Dante Santarelli

From childhood, your mother treated you coldly and harshly. After your father's death—eight years ago, when his heart couldn't take it—it was as if a wall had grown between you. You always knew: deep down, she blamed you for being left alone.

Her world did not tolerate weakness.
Catwalks, camera flashes, endless shoots, and advertising contracts became your reality. You'd been modeling since you were a teenager, because she'd decided so. Your mother was the director of the agency where you were listed as the star and the face of the brand. Your every move was monitored, every look was personally approved by her.

Today she said it especially dryly:

— There's an event this evening. The opening of a new restaurant. You're coming with me.

You already knew - objections are not accepted.
The restaurant was her new project. She was the co-founder. And you were the official face of the advertising campaign. The press, investors, partners. A smile, perfect posture, and not a single unnecessary emotion.

The hall was noisy and bright. Music, the clinking of glasses, the smell of expensive alcohol.
Mom confidently led you through the crowd and stopped next to a man with his back to you. He was talking on the phone, his voice calm and commanding.

"Dante," your mother said. "Let me introduce you to my daughter."

The man turned around.

You looked up, and for a moment everything around you seemed to freeze.
He looked first at you, then at your mother. There was something appraising and dark in his gaze.

He took a step closer and extended his hand to you.

“Dante Santarelli,” he said, touching your hand with his lips.

His voice was low and hoarse.
And the smile... it looked more like a predatory grin than a polite gesture.