Chapter 3 - Bread and Blood
The interior of Blackwood Estate was a masterpiece of cold, monochromatic luxury. High ceilings, black marble floors, modern charcoal artwork, and windows that looked out over misty, dark pine forests.
Evelyn was led to a suite on the third floor by an older woman named Mrs. Gable, whose stiff posture and sharp gray eyes suggested she had managed the Bellamy household since Dante was a boy.
"The clothes in the wardrobe are tailored to your size," Mrs. Gable said crispness, pointing to a sprawling walk-in closet lined with cashmere sweaters, silk blouses, and structured trousers. "Dinner is served at eight sharp in the main dining room. Mr. Bellamy expects punctuality."
"I’m not eating with him," Evelyn said, standing near the canopy bed, her arms crossed defensively over her damp silver gown.
Mrs. Gable paused at the door, turning her gray head slowly. "Child, I have watched Dante Bellamy dismantle men who commanded private armies. He does not ask twice. If you wish to survive your time in this house, I suggest you learn when to fight and when to eat."
With that, the heavy oak door clicked shut.
Two hours later, after a scalding shower that washed away the scent of cigars and cheap perfume from the auction house, Evelyn dressed in a simple black wool sweater and tailored trousers. She stripped off her makeup, leaving her face bare and pale, her dark hair pulled back into a tight braid.
She walked down the sweeping marble staircase at precisely 7:59 PM.
The dining room was vast, dominated by a twenty-foot dark oak table. At the far end sat Dante. He had changed into a dark velvet jacket, a glass of dark amber whiskey resting near his right hand. He was reading through a stack of legal documents, a silver fountain pen held casually between his long fingers.
He didn't look up as she took a seat at the opposite end of the long table—a full fifteen feet away.
Footmen in dark uniforms served the meal: roasted squab, truffled root vegetables, and a rich red wine.
Evelyn stared at the plate. For three days, she had been fed water and stale bread in a basement cell. Her stomach roared with hunger, but pride held her still. She picked up her fork, took a small bite of vegetable, and swallowed carefully.
"You cook?" Dante asked suddenly. His deep voice cut through the quiet room like a knife through velvet. He still hadn't looked up from his papers.
Evelyn set her fork down. "I work at a bakery. I knead dough, handle ovens, and clean grease traps."
Dante set his pen down, finally lifting his eyes to meet hers. "Your hands are calloused. I noticed them when I cut the silk."
"Real work leaves marks, Mr. Bellamy," Evelyn said coldly. "I suppose you wouldn't know much about that. Unless counting blood money causes blisters."
A footman near the sideboard stiffened, but Dante didn't flash with anger. Instead, a slow, dangerous amusement flared in his dark eyes.
"Blood money built the city you live in, Miss Hart," Dante said, taking a slow sip of his whiskey. "The ports that bring your flour, the trucks that transport your bread, the banks that hold your meager savings—my family owns the arteries that keep your little world pulsing."
"And you murder people who cross you," Evelyn retorted. "Like Julian?"
The atmosphere in the dining room instantly plummeted below freezing.
The footmen visibly stepped back toward the shadow of the walls.
Dante set his whiskey glass down with a soft, heavy thud. The humor vanished from his face, replaced by a dark, terrifying stillness that made Evelyn’s heart leap into her throat.
"My brother," Dante said softly, his voice dropping into a register that vibrated through the floorboards, "was twenty-one years old. He wasn't in the business. He was a pianist. Marcus Hart had him dragged out of a concert hall in Vienna, tied to a chair, and shot through the back of the head because my father refused to yield controlling shares of the Newark shipping docks."
Evelyn swallowed hard. The raw, ancient grief buried beneath Dante’s words was palpable—a dark, fathomless ocean of pain disguised as rage.
"I didn't know," Evelyn whispered, her voice dropping its hostility.
"No, you didn't," Dante said, rising from his chair. He walked down the length of the table, his heavy footsteps echoing against the marble, until he stood right beside her chair. He leaned down, placing both hands on the arms of her seat, trapping her between his massive frame and the dark wood.
He smelled of cedarwood, rain, and cold tobacco.
"You are an innocent bystander, Evelyn," Dante murmured, his dark eyes locked onto hers from inches away. "A mistake. A glitch in the system. But do not flatter yourself into thinking that innocence makes you safe here. In my world, innocence is just a word people write on tombstones."
Before she could answer, the grand double doors of the dining room burst open.
A young man in a blood-stained white shirt stumbled into the room, held up by two armed guards.
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"Dante!" the young man gasped, coughing up a spatter of crimson onto the pristine floor. "It’s... it’s the docks. Marcus Hart’s men... they knew about the shipment. It was an ambush."
Dante straightened up instantly, his entire aura shifting from cold intellect to absolute, lethal war.
