⋆. ̊Dante and Marco✮⋆ ̇

The mansion is overwhelming. Marble floors, crystal chandeliers, armed guards at every corner. This is your life now. Your family's debts were too high, their mistakes too costly, and you were the payment. Sold to the Moretti family like a piece of property to settle accounts. You're standing in what they called "the study"—a massive room lined with dark wood bookshelves, expensive artwork, and a desk that probably costs more than your family's house. Your hands are clenched at your sides, nails digging into your palms as you try to process that this is permanent. The door opens. Two men enter—clearly brothers despite their vastly different energies. The first one commands the room instantly. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a three-piece suit that probably costs a fortune. Dark hair slicked back, sharp jawline, and eyes that assess you like a threat assessment. Cold. Calculating. He moves with precise purpose to sit behind the desk, and you notice the gold signet ring on his finger as he folds his hands. "Sit," he says. One word. Not a request. You glance at the chair across from him, then back at him, debating defiance— "I'd listen to him if I were you," a younger voice drawls, amused. The second brother leans against the doorframe, toothpick between his teeth, grinning like this is all very entertaining. He's handsome in a roguish way—slightly tousled hair, top button undone, shoulder holster visible under his jacket. "Dante's not big on repeating himself." You sit, mostly because your legs feel unsteady. Dante—the older one—studies you with unblinking intensity. It's unnerving. You force yourself not to look away. "Your family owed us a considerable amount," Dante says, voice even and detached. "Money they didn't have. They offered you as collateral." He opens a folder on his desk—your folder, apparently. "You'll be living here indefinitely. Your room is on the third floor. You'll follow the house rules. You don't leave without permission or escort." "So I'm a prisoner," you say, voice sharper than you feel. Marco—you assume that's the younger one—laughs and pushes off the doorframe, sauntering closer. "Prisoner is such an ugly word. Think of it more like... protective custody?" He perches on the edge of Dante's desk, earning a brief glare from his brother that he ignores. "We're not monsters, bellissima/bellissimo. You'll be safe here. Fed, clothed, protected." "From what?" you challenge. "From the people your family pissed off," Dante says bluntly. "Us included. They made enemies. Dangerous ones. Here, you're under our protection. Out there—" he gestures vaguely, "—you're a liability. A target." Marco leans forward, elbows on his knees, grin widening. "So really, we're doing you a favor. You're welcome." He winks. You want to scream. Or cry. Or both. "I didn't ask for this." "No," Dante agrees, twisting his ring once. "You didn't. But here we are." He closes the folder. "Rosa will show you to your room. Dinner is at seven. Don't be late." "That's it?" you ask incredulously. "That's all you have to say?" Dante's expression doesn't change. "What else would you like me to say?" "Maybe that you're sorry for buying a person?!" Marco whistles low. "Ooh, got some fire. I like that." He tilts his head, studying you with bright, interested eyes. "This is gonna be fun." Dante shoots him a look. "Marco." "What? I'm just saying—" "Outside." Marco sighs dramatically, sliding off the desk. "Fine, fine. Pleasure to meet you, principessa/principe. See you at dinner." He throws you another wink before strolling out, whistling. The door closes, leaving you alone with Dante. The silence stretches. He's still watching you with that unsettling intensity, but now... there's something else. Something almost considering. "I understand you're angry," he says finally, voice slightly less cold. "You have every right to be. This situation is not ideal for anyone involved." "Not ideal?" you repeat bitterly. "I was sold—" "To settle a debt that would have gotten your entire family killed," Dante interrupts, still calm. "This was the better option, whether you believe it or not." He stands, buttoning his jacket. "You'll have freedom within these walls. Your own space. Anything you need, within reason, you'll have." He walks around the desk, stopping a few feet away. Up close, he's even more imposing. "But understand this," he continues quietly, "you are under my protection now. That means you follow my rules. For your safety and ours." He reaches out—you flinch slightly—but he just straightens your collar with surprising gentleness before stepping back. "Welcome to the Moretti household." He leaves without waiting for a response. You're alone in the study, heart pounding, trying to process everything. °⋆ ̇THREE HOURS LATER⋆. ̊ Your room is... not what you expected. It's huge. A four-poster bed with expensive linens, a walk-in closet already stocked with clothes in your size (how did they—?), an ensuite bathroom with a clawfoot tub, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the gardens.* It's nicer than anywhere you've ever lived.* You're sitting on the bed, still in shock, when there's a knock. "It's open," you call numbly. Marco pokes his head in, grinning. "Knock knock, it's your favorite Moretti brother." He enters without waiting for permission, carrying a tray. "Figured you might not come down for dinner, so I brought dinner to you." He sets the tray on your bedside table—pasta, bread, water, and... is that chocolate cake? "You didn't have to—" "I know." He drops into the armchair by your window, legs sprawling, completely at ease. "But Dante gets cranky when people skip meals, and I figured you've had a rough day." He moves the toothpick to the corner of his mouth. "So. How you holding up, Trouble?" "Trouble?" "Your new nickname. You've got that look—the one that says you're gonna cause problems." He grins wider. "I respect it." Despite everything, you almost smile. Almost. "I'm... processing," you admit. "Yeah, being sold to the mafia is kind of a head trip," Marco says casually, like he's discussing the weather. "For what it's worth, you landed with the best family. Could've been the Calabresis—now they're psychos." "And you're not?" He laughs, loud and genuine. "Oh, we absolutely are. But we're the fun kind of psycho." He leans forward. "Real talk though? You're safe here. Dante might seem like a cold bastard—and he is—but he takes protection seriously. And me?" He spreads his arms. "I'm delightful." "Modest too," you mutter. "One of my best qualities." He stands, stretching. "Eat. Rest. Tomorrow we'll give you the full tour. Show you where everything is, introduce you to the staff, explain the rules—" "What are the rules?" you interrupt. Marco ticks them off on his fingers. "Don't leave without telling someone. Don't go into Dante's office without knocking. Don't talk to strangers who approach you. Don't—and this is important—don't eat the cannoli in the fridge labeled 'Marco' because I will know and I will be devastated." He places a hand over his heart dramatically. You stare at him. He grins. "I'm mostly serious about the cannoli. The rest is pretty standard 'don't get yourself killed' stuff." He heads for the door, then pauses. "Oh, and principessa/principe? If you need anything—and I mean anything—you come find me, yeah? Consider me your official welcome committee." "Why are you being nice to me?" Marco's expression softens slightly, losing some of the playful edge. "Because you didn't choose this. And because..." he shrugs, "everyone deserves at least one person in their corner. Tag, you're stuck with me." He leaves before you can respond. You look at the food, your luxurious prison, the closed door. This is your life now. With the cold, calculating boss who shows care through twisted protection. And his cocky, teasing brother who's apparently decided you're his new favorite person. You're not sure if you should be terrified or... something else. (Somewhere downstairs, Dante pours himself two fingers of whiskey and tells himself he's not checking the security feed to make sure you're settling in. He is. Marco catches him and grins. "You like them." "Shut up, Marco." "You like them. This is amazing. Our "cold"-hearted boss has a—" "One more word and I'm reassigning you to the docks." "Worth it," Marco laughs.