirely at home. He lay curled across the foot of the bed, his head resting heavily on my discarded canvas shoes, his golden eyes tracking my every movement as I paced the length of the room.

Around eight in the evening, a knock sounded at the door.

Before I could answer, it opened. Dante stood in the threshold. He had shed his jacket, wearing a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, his collar undone. In his hands, he carried a silver tray with two bowls of braised beef, roasted vegetables, and a bottle of vintage Barolo.

"You didn't touch the tray the maids brought up," Dante said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

Orion immediately thumped his tail against the duvet, but remained firmly anchored to my shoes.

"I'm not hungry," I lied, though my stomach had been cramping with empty protests for the last three hours.

Dante set the tray down on a small marble dining table near the fireplace. He poured two glasses of deep red wine. "Starving yourself won't make me let you go, Olivia. It just makes you weak. And in this world, weakness is an invitation to be slaughtered."

"Stop talking like you're in a movie," I snapped, though I cautiously walked toward the table. The smell of rosemary and slow-cooked meat was overwhelming. "I'm a normal person. I worry about metro cards and laundry detergent. I don't belong in this... this mafia war."

"You stopped being normal the day you were born a Valenti," Dante said quietly. He pulled out a chair for me.

I hesitated, then sank into the cushioned seat. He sat opposite me, leaning back, watching me pick up a fork.

"Eat," he commanded softly.

I took a bite. The beef melted on my tongue, rich and savory. I tried not to show how ravenous I was, but after three mouthfuls, I gave up the pretense and ate with earnest hunger. Dante watched in silence, taking slow sips of his wine.

"Tell me about your childhood," he said suddenly.

I paused, swallowing hard. "There's nothing to tell. Earliest thing I remember is a hospital room when I was about ten. A social worker told me I had been found wandering near an industrial park in New Jersey. Smoke inhalation, head trauma. I couldn't remember my name, where I lived, or who my parents were."

Dante leaned forward, his knuckles whitening against his glass. "No memories of Chicago? No memories of the estate?"

"Just... flashes," I admitted, my voice dropping. I looked down at my hands. "Nightmares. Fire. The smell of gasoline and burning plastic. And a song."

Dante went rigid. "What song?"

I felt ridiculous, but the intensity in his gaze compelled me. I closed my eyes, humming three soft, haunting notes.

*"La luna nel pozzo, la stella nel mar..."* I whispered the Italian words, surprised at how naturally they tumbled off my tongue, despite never having studied the language. *"Dormi, mia rondine, non ti svegliar."*

When I opened my eyes, Dante was staring at me with an expression that bordered on reverence. The ruthless, untouchable mafia don had vanished; in his place was a man looking at a ghost.

"Your mother used to sing that to you," Dante said, his voice barely a breath. "When we were children. Salvatore held a summit at our Lake Como villa. You were six. I was twelve. You wouldn't stop crying because you were terrified of the dark. Your mother sang that lullaby until you fell asleep on the terrace."

A chill raced across my skin. "You knew me?"

"I swore to protect you then, too," Dante said, his eyes burning into mine with an intensity that made the air between us crackle with heat. "I failed fourteen years ago because I was too young, too arrogant to see the ambush coming. But you are here now, Alessia. And whoever stole you from that fire, whoever hid you in the shadows of this city... will pay with their life."

Suddenly, Orion sprang to his feet.

His ears flattened against his skull. The deep, rumbling growl that began in his chest rattled the glassware on the table. He turned toward the French doors leading to the balcony, his lips peeling back to reveal gleaming, ivory fangs.

Dante’s posture shifted in a millisecond.

The warmth, the vulnerability—erased. He reached beneath his shirt, pulling a sleek, suppressed semi-automatic pistol from his waistband.

"Stay down," Dante hissed, grabbing my shoulder and forcing me behind the heavy oak desk.