Episode 3 – A Feast with the Devil

The villa was silent, except for the crashing of waves outside. Ishani had spent the afternoon pacing her new “prison”—a suite far too luxurious for a hostage. The bed was silk, the balcony opened to the sea, but the heavy lock on the door reminded her this was no hotel.

When dusk fell, a guard knocked once and announced in broken Hindi: “Dinner. The boss is waiting.”

Her pulse spiked, but she straightened her robe and walked out, refusing to show fear. If Dante wanted her trembling, he would be disappointed.

The dining hall was obscene in its grandeur. A long mahogany table stretched across the room, set with crystal glasses and silver cutlery. At the far end sat Dante Moretti, sipping red wine as though he hadn’t abducted a lawyer hours ago.

“I was beginning to think you’d refuse me,” he said, voice lazy, accented, his eyes lifting to hers with that cold intensity.

Ishani slid into the chair opposite him, her gaze steady. “You don’t exactly give your guests a choice.”

He smirked faintly, swirling his glass. “Guests. I like that word better than prisoner.”

The staff served them—steaming pasta, roasted meats, rich sauces—but Ishani barely touched the food. Her stomach twisted with anger and adrenaline.

“Eat,” Dante ordered softly, noticing her untouched plate. “You need your strength.”

“For what?” she asked, her voice sharp. “Another lecture on how the world belongs to you?”

His smile didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened, like a predator amused by its prey’s defiance. “For surviving me.”

The words hung heavy in the air. Ishani’s fork clattered against her plate, but she didn’t back down. “Do you think this scares me? That locking me here, parading your wealth and power, will make me beg? I’ve dealt with worse men than you.”

“No,” he said quietly, setting down his glass. “You haven’t.”

The certainty in his tone sent a shiver down her spine. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, studying her like she was a puzzle only he could solve.

“You intrigue me, avvocato,” he murmured. “Most women see me and they want power, money, protection. You see me and you spit fire. You’re not afraid to bleed for your cause. That makes you… dangerous.”

Her throat tightened, but she forced a scoff. “Dangerous? To you? Please. You’re just a criminal with expensive suits.”

For a moment, his mask slipped. His eyes darkened, and he set his glass down with a sharp clink. “Careful. You’re in my world now. And in my world, words have consequences.”

The room felt smaller suddenly, the distance across the table charged with heat. Ishani’s hands trembled under the table, but her voice stayed level. “Then maybe you should’ve killed me instead of feeding me dinner.”

Silence. His jaw clenched, then slowly, that dangerous smile returned.

“Oh, bella,” Dante drawled, almost tender. “If I killed you, I’d lose my favorite entertainment. And I never waste what fascinates me.”

He raised his glass again, eyes locked with hers. Obsession glimmered there—dark, consuming, inevitable.

Ishani swallowed hard, realizing the truth: this wasn’t just about revenge anymore. Dante Moretti didn’t just want to break her.

He wanted to possess her.

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