Chapter 2 - The Dragon's Cage
The iron gates of the Vance estate swung open like the jaws of some ancient beast, swallowing our black Mercedes-Benz as we swept up the winding, cypress-lined driveway.
Through the tinted windows, the estate looked less like a home and more like a medieval fortress transplanted onto the northern bluffs of the city. High stone walls topped with razor wire and security cameras loomed against the stormy night sky. Armed guards patrolled the perimeter in steady, silent rotations.
I sat in the backseat next to Dante, pressed as far against the door as the leather upholstery would allow. Throughout the entire forty-minute drive from Ristorante Bellagio, neither of us had spoken a single word. Dante sat in brooding silence, cradling little Leo, who had fallen fast asleep against his father’s chest, his tiny breathing steady and deep.
Every few minutes, I glanced sideways at Dante’s profile. The harsh streetlights flashing through the windows caught the jagged scar running down his cheek and the intricate black ink of the dragon spiraling up his wrist, disappearing beneath the pristine white cuff of his shirt.
My mother’s voice echoed in my head like a haunting refrain: If you ever see men with dragons on their skin, you walk the other way. They take everything. They leave nothing behind.
Yet, here I was, being driven directly into the lair of the dragon king himself.
“You’re trembling,” Dante said suddenly, without turning his head.
“I’m cold,” I lied, crossing my arms over my cheap cotton apron, which I had forgotten to take off in the chaos of leaving the restaurant.
Dante didn't comment. He simply shrugged off his heavy, cashmere overcoat and draped it over my shoulders. It was oversized, heavy, and radiated his body heat, smelling faintly of cedarwood and bitter espresso. I instinctively pulled it tighter around myself, hating how comforting it felt.
The car glided to a halt beneath the grand marble portico of the mansion. The heavy oak front doors opened before we even came to a complete stop, revealing an imposing older woman with silver-streaked hair pulled back into a severe bun, dressed in a traditional housekeeper’s uniform.
“Mr. Vance,” she nodded respectfully, stepping aside. Her eyes flicked toward me, widening slightly in shock as she took in my flour-dusted sneakers, my exhausted face, and the oversized coat belonging to her boss.
“Carla, take Leo to the nursery,” Dante instructed quietly, handing the sleeping infant to the woman with practiced care. “Have Dr. Alistair run a full panel on him just to be safe. And prepare the east suite.”
“The east suite, sir?” Carla asked, hesitation flickering across her stern features. “Is she... is she a guest or—?”
“She is staying where I can see her,” Dante cut in, his tone leaving zero room for argument. “And Carla? Do not let anyone near her room. Not my brothers, not my captains. No one.”
Carla swallowed hard, dipping her head. “Yes, Mr. Vance.”
As Carla carried the baby up the sweeping grand staircase, Dante turned his attention back to me. He extended a hand—the hand with the dragon—offering it to help me out of the car. I ignored it, sliding across the leather seat and stepping out onto the wet cobblestones under my own power.
Dante didn't look offended. A ghost of a dry, humorless smile touched his lips. “Independent. Just like her.”
“Stop calling me her,” I snapped, my exhaustion finally giving way to a surge of bitter anger. “My name is Mara. I am not Elena, I am not your dead wife, and I am not a pawn in whatever mafia chess game you’re playing!”
“Are you sure about that, Mara?” Dante asked softly, stepping closer until I had to tilt my head back to meet his piercing gaze. “If you aren't her, then why did my son—who hasn't let a single soul besides his mother hold him for eight months—reach for you across a crowded room? Why do you carry the exact same birthmark on your left collarbone that Elena had since she was a child?”
My breath hitched. I instinctively pressed a hand against the collar of my shirt, right where a faint, star-shaped birthmark hid beneath my skin.
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“How... how could you possibly know about that?” I whispered, the ground suddenly feeling unsteady beneath my feet.
“Because I kissed it every night for four years,” Dante said, his voice dropping into a register so raw and desolate that it momentarily stripped away the terrifying aura of the mafia boss, revealing the shattered man underneath. “Come inside, Mara. It’s time I show you the truth about the mother who raised you, and the family you never knew you had.”
