Power Struggles

Chapter 22: Power Struggles

Isla paced the length of the grand bedroom, her body humming with rage. The walls were adorned with gold accents, the massive chandelier overhead cast a soft glow, and the four-poster bed behind her was covered in silk sheets—luxury fit for a queen. But she wasn't fooled.

This was a prison.

She stormed to the door, jiggling the handle. Locked. Again.

Her teeth clenched as she slammed a fist against the wood. The first thing she had done after Dante dragged her into his mansion was test every escape route. The windows? Reinforced glass. The balcony? Too high to jump. The doors? Locked, guarded, controlled.

Trapped.

Dante had stolen her freedom, stripped away every ounce of power she had gained—and she despised him for it.

The door creaked open, and Isla whirled around, her heart pounding.

Dante stepped inside, exuding power and control with every step. He was dressed in his usual tailored black shirt and slacks, sleeves rolled up, veins prominent on his forearms. His presence alone filled the room with a suffocating intensity.

His eyes scanned her, lingering for a second too long.

"You're restless," he mused.

"No shit," she snapped, crossing her arms. "Let me go."

A slow smirk played on his lips as he shut the door behind him. "That's not how this works, dolcezza. You're mine now. You don't get to decide where you go, what you do—" He gestured to the black dress laid out on the bed. "—or what you wear."

She scoffed. "You think picking out my clothes is supposed to break me?"

Dante's gaze darkened, and in the blink of an eye, he was in front of her, gripping her chin between his fingers.

"I think you're still pretending you have control," he murmured. His thumb brushed against her lower lip, and Isla fought the shiver that ran down her spine. "That's cute."

She wrenched her face from his grasp, her jaw tight. "You can control my surroundings, Dante. But you will never control me."

His smirk deepened. "We'll see about that."

With that, he turned and walked toward the door.

"Get dressed," he ordered. "You have five minutes."

Then he was gone, leaving Isla seething.

**

Thirty minutes later—because fuck his orders—Isla descended the grand staircase.

The dress fit her perfectly, which only fueled her fury. Had he taken her measurements while she was unconscious? Or had he simply studied her body long enough to know?

She hated that thought.

She hated even more that she looked stunning in it.

The slit at the side revealed just enough of her leg to be enticing, the fabric hugging her in a way that made her feel powerful, despite knowing Dante had chosen it.

She was led into the dining room, where a long mahogany table was set for two. The lighting was dim, casting soft shadows across the space. Expensive wine sat in crystal glasses. The scent of freshly cooked food filled the air.

Dante stood at the head of the table, his gaze locked onto her as she approached.

"You're late," he noted.

She slid into the chair across from him, picking up her wine glass but not drinking. "You're lucky I showed up at all."

He smirked, sipping his wine. "True."

A tense silence stretched between them.

Dante, ever the predator, studied her with quiet amusement. She knew what he was doing—waiting, watching, testing her.

She refused to break first.

"Why am I here?" she asked finally. "What's your endgame, Dante?"

He leaned back in his chair, twirling the stem of his glass between his fingers. "I could ask you the same, Bella Caruso—or should I say, Isla Romano?"

Her blood turned to ice.

Dante smirked at her reaction. "Surprised?" He set his glass down. "Luca did some digging. Turns out my sweet little bartender is neither sweet nor just a bartender."

Isla's fingers tightened around the silverware. "So what now?" she asked, voice steady despite the storm raging inside her.

"Now?" Dante tilted his head, eyes gleaming with something dark. "Now, I decide what to do with you."

The way he said it made her stomach tighten.

She needed to regain control—fast.

Feigning confidence, she leaned forward, resting her chin on her palm. "If you were going to kill me, you would have done it already."

His smirk deepened. "Very true."

"So what do you want, Dante?" she pressed. "A confession? An apology?" She let out a short, humorless laugh. "Because I can assure you, you'll get neither."

Dante leaned forward as well, closing the distance between them.

"I don't want your confession," he murmured. "I want your loyalty."

A flicker of shock passed through her before she masked it. "Loyalty?" she repeated.

"To me," Dante clarified. His fingers trailed along the table's edge, slow and deliberate. "You've spent all this time infiltrating my world. Now, you have two choices. Stay and serve me…"

He reached for his wine again, taking a sip before finishing,

"…or find out what happens when you defy me."

The unspoken threat lingered between them.

Isla clenched her fists beneath the table. She had come here for revenge, had built an entire life around destroying Dante's empire.

Now, she was a prisoner in his home, backed into a corner with no immediate escape.

But one thing was certain—she wouldn't break.

Not for him.

Not for anyone.

"You'll never own me, Dante," she whispered.

His smirk returned, dark and knowing.

"We'll see."