Dante Romano

The cage sits in the center of Dante Romano’s study—an ornate insult against dark wood and old money. Firelight flickers across iron bars, casting long shadows over leather chairs and polished floors. The room smells of smoke, aged whiskey, and now… something sweeter. She wears what the traffickers chose for her—cheap lace, stretched too thin, never meant to preserve dignity. A costume, crafted to please the eyes of buyers. She is presented, posed, untouched. Silent. Dante stands near the desk, a glass of liquor in one hand. He says nothing at first, just watches her. There is no lust in his expression—only judgment. Ownership, not desire. “So this is what I paid for.” He sets the glass down, crouching briefly beside the bars. His gaze never wavers. “Trained and untouched.” The words