Chapter 3 - THE GOLDEN CAGETitle: Silk Sheets and Stray Dogs: How Daisy Learned the Dantis Empire Was Built on Blood
The "sanctuary" Aleandro had promised turned out to be a climate-controlled, state-of-the-art rehabilitation wing that looked less like a kennel and more like a five-star spa for elite canines. By late afternoon, Daisy’s chaotic, cluttered apartment in Queens had been completely emptied by a team of expressionless men in black suits who packed up her vintage toaster, her stacks of veterinary textbooks, and her twelve rescued dogs with the clinical precision of a military extraction.
Now, Daisy stood in the middle of a massive, sun-drenched suite on the third floor of the Dantis mansion. The walls were lined with dark mahogany wood; the floor-to-ceiling windows offered a sweeping, cinematic view of the Hudson River. A king-sized bed draped in heavy charcoal silk sat against the far wall, flanked by massive oil paintings of stern, scowling Italian ancestors who looked like they regularly ate trespassers for breakfast.
The door clicked open, and Salvatore stepped inside, carrying a pristine white garment bag over his shoulder.
"The boss requests your presence for dinner in forty minutes, Miss Harper," Salvatore said, his tone perfectly polite, though his eyes remained watchful. He placed the garment bag across the foot of the silk bed. "He had a stylist assemble a few options for you. The private dining room is down the hall, past the portrait gallery."
Daisy stared at the garment bag as if it were a ticking time bomb. "Salvatore, I appreciate the hospitality—really, the heated floors in the dog wing are incredible, and Barnaby is already snoring on an orthopedic memory-foam mattress—but I am a dog walker. I am not... I am not a mob accessory. Why am I sleeping in a guest suite that costs more than my annual rent?"
Salvatore offered a tight, sympathetic smile that didn't reach his eyes. "In the Dantis family, Miss Harper, we don't let valuable assets wander around the city unmonitored. Besides, the boss rarely invites anyone inside the family residence. The last person who stayed in this suite was a Swiss diplomat who tried to renegotiate our port tariffs. He left at gunpoint before dawn."
"And should I expect a similar exit?" Daisy asked, crossing her arms.
"The boss hasn't looked at a diplomat the way he looked at you across the gravel this morning," Salvatore replied smoothly, turning toward the door. "Wear the emerald dress. It matches your stubborn streak."
When Salvatore closed the door, Daisy let out a long, shaky breath and unzipped the garment bag. Inside hung a breathtaking, emerald-green silk gown that looked like it belonged on a red carpet in Cannes, not on a woman whose standard evening wear consisted of fleece pajama pants and dog-hair-covered leggings.
She didn't want to wear it. She wanted to grab her backpack, march down to the front gates, and demand her beagle back. But when she walked over to the window and looked down at the courtyard, she saw her twelve rescue dogs romping happily across a pristine, fenced-in turf lawn, supervised by two armed guards who were currently tossing tennis balls with surprising enthusiasm.
Her dogs were safe. Their vet bills were paid. Her mother's legacy was secure.
"Fine," Daisy muttered to her reflection in the gilded mirror. "Play along. Collect the check. Save the strays. How bad could a mafia dinner actually be?"
Ten minutes later, dressed in the emerald silk that fit her curves with scandalous perfection, Daisy stepped out into the dimly lit hallway. The mansion was dead silent, save for the muffled ticking of an antique grandfather clock. She navigated past massive marble pillars and rows of intimidating family portraits until she found heavy double doors left slightly ajar, spilling a warm, golden glow across the polished hardwood floor.
She pushed the door open.
The private dining room was breathtaking. A long mahogany table was set with fine crystal, silver candlesticks, and an elaborate spread of northern Italian cuisine that smelled divine—truffle risotto, braised short ribs, and fresh focaccia.
At the head of the table sat Aleandro Dantis.
He had changed out of his business suit into a crisp white dress shirt with the top two buttons undone, the sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms dusted with dark hair and faint, jagged scars that hinted at a violent past. He was pouring a glass of deep red Barolo wine when she entered.
He looked up.
For three full seconds, Aleandro stopped breathing. The emerald silk caught the candlelight, draping over her full figure like liquid jade, contrasting sharply with her flushed cheeks and wild curls that had escaped their clip. She looked like a goddess who had accidentally wandered into a slaughterhouse and decided to rearrange the furniture.
"You clean up nicely, Miss Harper," Aleandro said softly, his voice dropping an octave as he set the wine bottle down.
"And you look less like a security contractor and more like a medieval warlord," Daisy retorted, keeping her distance as she stood near the entrance. "Are we going to talk about business, or are you going to explain why my room looks like a museum exhibit?"
Aleandro walked slowly around the table, closing the distance between them with the quiet, predatory grace of a panther. "We are going to have dinner. You are going to tell me how you read Barnaby's mind in sixty seconds. And I am going to decide whether or not I should keep you locked in this golden cage forever."
Daisy didn't flinch. She squared her shoulders, looking straight into his dark, fathomless eyes. "Try locking me in a cage, Aleandro. My dogs will chew through your mahogany doors by midnight."
May you like
Aleandro let out a low, gravelly chuckle—a sound so rich and genuine that it made the hairs on the back of Daisy’s arms stand up.
"I have no doubt they would," he murmured, pulling out a chair for her. "Sit down, Daisy. Let's talk about power, dogs, and why you're the only person on the East Coast who isn't terrified of me."
