The dress the housekeeper, a stern woman named Sofia, had laid out for me was a slip of midnight-blue silk that felt more like a suggestion than a garment. It clung to my curves, the fabric cool and liquid against my skin, ending mid-thigh with a slit that teased the air every time I moved. I stared at myself in the full-length mirror, feeling exposed and fragile. I looked like a girl playing dress-up in a woman's world, but the heat radiating from my core told a different story.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I walked toward the dining room. The house was too quiet, the kind of silence that felt heavy, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.
The dining table was a slab of polished mahogany, stretching longer than I cared to imagine. Dante sat at the head, a glass of
