Chapter 1 - The Weight of Ink and AirThe private cabin of the Boeing 777 felt less like an aircraft and more like a floating courtroom where judgment had already been passed in absentia. The hum of the engines vibrated through the floorboards, matching the frantic rhythm of my own pulse.
Dante Ricci remained standing, his posture completely unyielding, yet he kept a deliberate three-foot buffer between us. That small concession—or calculation—irritated me more than if he had cornered me. It meant he was studying me, weighing my endurance against his design.
"Let’s get one thing clear," I said, my voice shaking despite my best efforts to steady it. "Whatever power trip you and your family operate under in Boston, this isn’t working. You can’t just drug someone, forge federal documents, and expect them to play house."
Dante crossed his arms. The movement pulled the fabric of his charcoal jacket taut across his chest, emphasizing a quiet, coiled strength. "I didn't drug you, Sophia."
"Then how did I sleep through being moved from economy to a private suite at thirty-thousand feet?"
"You had been awake for nearly seventy-two hours," he replied flatly, his dark eyes locking onto mine. "Your credit card statements showed you hadn't slept more than three hours a night since your landlord served the eviction notice at Emerson Fine Arts. The sleeping pill you took before boarding merely did what your body had been begging for since Tuesday."
My jaw tightened. He knew about the gallery. He knew about the eviction. He knew my schedule better than my own accountant did.
"You've been watching me," I whispered.
"Protecting you is a more accurate description."
"Don't flatter yourself," I spat, stepping past the small table to stand closer to the locked cabin door, even though I knew it was useless. "Kidnapping isn't protection. It's a crime. And the moment we land in Rome—"
"We aren't landing in Rome," Dante interrupted softly.
I froze. "What?"
"We are landing in a private airstrip outside Naples. Rome was the flight plan filed with civil aviation. Naples is where my estate is."
The air left my lungs. The terrifying reality of what I had walked—or rather, slept—into began to settle over my skin like ice. This wasn’t a bizarre prank or a billionaire's erratic whim. This was an operation. Meticulously planned, seamlessly executed, and completely inescapable.
"Why me?" The question slipped out, stripped of all defiance, leaving only raw confusion. "I run a failing art gallery in a damp corner of Boston. I owe back taxes. I have zero political influence. Why abduct me and force a fake marriage?"
Dante finally moved. He didn't rush. He walked over to the mahogany credenza behind him, picked up my missing leather purse, and placed it gently on the table between us.
"Open it," he said.
My fingers curled into fists at my sides. "Why?"
"Because the passport on this table is only the second most interesting document in your possession right now. Look inside the side pocket of your bag, Sophia. The thing you've been guarding since you left your apartment."
My breath hitched. Inside my purse was the old, leather-bound sketchbook that had belonged to my mother before she died—the one I thought I had safely locked in my apartment's storage locker.
May you like
Slowly, fighting the urge to tear the bag away from him, I unzipped the side pocket. My fingers brushed against the familiar, worn leather of the journal. I pulled it out.
"You think this is just a sketchbook," Dante murmured, watching my reaction like a hawk. "Wait until you see what your father hid inside the binding before he died."
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