Chained to His Bed

The neon lights of the Las Vegas Strip burned like a sea of synthetic stars outside the panoramic three-story glass walls of the Bellagio Sky Villa.

Midnight had come and gone, yet inside the private penthouse suite, the air was suffocatingly still. On the marble dining table lay an empty crystal tumbler of Macallan 25, a signed Nevada marriage certificate, and a sixty-million-dollar cashier's check made out to the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation.

Mia DeLuca stood near the glass, her back to the room, her fingernails biting into her palms. She wore an off-the-shoulder gown of silver silk that clung to her slender curves, her dark auburn waves spilling over her bare shoulders, her honey-hazel eyes luminous with unshed tears of defiance.

Behind her, the heavy click of a lighter snapped in the quiet room.

Dante Moretti exhaled a thin plume of cedar-scented smoke from a Cuban cigarillo, standing six-foot-three of imposing, athletic muscle wrapped in a bespoke black tuxedo. At thirty-two, Dante Moretti was the undisputed emperor of the Nevada gaming underworld—a billionaire whose predatory gaze had dismantled hedge funds and sent international cartels fleeing the desert. He had sharp, Mediterranean cheekbones, a severe, aristocratic jawline, and piercing ice-gray eyes.

"Turn around, Mia," Dante commanded. His deep, gravelly baritone rolled through the penthouse like distant thunder, quiet yet vibrating with absolute authority.