It was everything to me, and I wouldn’t let it be stripped away just because I had been thrust into his world of shadows and power.
I stopped looking at the ring, fisted my hand, and placed it on my lap.
No way. Fuck that.
I might be married to a Don, but I wasn’t going to let that define me. I wasn’t going to become another one of his possessions, something to be controlled and molded to fit his desires.
I had fought too hard to find my place on that stage as a black ballerina in white spaces, and I would fight just as hard to keep it.
I gazed at him, and he didn’t even look at me.
I bit my bottom lip and put my view back out the window.
Gianni might be powerful, and yes, he might be dangerous, but I wasn’t weak. Not completely. And I damn sure wasn’t going to roll over and let him dictate my life.
I hope this is all in my mind, but if I’m right. . .then I will fight him over this. I won’t back down.
I gazed at the scenery passing by.
The journey took us through the outskirts of Obsidian Bay, where the buildings became sparser, and the streets turned into winding roads.
And slowly, the coastline of Obsidian Bay unfurled before me like a scene from a dream.
The road wound its way along the edge of the cliffs, hugging the rugged terrain as it rose and fell with the landscape.
The ocean was a churning mass of dark turquoise water. Waves crashed against the obsidian rocks below, sending up sprays of white foam that glistened in the fading light.
So beautiful.
The cliffs themselves were jagged and unforgiving, formed from the same black volcanic stone that gave the city its name. They loomed high above the sea, their edges sharp and craggy, as if carved by the hands of ancient, angry gods.
Further off, I spotted the now dormant volcano called, Monte Nero.
The Black Mountain.
It loomed in the distance, its dark, sloping form visible even from the cliffs. The volcano had been inactive for centuries, its last eruption so far back in history that it was almost forgotten.
Almost.
But the people of Obsidian Bay never truly forgot.
They couldn’t.
Not with the myth that surrounded it. It was a story that the locals whispered in hushed tones. Many still believed that Monte Nero wasn’t just a volcano; it was the prison of a vengeful god.
According to the legend that I’d even learned in elementary school, this god had once ruled the land with a fiery temper, causing destruction and chaos wherever he went.
The ancient people, desperate to save their homes and lives, had tricked the god, trapping him within the heart of the volcano and sealing him beneath layers of molten rock and ash.
But the god’s fury didn’t die with his imprisonment. It simmered beneath the surface, waiting, they said, for the right moment to break free.
The last eruption of Monte Nero was said to be his final, desperate attempt to escape. But the people had strengthened the seal and bound him even tighter within the earth.
Now, the volcano slept, and the city had grown around it, thriving in the shadow of the Black Mountain.
As the car climbed higher, the view grew more spectacular, revealing the full majesty of Obsidian Bay.
The city stretched out along Monte Nero with its gothic spires and modern towers.
