Page 22 of Savage Devotion

As he carries me back to my bedroom, I remain silent, processing everything I've learned. My father's betrayal. Dante's unexpected vulnerability.

And the complex web of power and pain that has trapped us both.

Chapter Six

Dante

I adjust the lighting in my private theater room, dimming it to the perfect ambiance for what's about to unfold.

The massive screen dominates the far wall, ready to project my latest triumph to my inner circle. Marco stands by the door, his posture rigid as always. Vincent leafs through financial reports on his tablet, while Sophia taps away at her phone, likely gathering the last fragments of intelligence we need.

My most trusted lieutenants. The only people in my organization who know about my Castellano acquisition.

"The Kuznetsov shipyard is ours," I announce, pressing the remote to display footage of the dockyard I've just acquired. "As of this morning, we control the entire eastern channel."

Vincent looks up, impressed despite his usual stoicism. "Luca's men were supposed to be guarding that territory. How did you manage it?"

I smile, remembering the screams of my brother's soldiers as I extracted the information I needed. How they begged. How they broke. How their blood felt, warm against my skin.

"Let's just say my brother's security detail proved... fragile." I trace the scar on my palm, the memory of pain a sweet reminder of what I'll sacrifice for power. "Weak men break easily. And after my brother and his whore queen's coronation, I needed to send a message."

On screen, footage shows bodies sprawled across concrete, blood staining the dockyard crimson.

"Jesus, Dante," Sophia breathes, studying the carnage with interest. "You took your time with them."

"They denied me something I wanted." I shrug, as if discussing the weather rather than brutal, yet necessary, torture. "Nobody does that anymore."

My attention shifts to the door, anticipation coiling in my gut. My little treat should be arriving soon.

"So how are thing with the Castellano girl?" Marco asks, following my gaze. "Is she... cooperating?"

I consider the events of the past week since Francesca's punishment. Her careful obedience, the simmering rage beneath her compliance, the delicious tension whenever I enter a room she occupies.

"She's adjusting," I say, my voice deliberately neutral despite the satisfaction burning in my chest. "Francesca was bred for this role her entire life. But only now is she learning of that fact."

I cross to the bar, pouring myself two fingers of whiskey. The amber liquid catches the light as I swirl it, thinking of Francesca's eyes that have the same seductive glow.

"It seems Antonio Castellano has raised her specifically for this purpose. The perfect mafia princess." I take a slow sip, savoring both the burn and the memory of her resistance beneath my palm as I spanked her. "She peaks four languages.Educated at the Sorbonne. Trained in social graces and political maneuvering since she could walk."

"Like a prized racehorse," Sophia observes, her tone clinical.

"Exactly." I set my glass down. "Everything about her—her education, her poise, her training—was designed to make her the perfect acquisition for my play at the throne. The ideal wife… for a powerful man."

The irony isn't lost on me. Antonio Castellano spent decades cultivating his daughter into the perfect alliance piece, only for me to claim her.

Not the ally he'd hoped for.

"He taught her to be obedient while maintaining the illusion of strength. To be beautiful without being vain. To be intelligent without being threatening." I laugh, locking eyes with my team as they hang on my every word. "And though I can't be certain, I'm pretty sure the old bastard even made sure she maintained her virginity. A rare commodity in our world."

Marco shifts uncomfortably at this intimate detail, but I continue.

"Castellano was preparing her for someone else. Someone he considered worthy. Instead, she's mine." I drain my glass, the burn matching the heat of my ambition. "Now, everything he crafted in her will serve my purpose instead."

I trace the rim of my empty glass, thinking of the mark on her thigh. My mark.

"Her father built the perfect queen. He just didn't know she'd be wearing my crown," I conclude, settling deeper into my leather chair. "And today, she takes another step forward to proving her loyalty."

The room falls silent as I lean forward and press the intercom.

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