Your Little Plaything? I'll Be Your Nightmare

In the middle of the night, the faint sound of a door opening woke me. I didn't turn on the light. I just lay quietly in bed, listening to the sound of bare feet on the wool carpet, coming closer and closer. The footsteps stopped beside my bed.

In the darkness, a figure leaned over me, carrying a heavy smell of whiskey and that familiar trace of gunpowder. It was "Dante", or perhaps I should call him by his real name—Luciano.

He had stripped away the identity of "Dante". His scorching gaze roamed over my face like a branding iron, brazen and unrestrained. He thought I was asleep.

He reached out, his fingertips cool and calloused. He lightly traced my cheek and my lips and stopped at my neck. There was a kind of desperation and madness in that touch, full of resentment and possession.

I kept my eyes closed, my body trembling slightly. It wasn't from fear but from excitement. The fish had taken the bait.

Luciano stood by my bed for a long time, so long I almost thought he would stand there until dawn. But in the end, he leaned down and brushed the lightest of kisses against my ear. "Chiara, you can only be mine."

His voice was hoarse, thick with booze and obsession. Then, he turned and left. The door clicked shut.

I opened my eyes. In the dark, the corners of my lips slowly curled upward.

…

The following day, when "Dante" came over, he looked rough. There were faint dark circles under his eyes, and there was a probing look in the way he watched me.

"Did you sleep okay last night?" he asked.

I yawned and rubbed my eyes. "Not really. I had a nightmare."

"What did you dream about?"

I looked at him, my eyes wide, innocent, and confused. "I dreamed about your brother, but it felt like he actually came by and kissed me."

"Dante's" body went rigid, and his eyes behind his glasses narrowed sharply. "Are you sure it was a dream?"

"I guess…" I said, sounding uncertain. "It just felt so real. He reeked of alcohol."

I observed "Dante" closely as I spoke. His jaw was clenched tight, and the hand holding his coffee cup had gone pale at the knuckles from how hard he was gripping it.

He was doubting. He was doubting whether "Luciano" had actually snuck over to see me behind his back. The trust between the brothers had just gotten its first crack.

"From now on, lock your door," he said flatly, setting down his cup.

"Okay." I nodded obediently.

…

That afternoon, I got a call from Leo. "Chiara, I got what you asked for."

"Thanks."

"What exactly are you trying to pull? Listen to me—you're playing with fire. You need to stop."

"The fire's already burning," I said. "I just want to make it burn a little brighter."

…

That evening, I made a reservation for "Dante" and myself at a classy restaurant that usually took six months to book. I deliberately wore a long white silk dress—his favorite—and put on light makeup.

"Why are you in such a good mood today?" he asked, pulling my chair out for me.

I smiled. "Because today is our one-year anniversary."

He froze for a moment, a flicker of panic flashing in his eyes. He'd forgotten. Or rather, the man currently playing the role of "Dante" had no idea that today was "our" anniversary. That detail was something only I and the real Dante knew.

But I didn't call him out on it. I pulled a beautifully wrapped velvet box from my bag. "Happy anniversary, Dante."

He took the box and opened it. Inside was a custom signet ring bearing an eagle, which was the Costello family crest, and the letter "D".

D for Dante.

He stared at the ring, his expression complicated. Then, he said, "Thank you. I really like it."

I looked at him, smiling warmly. "I had it specially made. It's one of a kind, just like you."

"Dante" was distracted throughout the meal.

I knew what he was thinking. He was wondering how he was going to explain this ring to "Luciano". Should he pass it off as a symbol of something they shared or… claim it as a medal that belonged to him alone?

On the drive back, the atmosphere in the car was heavy and quiet. Right before we reached the gates of the estate, I suddenly spoke. "Dante, I saw someone on Fifth Street today who looked a lot like you."

His hands tightened on the steering wheel.

"He was with a tall, hot blonde. They looked pretty close." I turned to look at his perfect profile and feigned naivety as I asked, "That wouldn't happen to be your brother, would it? Did he get himself another woman?"

The car lurched to an abrupt stop as he slammed hard on the brakes.