She Showed Up in Bunny Slippers to Confront the Mafia Boss — Now He Can’t Forget Her

 

1:3 a.m. confrontation changed everything. Leo thought her upstairs neighbor was just a rich insomniac with heavy feet. She was wrong. Dante Moretti is the city’s most dangerous man. A tattooed warlord with a fortress for a home and a target on his back. When she bangs on his door to complain, she doesn’t get an apology.

She gets his obsession. Now with a hitman on her trail, Leo is forced into forced proximity with the one man she hates and the only man who can keep her alive. Why listen? Experience the best mafia romance audio book of the year. Featuring dual POV narration, razor sharp banter, and a heartpounding romantic thriller plot.

This is a full-length novel about a woman who fixes art and a man who breaks everything else. Chapter 1. Leo thump thump thump. The ceiling vibrated. Dust moes danced in the beam of the street lamp, filtering through the blinds, mocking me. Murder wasn’t just a fantasy anymore. It was a viable life choice. A broom handle wasn’t enough.

I needed a ladder, a sledgehammer, and a plea deal. The digital clock on the nightstand glared back in aggressive red neon. 3:12 a.m. My eyes burned, gritty and dry, as if someone had replaced my contact solution with sand. 16 hours. I had spent 16 hours hunched over a 17th century oil painting that smelled of decay and old varnish, holding my breath while I tried to color match a patch of cerulean blue sky no bigger than a fingernail.

My back seized with a dull, throbbing ache. My fingers were stained with solvent and pigments that would take days to scrub off. 5 hours. That was all I asked for. 5 hours of unconsciousness before the sun came up and I had to go back to the gallery and do it all over again. Thump, thump, crash. That was it.

The final straw snapped audibly in my brain. The duvet flew off my legs. Cold air bit at my skin. The damp chill unique to pre-war buildings with character and radiators that hissed but produced zero heat. Rage kept me warm. Pure unadulterated sleepdeprived fury. For 3 weeks the giant in penthouse A had walked around like he was wearing concrete boots.

No name, no face, just a tread heavy enough to rattle my light fixtures. He paced back and forth. a caged tiger or a nervous father in a 1950s sitcom, stomping a hole through my sanity. I grabbed my robe and knotted it tight around my waist, jamming freezing feet into fuzzy pink slippers. A mirror wasn’t necessary. I knew the reality.

A messy bun migrating off the side of my head, a smear of yellow ochre on my chin, and eyes wild enough to scare a feral cat. Good. Let him be terrified. The hallway smelled of floor wax and someone’s burnt popcorn. I marched to the elevator and jabbed the call button with enough force to bruise my finger. The super had ignored me.

The leasing office had ghosted me. The passive aggressive note on the lobby bulletin board had disappeared. Diplomacy was dead. The elevator dinged. The doors slid open. I stepped in and hit the button for the top floor. The light lit up instantly. Apparently, rich people didn’t believe in security codes or consequences.

When the doors parted on the penthouse floor, no hallway greeted me, just a foyer that acted as a fortress checkpoint. Two men stood there, massive, not gym rat big, but bred in a lab big, black suits strained at their shoulders, earpieces coiled into their collars like plastic snakes. Boredom radiated off them until they registered my presence.

One of them, a guy with a neck thick enough to stop a bullet, stepped forward. A hand the size of a dinner plate, blocked my path. “Miss, you can’t be up here,” he rumbled, gravel tumbling in a dryer. Momentum fueled me. Exhaustion and the entitlement of a tenant paying way too much rent for a shoe box kept my feet moving.

“I live in 4B,” I snapped. ducking under his arm before his brain could catch up. “And I’m going to talk to your boss before I lose my mind.” The second guy moved to intercept, but he was slow, bulky. He hadn’t accounted for the aerodynamic advantage of pink bunny slippers and blind rage. I pivoted around his mass and spotted the double mahogany doors.

“Ma’am,” the first guy yelled. I ignored him, my fist connected with the wood. Pound, pound, pound. Open up, I shouted. I know you’re in there. I can hear you stomping. Heavy hands clamped onto my shoulders. The guards were ready to drag me back to the elevator like a sack of unwanted mail. I braced my feet, preparing to scream loud enough to wake the entire zip code.

Then the lock clicked. The hands vanished. The guards retreated, their posture stiffening into something respectful and terrified. The door swung open. The speech died in my throat. Arguments about city noise ordinances, thin pre-war flooring, and basic human decency evaporated. The man in the doorway was terrifying.

Tall didn’t cover it. He loomed, broad shoulders filling the frame, blocking out the light from the apartment behind him. A white dress shirt hung open halfway down his chest, revealing skin covered in ink. Black tattoos crept up his throat, disappearing into a sharp jawline darkened by stubble. His hair was a mess.

Black chaotic waves that suggested he’d been running his hands through them for hours. But the eyes stopped me cold, dark, abyssal, empty of everything except a predatory sharpness. No anger marred his features, just the stillness of a wolf interrupted midmeal. Silence stretched, thick and suffocating. I stood there in a bathrobe and slippers, staring up at a man capable of snapping my neck with two fingers without spilling his drink.

My survival instinct screamed, “Run!” My exhaustion told my survival instinct to shut up. “You,” I said. My voice came out higher than intended, but I didn’t step back. His head tilted slightly. A gaze like a physical weight dropped to the guards, then back to me. “Silence.” “You need to stop,” I said, pointing a finger at his chest. No contact.

I wasn’t suicidal. “Stop pacing. Stop stomping. Stop moving furniture or dropping bowling balls or whatever it is you’re doing up here at 3:00 in the morning.” He blinked, slow, deliberate. His focus shifted to my finger, down to the bunny slippers, then back to my face. Apathy glazed his expression. I work for a living, I continued, the anger rallying. I restore art.

Do you know what happens if I shake because I’m tired? I ruin a priceless painting. I ruin history. And it’s going to be your fault because you can’t sit still. One of the guards cleared his throat nervously. “Boss, we tried to stop her.” A hand raised. The guard went silent immediately. The man in the doorway hadn’t looked away from me once.

He studied me as if I were a particularly confusing abstract painting he couldn’t quite decipher. “Thin floors,” he said. “Deep baritone.” The vibration hummed in the air between us. Not an apology, a statement of geological fact. Yes, I said exasperated. Exactly. Thin floors, which means when you walk around like Godzilla, I hear it.

He stared for another long second. Then his hand dipped into his pocket. I took a step back. Weapon. If he pulled a gun, dying in bunny slippers would be the final indignity. Silver flashed. Not a gun, a money clip. Thick, heavy, loaded with a watt of cash that probably outweighed my checking account. He peeled off a stack of hundreds.

He didn’t count it. He just grabbed a chunk. He held it out. Buy earplugs, he said. Crisp $100 bills. Two grand, maybe three. My brain shortcircuited. No apology. No promise to stop. He was paying for my silence. Exhaustion bruised the skin beneath his eyes. Dark purple shadows against the tan, but overriding the fatigue was dismissal.

I was a gnat he could swat away with currency. Take it, he said, thrusting the money closer. And get better slippers. The heat rushed up my neck, hotter than the malfunctioning radiator. He was mocking the slippers. I snatched the money from his hand. Satisfaction flickered in his dark eyes. Everyone has a price. Apparently, mine was the cost of a high-end noise machine and some designer footwear.

I held his gaze dead on. Then I opened my hand. The bills fluttered down, drifting like expensive confetti to the marble floor of his foyer. They scattered around his bare feet. I don’t want your money, I said, my voice shaking just a little. I want you to be a decent neighbor. Deafening silence. The guard stopped breathing.

The man stared down at the scattered cash, then back up. The boredom shattered. His eyes narrowed, focusing on me with a sudden, terrifying intensity. “Good night,” I said. I spun around and marched back to the elevator. The guards scrambled out of the way like I was radioactive. I hit the button, heart hammering against my ribs, threatening to crack the bone.

The doors started to slide shut. I glanced back. He still stood in the doorway, framed by the golden light of his penthouse, surrounded by the money I had thrown at his feet. He ignored the cash. He watched me, and the apathy was gone. Fury radiated off him, hot and palpable. The doors slammed shut, severing the connection. I slumped against the metal wall, knees turning to water. War.

I had just declared war on a giant. You don’t throw money back at a man like that without consequences. The elevator descended, taking me back to my cold apartment and my unfinished painting. But as I stepped out onto the fourth floor, silence greeted me. At least he had stopped stomping. >> Chapter 2. Dante. Stomping implies a lack of control.

I didn’t stomp. I prowled. Movement fueled thought. The habit had burned itself into my muscle memory during a three-year stint in a 6×8 cell where the only way to outrun the demons was to walk until the concrete wore down beneath my heels. Now 3,000 square feet of Italian marble and imported hardwood stretched out before me, but the cage remained. It just had better views.

I pivoted at the floor to ceiling windows. Below the city sprawled like a circuit board of glittering gold and cold steel, blinking back at me with indifferent malice. Beautiful, hateful. The penthouse was silent, oppressively so. I had paid millions for this silence, engineered the walls with acoustic dampening and reinforced steel to create a fortress where I could sleep without a gun under my pillow.

But fortresses keep things in. They trap the noise in your head so it has nowhere to go but louder. My gaze snagged on the Persian rug near the entryway. The money lay there, scattered, disrespected. She had thrown it. I crouched, the fabric of my suit trousers stretching over my thighs. I pinched a $100 bill between my fingers, crisp, new.

It smelled of ink, linen, and Federal Reserve arrogance. Most people would have snatched that stack so fast they would have pulled a muscle. They would have fawned, thanked me for my generosity, and bought the cheapest earplugs available while pocketing the difference. Not the girl in 4B. The security grid mounted on the wall glowed with a soft blue hum.

16 camera angles dissected the building’s anatomy. My attention zeroed in on the feed for the fourth floor hallway. Empty. Just a peeling gray door standing guard over whatever chaotic life existed behind it. I ran a thumb over the bill’s edge. Fear usually greeted me at the door. I was 6’4, scarred, and radiated violence like a radiator radiates heat.

People crossed the street to avoid my shadow. She hadn’t flinched. Well, a tremor had run through her when the door first opened, but then she rallied. She stood there in ridiculous pink bunny slippers, hair escaping a messy bun, and lectured me about art restoration. A rusty sensation tugged at the corner of my mouth.

A smile. It vanished the second my phone vibrated against the marble of the kitchen island. I tossed the money onto the console table and stalked into the kitchen. The silence shattered. a rat. The word curdled in my gut. Someone in my inner circle was talking. Shipments intercepted, routes leaked, money bleeding out of accounts only five people could access.

The fortress wasn’t breached from the outside. The rot was coming from within. I answered the phone. Rocco, come up, I ordered. I killed the call. I poured a glass of water. my hand steady though my mind raced at a 100 miles an hour. That was why I paced. That was why the girl downstairs heard thunder every night.

I was trying to outrun the paranoia before it ate me alive. The elevator chimed 60 seconds later. Rocco stepped in. Wrinkles marred his suit. Evidence of a night spent working the streets. He was shorter than me, wider, with a face carved from granite by a dull spoon. The only man I trusted to hold a knife behind my back. “You look like hell, boss,” Rocco grunted, heading straight for the espresso machine. “Report.

” The grinder word a harsh, abrasive scream in the quiet apartment. “We lost another truck,” he said over his shoulder. the shipment coming in from the docks. Customs was waiting. They didn’t even search the other crates. They knew exactly which container held the product. I gripped the edge of the marble counter.

The stone felt cold, unforgiving under my palms. My knuckles turned white. Third time this month. Who knew the schedule? Rocco turned, holding a tiny cup of black sludge. The usual suspects, you, me, the lieutenant, the captains, the lieutenant, Marco. The man had been with me since the beginning. Ambitious, greedy, but stupid enough to sell me out.

Dig deeper, I commanded. Phone records, bank statements. If someone buys a pack of gum, I want to know the flavor. Rocco nodded, downing the espresso in one gulp. He grimaced, setting the cup down with a clink. He leaned against the counter, the business mask slipping to reveal genuine concern. We have another problem, Dante.

My patience thinned. My plate is full. Rocco, make room. He pulled a folded piece of paper from his inside jacket pocket and slid it across the island. A surveillance photo, grainy, shot from a distance with a telephoto lens. The front of my building. At first, nothing seemed to miss. Just the street, the lobby doors, the traffic.

Then I squinted. Parked across the street, barely visible behind a delivery truck, sat a dark sedan. I recognized the make. I recognized the model, but mostly I recognized the silhouette in the driver’s seat. Paulo Moretti. Ice flooded my veins. The Morettes were rivals. A truce existed. Shaky as a house of cards in a windstorm.

They stayed south. I stayed north. If they were parked outside my home, the truce wasn’t just broken. It was incinerated. They’re scouting the building, I said, voice dropping to a dangerous low. They know I’m vulnerable. Rocco shook his head. That’s the thing. They aren’t watching the penthouse. They’ve been there for 3 days.

They aren’t looking up. They’re watching the lobby. They’re watching the tenants. I frowned. Why? Rocco tapped the photo. Because they aren’t looking for you. They’re looking for her. He produced a second photo, clearer this time. A candid shot of a woman exiting the building. She wore a paint splattered oversized sweater and carried a tote bag that dragged her shoulder down. Her hair was messy.

Exhaustion etched lines around her eyes. The girl from 4B Leonora, my neighbor. The anger I had felt earlier evaporated, replaced by a cold, sharp focus. They found her, I said. It wasn’t a question. Rocco paused, looking at me carefully. You know who she is. I know. I walked to the window, staring down at the street where the Moretti car sat like a vulture.

Leonora Rossi, daughter of Carlo Rossi. You knew she was in the building. Why do you think I bought the building, Rocco? I glanced back at him. Carlo owes millions. I bought his debt 6 weeks ago to keep the Morettes out of my territory. I knew he had a daughter. I put her under surveillance to see if she was laundering his money.

And is she? No, I said she’s broke. She restores paintings and drives a car that shouldn’t be street legal. She hates her father. Rocco looked at the photo of Leo again. Well, the Morettes just figured out where she lives. Carlos skipped town two weeks ago. If they can’t find him, they’ll take the next best thing.

I clenched my jaw until the muscle feathered. I had bought this building to control my environment, to eliminate variables. Leonora Rossi was supposed to be just a name in a file, an asset to monitor, a leverage point I could use if Carlo ever resurfaced. But then she had come upstairs. She had stood in my doorway in bunny slippers and yelled at me.

She had refused my money. She had looked at me not as a mob boss, but as a rude neighbor. She wasn’t an asset anymore. She was a problem. She doesn’t know, I said, about the debt or about me. If the Morettes grab her, she’s going to find out real fast. Rocco warned. They won’t just ask her questions, Dante. They’ll break her to make Daddy come running.

And they would do it on my property. My grip on the window frame tightened. This was my territory. From the antenna on the roof to the cracks in the basement foundation, this building belonged to me. Nobody touched what was mine. Nobody. And despite my better judgment, the girl in 4B had somehow become mine. Is the lobby guard the new guy? The one with the military background? Miller. Yeah, good kid. Sharp.

Tell him she is under protection. Rocco raised an eyebrow. You want me to bring her up here? Ride her in? No. The denial came out sharp. I thought about her reaction tonight. The indignation vibrating off her small frame. If I told her a crime family hunted her because of her deadbeat dad, and that I had been watching her for 6 weeks like a spider in a web, she would panic. She would run.

And if she ran, the Morettes would grab her before she made the highway. She can’t know. I said she stays exactly where she is. She goes to work, comes home, lives her life, but from this second forward, nobody touches her. Not a Moretti soldier, not a delivery guy, not a stray dog. Rocco watched me carefully. He saw the shift.

He knew me better than anyone. He knew I was crossing a line from business to obsession. You sure about this, Dante? Getting involved in a Rossy debt is messy. The Morettes will see it as an act of war. Let them. My voice dropped, colder than the glass against my hand. I glanced back at the security monitor. The fourth floor hallway remained empty and silent.

She was probably asleep now, finally getting the rest she fought for. She thought I was the villain of her story because I walked too loud. She had no idea I was the only thing standing between her and a shallow grave. “Tell Miller to watch the cameras,” I instructed. “If she leaves the building, I want a tail on her. If anyone approaches her, intervene and Rocco.

Yeah, boss. Find out who slashed her tires. Rocco frowned. Her tires are slashed. Not yet, I said, eyes narrowing at the dark sedan on the street below. But the Morettes are petty. They like to isolate their prey. They like to make them feel helpless before they swoop in. Check her car in the morning. Rocco finished his coffee, setting the cup down, he adjusted his jacket, hiding the bulge of his shoulder holster.

Consider it done. Get some sleep, Dante. You’re going to need it. He headed for the elevator. I waited until the doors slid shut before walking back to the console table. The money still lay there, a chaotic mess of green on white marble. I picked up the bills, straightening them into a neat stack.

I thought about her standing there, pink slippers and fury. I wasn’t going to evict her. I wasn’t going to let the Morettes take her. I slid the money into my pocket. She wanted a decent neighbor. I was going to be the best neighbor she ever had. I was going to keep her alive. >> Chapter 3. Leo. The universe had conspired to ruin me.

Sunlight assaulted my eyelids, bypassing the gap in the curtains to stab directly into my retinas. Dust moes danced in the aggressive beam, mocking my existence. No alarm, no backup alarm. The phone on the nightstand sat silent and innocent, displaying 8:45 in neon digits. That might as well have been a countdown to my unemployment.

A sound halfway between a scream and a groan tore from my throat. Julian expected me at the gallery at 9. The drive took 20 minutes in a world where traffic laws were respected and teleportation existed. In New York, it took 40. I exploded out of bed. Adrenaline replaced caffeine, a jittery, terrible substitute.

The shower was a luxury I couldn’t afford. Violent efficiency took over. Teeth brushed in 30 seconds, hair twisted into a chaotic bun that leaned more unwashed hermit than artistic genius. And the first clothes my hands found, black jeans, a white blouse with a faint smear of tarpentine on the hem. I threw a gray oversized cardigan over it to hide the evidence.

My tote bag, heavy enough to anchor a small boat, hit my shoulder with a bruise inducing thud. I sprinted. The penthouse stairs blurred past. My brain refused to acknowledge the giant in 4A, the money left on his doormat, or the way his dark eyes had tracked me like a laser sight the night before. Survival mattered more.

Julian was a genius with Baroque art. But he handled tardiness with the emotional maturity of a toddler denied a juice box. I burst through the lobby doors. The morning air hit my face, cool and smelling of exhaust fumes and roasting coffee. The city roared, already hours ahead of me. I scanned the curb for my car. My Honda Civic was old enough to vote.

Rust patches flaked on the hood like bad eczema. And the passenger door required a specific percussive maintenance technique to open. But it was mine, paid for, functional. Except today. I stopped dead. Keys dangled uselessly from my finger. The car sat under the flickering street lamp, but the profile was wrong, too low.

It looked like it was melting into the asphalt. Dread pulled in my stomach, cold and heavy. I moved closer. Rubber puddled around the rims. Not just flat, destroyed. I dropped my bag and crouched. A long, jagged wound gaped in the sidewall of the front tire, exposing the steel belt like a rib cage. I circled the vehicle. Back tire slashed.

Driver’s side slashed. All four executed. This wasn’t random vandalism. Kids with knives popped one tire for the thrill. Systematic destruction of all four tires was personal. It was a message. But who sent messages to art restorers? The most controversial thing I did was suggest a client’s original Rembrandt was actually a 19th century copy.

I kicked the front bumper. Damn it. Pain exploded in my big toe. Canvas sneakers offered zero protection against steel bumpers. I hopped on one foot, clutching my injured appendage and cursing a blue streak that would have made a sailor blush. Late, broke, stranded. I reached for my phone. I had to call Julian.

I had to tell him I wasn’t coming in. I couldn’t afford a tow truck, let alone four new tires. Maybe the black market needed a kidney. I had two. A shadow fell over me, blocking out the sun. A massive black SUV glided to a curbside stop, silent as a shark. Polished to a mirror shine. It reflected my disheveled reflection back at me in high definition.

The windows were tinted so dark they looked like pools of ink. I stepped back. Whoever slashed the tires might have returned for the driver. I gripped my phone like a weapon, ready to throw it. The rear window rolled down with a smooth, expensive hum. I expected a gang member. A cop? Maybe Julian coming to fire me in person.

Instead, a white dress shirt appeared. A sharp jawline. eyes darker than the window tint. Dante. Daylight didn’t diminish him. It sharpened him. The mythical monster from the hallway had transformed into a corporate warlord. A charcoal gray suit tailored to within an inch of its life, spanned his broad shoulders. He looked expensive. He looked dangerous.

And he viewed my ruined car with absolutely zero surprise. “Get in,” he said. The voice rumbled through the open window, settling deep in my chest. A command, not an offer. I blinked. Excuse me. Get in the car, Leonora. He knew my name. I hadn’t offered it. I had yelled, thrown money, and stormed off.

Introductions hadn’t made the agenda. I crossed my arms, ignoring the fact that my life was currently imploding on the sidewalk. How do you know my name? And I’m not getting in a car with a stranger. I’m not a stranger, he said, his expression flat. I’m the guy who kept you awake and you’re going to be late. The time on my phone glared at me. 9:05.

Julian was probably hyperventilating into a paper bag right now. I called a tow truck. I lied. No, you didn’t. Dante said, “You kicked your bumper and started hopping around like a flamingo. Get in. I’ll drop you off. Indignation flared. He had watched. He had sat in his climate controlled tank and watched me flail. I can take the subway.

The nearest station is six blocks away. He countered. You’ll be 20 minutes late. Your boss sounds like the type to hold a grudge. How do you know what my boss is like? Dante didn’t answer. He simply reached over and unlatched the door from the inside. The interior looked like a private jet cabin.

Cream leather seats, leg room for days. The scent of sandalwood and new car drifted out, promising safety and air conditioning. Leonora. His voice dropped an octave, vibrating with authority. Get in. Risk assessment time. Option A. Stand here, wait for a tow truck I couldn’t afford, get fired, and cry on the sidewalk. Option B, enter the luxury vehicle with the scary hot neighbor who apparently Googled me.

Keep my job and survive the morning. I huffed, blowing a loose strand of hair out of my eyes. Fine, I snapped. But if you murder me, my ghost is going to haunt your penthouse forever. I will make so much noise you’ll never sleep again. A corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile. Deal. I climbed in. The door shut with a heavy, reassuring thud, sealing out the grit and noise of the street.

Cool, crisp air enveloped me. Dante occupied the other side of the bench seat. He was huge, his knees spread wide, claiming a significant portion of the space. He typed on his phone, thumbs moving in a blur, dismissing my presence entirely. The driver, a man with a neck thick as a bulldog’s, didn’t even check the rear view mirror. “Where, too?” Dante asked without looking up. “The Rossy Gallery,” I said.

“It’s on fourth, and I know where it is,” the driver grunted. “Of course he did.” “Why wouldn’t the creepy neighbor know my place of employment?” The car peeled away from the curb, the movement so smooth it felt like floating. I clutched my tote bag to my chest like a shield. So, I said, breaking the silence because the quiet was suffocating.

Is this how you usually make friends? Stalking them and offering rides when their property gets destroyed. Dante finally abandoned his phone. He slid it into his jacket pocket and shifted his body toward me. The movement felt significant. His gaze weighed on me, physical and heavy. He scanned my face, cataloging the lack of makeup, the messy hair, the stress lines etching my skin.

I didn’t slash your tires, Leo. Leo, he shortened it. The intimacy of the nickname annoyed me almost as much as the fact that I liked how it sounded in his deep voice. I didn’t say you did, I countered. But it’s a hell of a coincidence that you just happened to be rolling by right after it happened. I have good timing.

My eyes swept over his suit. Immaculate. The fabric shimmerred slightly, probably woven by silkworms fed a diet of crushed diamonds. You look like you’re going to a funeral, I said. Or a mob trial. His gaze flicked to my cardigan. The one with the fuzzy pills on the sleeves. You look like you got dressed in the dark during a fire drill. He shot back.

I gasped. I looked down at my outfit. It wasn’t that bad. It was cozy. I have style. I defended. It’s called starving artist chic. You wouldn’t understand. Your style is aggressive capitalist. 50 shades of gray and boring. Aggressive capitalist? He repeated, testing the words on his tongue. I’ve been called worse.

By whom? The people you evicted? He shifted. His knee brushed mine. A spark jumped the gap, sizzling against my denim. My breath hitched. I pulled my leg back, creating distance that felt miles too short. I don’t evict people, he said. I buy buildings and bribe tenants with hush money. He didn’t flinch.

You left the money. I told you I didn’t want it. Someone took it. He said it wasn’t on the mat this morning. I frowned. Hopefully the janitor found it or Mrs. Higgins from 3C. She needed a hip replacement more than Dante needed his ego stroked. “Well, it wasn’t me. I have principles.” “Principles don’t fix tires,” he said dryly. I glared at him.

“Principles are all I have right now, so don’t mock them.” The car slowed. The gallery sat peacefully on the corner, no screaming Julian in sight. The ride had taken half the usual time. Amazing what traffic laws you could ignore when driving a tank. I reached for the door handle. Thanks for the ride, I muttered. The words tasted like ash, but manners were manners. Even if you are a stalker.

Dante didn’t answer immediately. He waited until the door swung open until one of my sneakers hit the pavement. I’ll pick you up at 6. I froze. I twisted back to look at him. He leaned against the cream leather, infuriatingly relaxed. Excuse me. 6:00, he repeated. You get off at 6:00 on Thursdays, I’ll be here.

A harsh, incredulous laugh escaped me. You think because you gave me one ride, we’re car pooling now? No thanks. I’ll take a cab. The humor vanished from his eyes. Darkness returned. Serious and heavy. You don’t have a car, Leo, and I don’t like you taking cabs at night. You don’t like it? I repeated. Who asked you? You’re my neighbor, not my dad.

Actually, you’re better than my dad because you actually showed up. But that’s a low bar. I don’t need a ride. I’ll be here. The tone carried the same weight as the command to get in the car. the same authority that froze the guards in the lobby. I stepped out and slammed the door. I leaned down to the open window.

Drop dead, Dante. For a second, I expected anger. I expected the mask to slip and the monster from the hallway to lunge, but no anger came. One corner of his mouth lifted. A smirk, arrogant, knowing, dangerous. and my stomach did a flip that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with a terrifying magnetic chemistry.

Have a good day at work, Leo. The window rolled up, severing my retort. The SUV merged into traffic, a shark disappearing into a school of yellow fish. I stood on the curb, clutching my bag. My heart raced, thumping a frantic rhythm against my ribs. My tires were slashed. My neighbor was a control freak with a tailored suit and a smirk that should be illegal.

And I had to survive until 6:00. Because as much as I hated to admit it, he wasn’t bluffing. He would be there. And God help me. The terror I felt was mixed with something far more dangerous. Anticipation. >> Chapter 4. Dante. 6:00. I checked my watch as I leaned against the hood of the SUV. 558 early, a rarity, punctuality defined me.

Precision and ruthless time management were tools of the trade. But I didn’t waste minutes inhaling exhaust fumes on 4th Avenue, waiting for people. My time was worth thousands of dollars a second. Yet here I stood, a billionaire mob boss waiting for a girl who hated me. I adjusted my cuff links, the metal cool against my wrist.

The street teamed with life. People rushing home to their ordinary safe existences. They glanced at me as they passed at the bespoke suit, the armored car, the scowl, and gave me a wide birth. I was used to the space. I commanded it. What I wasn’t used to was the knot of tension in my gut. Not fear. I didn’t do fear. Anticipation.

The morning replayed in my head like a looped tape. Her disdain. Drop dead, Dante. Most people who told me to drop dead ended up doing exactly that, usually in a marsh outside Jersey. But Leo, she threw the words like a dare. The gallery door swung open. A trickle of patrons emerged. A couple of tourists clutching brochures.

an older woman with a haircut sharp enough to cut glass and then Leo. She looked worse than this morning, if that was possible. Her hair had staged a full rebellion, escaping the bun to hang in loose, frantic strands around her face. A smear of blue paint on her cheek now matched the yellow one on her chin. Exhaustion rolled off her in waves, but beneath it lay a defiant beauty that irritated me as much as it captivated me.

She paused on the top step. Her gaze scanned the street, hunting for a yellow cab, hoping I had bluffed. I pushed off the hood of the SUV, unfolding to my full height. Leo. Her head snapped toward me, shoulders slumped. For a split second, retreat seemed imminent. She looked ready to bolt back inside and sleep under a desk.

Then a sigh heaved her chest, visible even from 20 ft away, and she marched down the stairs. “You’re like a bad rash,” she greeted, stopping just out of arms reach, persistent and irritating. Good evening to you, too, I said, opening the rear door. Get in. She eyed the car, then me. Where are we going? Because if you’re taking me to a second location to whack me, I’m going to need a snack first.

I haven’t eaten since yesterday. Dinner. Her eyes narrowed. I didn’t agree to dinner. I agreed to not die on the sidewalk. I have food. That was all it took. Her stomach betrayed her with a loud, audible growl. A furious pink blush started at her neck and climbed to the tips of her ears. “Fine,” she muttered, ducking into the back seat. “But I’m ordering dessert.

” I slid in beside her. The driver navigated us downtown, away from the tourist traps and toward the meatacking district. Leo pressed herself against the door, putting as much leather between us as physics allowed. She clutched her tote bag like it contained the nuclear codes. So, she said, staring out the window at the blurring city.

What kind of food does a mob boss eat? Human souls, endangered species. I checked my phone. Rocco had sent an update on the tire slashing. No leads. The cameras on her street had conveniently malfunctioned. My grip on the phone tightened. Italian, I said. Groundbreaking. We pulled up to Ilfior, my restaurant, my sanctuary.

The sign on the door read closed for a private event. The event was me trying to keep Leo alive for another 24 hours without alerting her to the target on her back. The driver opened the door. The street was quiet here, cobblestones slick with evening dampness, shadows stretching long and distorted. Leo stepped out, eyeing the dark windows. It’s closed. Not for us.

I let her inside. The dining room lay empty, a sea of pristine white cloths and gleaming silverware. Light spilled only from the kitchen in the back and the low amber glow of wall sconces. Intimate. Too intimate. Leo walked in, sneakers squeaking on the hardwood. She spun slowly, taking it all in. You own this place? I do.

She trailed a finger along the back of a velvet chair. It’s nice. A little pretentious with the white tablecloths, but nice. I guided her past the main floor and into my private office at the back. It was where I conducted business that required vintage wine and absolute privacy. A small table set for two waited near the fireplace.

Leo hesitated in the doorway. This feels like a date. Suspicion laced her voice. It’s dinner. I corrected, pulling out a chair. Sit. She sat. I poured water. She downed it in one gulp. Appetizers arrived instantly. Brusquetta, calamari, arenini. Leo didn’t wait for a plate. She grabbed a rice ball and bit into it. A moan of pure, unadulterated pleasure escaping her throat.

Okay, she said around a mouthful of cheese. You’re forgiven for the stalking. This is amazing. I watched her eat. She attacked the food with the same intensity she applied to everything else. Unapologetically, no pretense, no delicate bites. She was messy and real and entirely captivating. Hunger didn’t touch me.

My stomach was a knot of nerves. I needed intel. I needed to know if the Morettes had made contact. Have you heard from your dad lately? I asked, keeping the tone casual. Leo froze. She swallowed the bite with difficulty, setting the rest of the arancini down. The light in her eyes extinguished. Why? Just making conversation. She snatched her napkin, wiping her hands aggressively.

No, I haven’t, and I don’t plan to. He’s unavailable. Unavailable? A polite euphemism for a degenerate gambler on the run. I’m sorry. Don’t be, she snapped. He made his choices. I made mine. Can we talk about something else? or are you going to ask me about my childhood trauma next? I leaned back, the leather of the chair creaking.

Okay, let’s talk about art. She blinked. Art. You restore paintings. That sounds delicate. It is, she said, shoulders dropping an inch. It’s about patience. You have to strip away the dirt and the bad varnish to find what’s underneath. Sometimes the original artist made mistakes. Sometimes other people tried to fix it and made it worse.

My job is to see the truth. See the truth. I scanned the office. The walls were lined with art. Acquisitions from debtors. Gifts from associates. I viewed them as assets. liquid capital in frames. Leo’s gaze wandered the room. She dismissed most pieces with a glance. Then her eyes landed on the painting hanging behind my desk.

A small landscape. 18th century. Rolling hills, a farmhouse, a stormy sky, dark, moody, a gift from my lieutenant. She stood up. She walked to the painting, squinting. She leaned in, nose almost brushing the canvas. Where did you get this? I frowned. A gift from a friend. A friend? An associate? My lieutenant.

He gave it to me last year. Said he seized it from a collector who couldn’t pay up. It’s supposed to be a Salvatore Rosa. Leo let out a short, sharp laugh. She turned to face me, a smirk playing on her lips. “Your lieutenant is either an idiot or he thinks you are.” I stiffened. “Explain.” “It means,” she said, pointing a paint stained finger at the canvas.

“This is a fake.” Silence crashed into the room, heavy and suffocating. I stood slowly. Are you sure? Leo rolled her eyes. Look at the brush work on the trees. Rosa used aggressive impasto strokes. These are flat, hesitant, and the varnish, it’s been artificially aged. You can see the micro cracking is uniform.

Real aging is chaotic. This was painted maybe 10 years ago. It’s a very good forgery, but it’s a forgery. She walked back to the table, grabbing another rice ball. Basically, she said, chewing thoughtfully. Whoever gave you this pocketed the real money and gave you a glorified poster. They played you, Dante. Ice flooded my veins.

The lieutenant, Marco. He had presented this painting with a soba story about the difficulty of extracting payment. He claimed it was worth 200 grand. He claimed he took it to settle the debt because the guy had no cash. But if the painting was fake, Marco had taken the cash. He kept the 200 grand.

And he handed me a worthless piece of canvas, laughing behind my back, assuming the thug boss wouldn’t know the difference between a masterpiece and a lie. Not just skimming, stealing, betraying me to my face. And if he stole that much, what else was he selling? Routes, information. He was the rat. The realization hit with the force of a bullet.

It had been Marco all along, my right hand, the man I trusted with my life. I pulled out my phone. My hands shook, not from fear, but from a rage so pure it felt like white heat. Leo watched me. She stopped chewing. She saw the shift. The playfulness vanished. The monster returned. Dante, she whispered.

Is it important? I ignored her. I texted Rocco. Three words. Marco. Grab him. I watched the three dots bounce on the screen. Waiting. The reply came 10 seconds later. Gone. Apartment empty. Phone dead. He ran. He ran. He knew. Somehow he knew I was auditing the accounts. Or maybe he just knew his time had run out. I gripped the phone until the screen cracked under my thumb.

He was gone and he knew everything, the building codes, the security rotation, where I slept. And he knew I was here. I looked up at Leo. She stared at me, eyes wide. She had just exposed the traitor in my organization over appetizers. She had handed me the answer I had hunted for weeks, but in doing so, she had painted a target on her own back.

Marco wasn’t just a thief. He was vicious. And now that he was in the wind, he would look to hurt me. He would look for leverage. He knew I was obsessed with the girl in 4B. He had seen the security logs. He knew I had put a protection detail on her. I walked to the table. I grabbed Leo’s hand. We’re leaving. She pulled back.

What? Why? I haven’t even had my pasta. We’re leaving now, Leo. I didn’t wait for an argument. I pulled her toward the door. The nice dinner was over. The game was over. The rat was loose. And he was hungry. Dante, you’re hurting me, Leo protested, stumbling to keep up with my long strides.

I loosened my grip, but didn’t let go. I pushed open the back door of the restaurant, leading us into the alley where the car waited. “Get in the car,” I ordered, scanning the shadows for movement. She looked at my face. She saw the fear I tried to mask with anger. “What did I do?” she asked, voice small. Was it the painting? I’m sorry.

I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s probably real. I’m just tired. It’s not real, I said, opening the car door and practically shoving her inside. You were right. You’re always right. I climbed in beside her and slammed the door. Home, I told the driver. fast. The car squealled out of the alley. Leo huddled in the corner, clutching her bag. Terror radiated off her.

I wanted to comfort her. I wanted to tell her it was going to be okay. But I couldn’t lie to her. She had just started a war and she didn’t even know it. >> Chapter 5. Leo. The air in my apartment tasted of static. It wasn’t the lingering scent of old coffee or the laundry pile festering in the corner for 3 days. It was a wait, a charge.

The moment before a thunderstorm breaks, when the sky turns a sickly, bruised green and the birds go silent. Paranoia, I told myself, just the aftershocks of a disastrous evening. Dinner with Dante hadn’t been a meal. It had been an extraction. He’d dragged me from the restaurant like we were out running a bomb blast, shoved me into his tank of a car and driven home in a silence so thick it felt physical.

No explanations, no apologies for the bruised wrist, just a stare fixed on the passing city that promised murder. At my door, he didn’t cross the threshold. He loomed in the hallway, filling the space with his massive, terrifying presence, and issued a single order. Lock the deadbolt. Don’t open it for anyone. Not even me. Then he vanished into the elevator, ascending to his penthouse fortress, leaving me with a stomach churning with half-digested arancini and a mind spinning with questions I was too afraid to voice.

I dropped my tote bag in the middle of the living room floor. Relax. I needed to relax. I needed to forget my neighbor was a mob boss. My car was a casualty of war and my critique of a painting had apparently triggered a national security crisis. I retreated to the bathroom and twisted the shower knob.

I wanted to scrub the day off. I wanted to wash away the phantom scent of Dante’s cologne, sandalwood and steel that clung to my clothes like a second skin. I reached for my towel. The lights flickered. I froze. The bulb buzzed, dimmed to a sickly orange and died. Pitch blackness swallowed the room. My heart slammed against my ribs.

A painful solitary thud. Okay, breathe. just a power outage. This building was pre-war. The wiring was probably held together by electrical tape and the prayers of the super. I felt my way out, fingers skimming the cool tile, then the rougher plaster of the hallway. The living room was a cavern of shadows, illuminated only by the street lights filtering through the blinds in thin prison bar stripes.

Silence, absolute and heavy. Then the sound came. Beep beep beep. Click. My blood turned to ice water. Not a key turning, not a shoulder hitting wood. The electronic keypad. I installed it last year. Four digits. A code only I knew. And the super who was 70 and asleep by 8. The doornob turned slow. Deliberate panic surged, hot and sharp.

I scanned the darkness for a weapon. Phone in the bag by the door. Too far. Kitchen knives. In the other room, I stood in the hallway, armed with a towel. The door creaked open. A shadow detached itself from the gloom of the hallway. Dressed in black, he moved with a terrifying silent efficiency. Not the super, not a delivery guy.

His hand held a glint of metal, a knife, long, serrated. He closed the door behind him. The lock clicked. I backed up, heel hitting the bathroom doorframe. His head snapped toward the sound. Even in the dark, the smile was visible. Predatory, cruel. Leonora, he whispered. He knew my name. Survival instinct overrode terror.

Screaming required breath I couldn’t spare. I ducked back into the bathroom. I slammed the door and threw the lock. Flimsy. A credit card could pop it. It bought me 2 seconds. I scanned the tiny room. Toilet brush useless. Towel rack loose. My eyes landed on the counter. hairspray, an industrial-sized can of extra hold that tamed my unruly bun.

Next to it, a scented candle I’d blown out hours ago. The lighter still sat beside it. I grabbed the can in my left hand, the lighter in my right. The door shuttered under a kick. Wood splintered. One more strike and the lock would fail. Open up, sweetheart, the man cooed. Don’t make this messy. I flicked the lighter.

A small blue flame sparked to life. I aimed the nozzle at the crack in the door. The wood gave way. The door flew open. The man lunged, knife raised, anticipating a cowering victim. I squeezed the trigger. Whoosh! A jet of fire, 3 ft long and roaring like a dragon, erupted from the can. It engulfed his face. He screamed.

A horrible guttural sound that tore through the apartment. He dropped the knife, clawing at his eyes, stumbling back into the hallway. The stench of burnt hair and singed synthetic fabric filled the air instantly. I didn’t stop. I advanced, keeping the flame alive, screaming a war cry I didn’t know I possessed. “Get out!” I shrieked.

“Get out!” He flailed blindly, crashing into my bookshelf. Paperbacks tumbled down, burying him in literature. Disoriented in agony, but still lethal. He reached for his waistband. A gun. He couldn’t see, but he didn’t need to aim to kill in a room this small. I dove to the floor just as a deafening crack tore the air.

Plaster exploded from the wall above my head, dusting my hair with white powder. I scrambled behind the sofa, my makeshift flamethrower useless now that I was pinned. crack. My favorite vase shattered, shards raining down on the carpet. He was recovering, blinking through the tears streaming down his blistered face, finding his bearings.

“I’m going to kill you, bitch!” he snarled, leveling the gun. The front door exploded inward. It wasn’t opened. It was annihilated. Kicked off its hinges with a force that shook the floorboards. Dante filled the doorway. A demon rising from hell. Jacket gone. White shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal corded muscle.

In his hand, a black pistol that looked like an extension of his arm. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t ask questions. He assessed the scene. The smoke. The gunman. Me cowering behind the sofa in a fraction of a heartbeat. The intruder spun, trying to bring his weapon to bear on the new threat. Too slow. Bang! Bang! Two shots! Clean, efficient! The intruder dropped like a sack of wet cement. No twitch, no groan, just gone.

Silence rushed back into the room, louder than the gunshots. My ears rang. I stayed behind the sofa, clutching the hairspray can like a talisman, chest heaving. Air refused to enter my lungs. Dante moved. He stalked to the body, gun trained on the center mass. He kicked the intruder’s weapon away, checked for a pulse, and holstered his own pistol.

Then he turned to me. “Leo!” His voice was rough, shaken. I stood slowly. My legs trembled so violently I had to lean against the sofa back to stay upright. “Is he?” “Yes.” He crossed the room in two strides, stepping over the mess of books and broken glass. He stopped a foot away, eyes scanning me for blood, for injury.

Are you hurt? Did he touch you? I shook my head. No, I I burned him. [clears throat] Dante’s gaze flicked to the hairspray can, then the lighter. A flicker of something, disbelief, admiration crossed his face. You improvised. I nodded dumbly. He reached out, gently prying the can from my death grip.

He set it on the coffee table. Then he took my hands. His palms were warm, rough, and incredibly steady. Look at me, Leo. I looked up. His face was hard, jaw set in a line of granite, but his eyes burned with a terrifying intensity. He had a key card, Dante said. I blinked. What? The guy? He didn’t break in. He used a cloned key card.

The electronic lock beeped. Right. Yes. Dante cursed. A harsh Italian word I didn’t know. But the venom was clear. He squeezed my hands. It wasn’t the Morettes. It was my guy, the lieutenant. He sent a cleaner to silence you. Silence me. My voice cracked. Why? Because you’re the only witness. You saw the painting. You identified the forgery.

You’re the loose end. And he gave up the security codes to get to you. The reality hit like a physical blow. My apartment wasn’t a sanctuary. My lock was a joke. The building I lived in, the fortress Dante owned, was compromised. I pulled my hands away, wrapping my arms around myself as a chill took hold. I need to call the police. No police.

He moved to my bedroom door. He grabbed my tote bag from the floor where I’d abandoned it. He started shoving things into it. Charger, sweater, laptop. What are you doing? Packing, he said, zipping the bag. You can’t stay here. I watched him. He moved with the same efficient speed he used to kill the man on my floor.

Where am I supposed to go? A hotel? No, hotels aren’t safe. He knows my properties. He knows my accounts. If I use a credit card to book a room, he’ll find you in an hour. Then where? Upstairs, Dante said. He walked back to me, slinging the bag over his shoulder. He reached out and grabbed my arm. Not aggressively, protectively, anchoring me. my penthouse.

It has a manual deadbolt. It has reinforced steel doors. And it has me. I looked at the body on the floor. I looked at the scorched wall. I looked at the man who had just saved my life and was now issuing orders like a general. I can’t live with you, I whispered. You don’t have a choice, Leo, he said grimly. He pulled me toward the door, shielding my body with his own as we stepped into the hallway.

Until I find this rat and put him in the ground, you’re mine. He led me to the elevator. He punched in a code I hadn’t seen him use before. The doors slid shut, sealing us in together. I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes. My life as a normal art restorer had ended. I was now a witness, a target, and apparently the roommate of a mob boss.

And the worst part, as the elevator ascended, leaving the carnage below, I realized I felt safer in a steel box with a killer than I had ever felt in my own home. >> In chapter 6, Dante, the elevator doors slid open with a soft, expensive chime that sounded obscene after the violence downstairs. I dragged Leo across the threshold of the penthouse.

My hand clamped around her upper arm, likely tight enough to bruise, but my fingers refused to loosen. Letting go meant she might run. Letting go meant the reality of the last 20 minutes would catch up to us both. My fortress was compromised. The thought hammered against the inside of my skull.

A rhythmic, nauseating beat. Millions of dollars spent on reinforced steel, biometric scanners, and a private security detail that cost more than the GDP of a small nation. I had built a cage to keep the world out, and Marco had handed the key to a hitman. I pulled Leo into the living room and kicked the front door shut.

The deadbolt slid home with a heavy thud. I engaged the secondary steel lock, driving 3 in of titanium into the floor. It wasn’t enough. It didn’t feel like enough. Leo stood in the middle of the foyer, clutching her tote bag to her chest like a shield. Color had drained from her face, leaving her ghostly pale.

Her hair had escaped its bun, standing in wild, staticky strands. The air around her smelled of acrid smoke, burnt hairspray, and terror, but no tears fell. Not yet. Her gaze darted around the apartment, frantic and judging, from the floor toseeiling windows to the black marble fireplace to the lowprofile Italian furniture.

“You live here?” Her voice sounded brittle, high and tight, like a wire pulled to its breaking point. I pulled my phone from my pocket, thumbs flying across the screen. A single text to Rocco. Clean it up. Fourth floor. Marco gave up the codes. Burn everything. Yes, I said, shoving the phone away. I live here.

She spun in a jerky, uncoordinated circle. It looks like a dentist’s office, she said. A dentist’s office for vampires. I frowned. I was scanning her silhouette for injuries, checking for blood I might have missed in the dark, and she was critiquing my interior design. It’s minimalist. It’s dead. She snapped.

She stumbled toward the sofa. A custom piece, gray wool, imported from Milan. She stared at it like it carried a contagious disease. Look at this. It’s gray. The floor is gray. The walls are white. Do you get an allergic reaction to color? Or is Joy just against the lease agreement? She was spiraling.

The adrenaline was peaking. her brain frantically latching onto anything that wasn’t the dead body downstairs. “Leo,” I said, stepping toward her. “No, seriously,” she continued, voice rising to a pitch that threatened to shatter glass. She dropped the bag and gestured wildly at the room. “Where are the books? Where are the pictures? Do you just sit here in the dark and brood? Is that your hobby?” brooding and and saving people from assassins.

She shook now. A violent tremor started in her hands and rattled through her entire frame. Sit down, Leo. I don’t want to sit on your sad gray couch, she yelled. She backed away, hip colliding with the edge of the coffee table. She stumbled. The fight drained out of her all at once. Her knees buckled. I moved before gravity could claim her.

I caught her by the waist, hauling her up. She was small. Fragile bird bones pressed against my torso. If I had been 10 seconds slower downstairs, if she hadn’t grabbed that lighter. The thought turned my blood to ice. “Let me go,” she gasped, pushing against my chest. Her palms burned through my shirt. I can’t I can’t breathe. Panic seized her.

Her chest heaved. Short shallow gasps that brought no oxygen. Leo. I didn’t let go. I pulled her closer, trapping her against the hard line of my body. I slid one hand up her spine to cup the nape of her neck, forcing her head against my shoulder. My other hand flattened over her sternum right over her frantic heart.

“Stop,” I ordered, my voice a low rumble against her ear. “Feel my hand. Feel my heartbeat.” She struggled for a second, a trapped animal flailing against a cage. Breathe, I commanded. Match my rhythm. In. Out. I exaggerated my own breathing, forcing my lungs to expand slowly against hers. She froze.

The tremors didn’t stop, but the flailing did. Her hands curled into my shirt, gripping the fabric so hard her knuckles turned white. Then she crumbled. A sob ripped out of her chest, a harsh, jagged sound that scraped against the silence of the room. She buried her face in the crook of my neck and unraveled. I stood there in the center of my empty, gray living room, holding the woman who hated me while she fell apart.

I wasn’t a comforter. I wasn’t the guy you called for a shoulder to cry on. I was the guy you called to make bodies disappear. My hands were built for violence, for breaking things, not for holding them together. But I held her. My hand moved up and down her spine in a slow, rhythmic motion.

I rested my chin on the top of her head. She fit there perfectly, a missing puzzle piece I hadn’t known I was looking for. “I’ve got you,” I murmured into her hair. “You’re safe. She shook her head against my chest, soaking my shirt. He was in my house, she choked out. He was He was going to He’s dead, I said. Flat, cold. I killed him. He can’t hurt you.

The blunt truth didn’t seem to comfort her. She cried harder. I closed my eyes. Her scent filled my head. Vanilla, tarpentine, and the sharp chemical tang of the hairspray she had used as a flamethrower. Intoxicating. I wanted to keep her here. I wanted to lock the doors and never let her out. I wanted to hunt down every single person who had ever made her cry and tear them apart with my bare hands.

The urge was primal, possessive, terrifying. I shifted my stance, bringing my hips flush against hers. A mistake. My body reacted instantly. The adrenaline from the shootout still hummed in my veins. And now, mixed with the soft curves pressing against my hardness. It sparked something dangerous. I wanted her right here, right now, covered in smoke and tears.

I pulled back slightly, creating a sliver of space. Her face was stre with tears, eyes red rimmed and wide. She looked up, lips parted, breath hitching in little gasps. “Dante,” she whispered. The sound of my name on her lips, soft and vulnerable, nearly undid me. Gravity pulled me toward her. I wanted to taste the fear off her lips.

I wanted to replace the memory of the gunman with the memory of me. My gaze dropped to her mouth. Her breathing stalled. She didn’t pull away. Her hands slid up my chest, resting on my shoulders, fingers brushing the sensitive skin of my neck. The air between us crackled, heavy with static and unsaid things. I could take her.

She wouldn’t stop me. She sought comfort, sought oblivion, and I could give her both. But I was the reason she was in danger. Marco had sent that hitman because of me. Because he knew I watched her. Because he knew she was my weakness. If I kissed her now, if I took her to my bed, I wasn’t protecting her. I was just another predator taking advantage of a wounded bird.

And I had work to do. Marco was out there. The Morettes were out there. My house was compromised. I needed to be sharp, ruthless, not distracted by the softness of her skin. I gritted my teeth. It took every ounce of will I possessed to force my hands to drop from her waist. Leo stumbled slightly at the loss of support.

She blinked, confusion waring with hurt in her eyes. “Go to the guest room,” I said. My voice came out harsh, grading. I hated it, but I needed the distance. She wrapped her arms around herself, the coldness returning to her gaze. Where is it? Down the hall. Second door on the left. There’s a lock on the inside. Use it. She stared at me for a long second.

The vulnerability vanished, replaced by a wall of defensive anger. She nodded once stiffly. Fine. She grabbed her bag from the floor. She didn’t look at me again. She turned and marched down the hallway, spine straight, head high. Her footsteps retreated. I waited until the door clicked shut. Then the lock turned. Good.

She was learning. I released a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. My hands shook. Not from the killing. I was used to killing. They shook from the effort of not touching her. I walked to the intercom on the wall. Miller, I barked. Yes, Mr. Moretti. The guard’s voice came through tiny and anxious.

I want two men outside the penthouse door. Full gear. If the elevator moves without my authorization, disable it. If anyone steps off that isn’t me or Rocco, put them down. Understood. Understood, sir. I killed the connection. I stalked into my office. A glasswalled box overlooking the city. Darkness suited the mood.

I went to the cabinet and grabbed a bottle of whiskey. No glass. I unscrewed the cap and took a long burning pull straight from the bottle. The alcohol hit my stomach like liquid fire, but it didn’t numb the rage. Marco, my lieutenant, my brother in arms. He had sold me out for cash. He had tried to kill Leo. He was going to die slowly.

But first, I had to find him. I sank into my leather chair, staring out at the grid of city lights. Somewhere out there, a rat hid in the dark. I took another drink. The penthouse was silent again. But the silence no longer felt like safety. It felt like a cage. And for the first time in my life, I wasn’t sure if I was the jailer or the prisoner.

My gaze drifted down the hall toward the guest room. She was safe for tonight, but tomorrow the war would start. And I had to make sure she survived it, even if she hated me for it. Especially if she hated me for it. Hate was safer than whatever I had seen in her eyes when I held her. Hate would keep her alive.

I took another drink and waited for the sun to rise. >> Chapter 7. Leo. I woke up in a bed that felt like it belonged in a palace. Silk sheets pulled cool and smooth against my skin. The mattress, firm but yielding, likely cost more than my entire art school education. Sunlight streamed through floor to ceiling windows, illuminating a room that was vast, white, and completely devoid of personality.

Disorientation hit first. I stretched, expecting to whack my knuckles against the wall of my tiny bedroom or knock over my bedside lamp. Instead, I rolled into empty space. Minimalist furniture sat like islands in a sea of expensive carpet. Then, memory crashed back. The hitman, the jet of flame, Dante kicking down my door like a vengeful god.

I sat up, clutching the duvet to my chest. My heart hammered a frantic rhythm. I was in the penthouse, Dante’s fortress. And I wore an oversized t-shirt I’d stolen from his closet last night because my own clothes rire of smoke and fear. The sleek digital clock on the nightstand read 7 a.m. coffee. I needed caffeine to process the fact that my life had morphed into an action movie. I climbed out of bed.

The floor was heated. Of course it was. Why wear slippers when you can just heat the entire building? I patted down the hallway, bare feet silent on the hardwood. The penthouse was quiet. Too quiet. The kitchen was easy to find. A chef’s dream of stainless steel and black marble boasting a massive island and enough counter space to land a helicopter.

And standing in front of the espresso machine was Dante. I stopped in the doorway. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. My brain stalled. He wore gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips and absolutely nothing else. His back was a landscape of muscle and ink. Intricate black tattoos swirled over his shoulders and down his spine.

But underneath the art lay marks. Scars. Long, jagged lines faded with time. Burn marks on his lower back. A round puckered scar near his shoulder blade that screamed bullet wound. Most people would see violence. A history of pain. But I was an art restorer. I spent my life examining damaged things. I looked at cracks and varnish and tears in canvas. And I didn’t see ruin.

I saw history. I saw survival. His back looked like crackler. The fine network of cracks that forms on the surface of an oil painting over time. It proves a piece is real. It separates a masterpiece from a forgery. A pristine surface is a lie. But scars. Scars are the truth. He looked like a war map.

He looked like the most authentic thing I had ever seen. He must have sensed me. Or maybe he felt my gaze burning into his skin because he turned slowly. He held a tiny cup of espresso. His hair was wet. Dark drops of water clinging to his chest hair. Morning, he said. His voice rasped, grally with sleep. I realized I was staring.

I forced my eyes up to his face. Morning. He took a sip. Dark eyes tracking me. He didn’t seem bothered by his semi-nudity. He wore his skin comfortably, scars and all. Sleep well? I slept like the dead, I admitted, which is ironic considering. No smile. He set the cup down. There’s coffee in the pot. It’s American.

I figured you wouldn’t want the sludge I drink. I walked to the pot. High-end drip machine. I poured a mug, drowning it in creamer I found in the fridge. So, I said, leaning against the counter and trying to look casual in a t-shirt that swallowed me whole. What’s the plan? Do I just live here now? Do I pay rent or do I pay in trauma? He leaned back against the island, crossing his arms.

Biceps flexed, distracting. You stay here until it’s safe. No rent. Consider it. Compensation for the property damage downstairs. I sipped the coffee. Good. Smooth. And when will it be safe? A day? A week? Until I find Marco? And until I know the Morettes aren’t making a move? My gaze drifted back to his chest. A long, thin line ran over his ribs.

“You have a lot of scars,” I said quietly. He glanced down at himself, then back to me. Guarded hazards of the trade. “Did you get them all fighting for whatever it is you fight for?” “Survival,” he said. I got them fighting for survival. No elaboration, no soba story. Just a fact stated in the same tone one might use to describe the weather.

I set my mug down. I’m hungry. Do you have food or do you just survive on espresso and brooding? He gestured to the pantry. Help yourself, but don’t make a mess. I opened the doors, stocked like a survival bunker for a gourmet chef, imported pasta, expensive olive oil, jars of things I couldn’t pronounce. I grabbed eggs, flour, milk, and a block of parmesan cheese from the fridge.

I’m making pancakes, I announced. Savory ones with cheese and herbs. He watched me pull out bowls and whisks. You cook? I’m Italian, I said, cracking an egg one-handed. And I’m an artist. Cooking is just chemistry with better smells. I mixed. I wasn’t neat. Flower dusted the counter. A splash of milk hit the granite.

An eggshell hit the floor. Dante watched with a pained expression. You’re destroying my kitchen. I’m creating. I corrected. Relax. I’ll clean it up. Or your maid will. Do you have a maid? Or do the scary guards in the hall do the dusting? I have a cleaning service, he grunted. They come on Tuesdays. Well, today is Friday, so you’re stuck with me.

I poured batter onto the griddle. The scent of cooking dough and melting cheese filled the air, chasing away the cold sterility of the room. I plated two pancakes and slid one across the island. Eat. You look like you need protein. He eyed the pancake suspiciously. He cut a piece, chewed, swallowed. Eyes widened slightly.

It’s edible, he admitted. It’s delicious, I corrected. Don’t be rude to the chef. We ate in a weird domestic silence. Him half naked, me and his shirt, eating pancakes in a multi-million dollar kitchen while armed guards stood outside the door. When I finished, I put my plate in the sink. “Okay,” I said, wiping my hands on a towel.

“I need to go to work. I’m already late again, but Julian might forgive me if I tell him I was held hostage by a handsome mob boss. Dante stopped chewing. He set his fork down. Metal clicked against ceramic. You’re not going to work, Leo. I froze. What? You’re not leaving this building. It’s not safe. A nervous, incredulous laugh bubbled up.

Excuse me. I have a job. I have a life. I can’t just not go. I have a restoration to finish. If I don’t show up, I get fired. And I need that job to pay for the apartment I can’t live in. You don’t need the money. I bristled. Oh, right. Because you have a magic money clip. I forgot. I don’t take handouts, Dante. I work.

You’re not taking handouts. You’re taking a paid leave of absence. I stared. What are you talking about? I bought the building, he said, the gallery building, and I made a significant donation to the gallery’s restoration fund this morning on the condition that their lead restorer gets indefinite paid leave to deal with a personal emergency.

My jaw dropped. You You bought the gallery? The building? He corrected. The gallery is just a tenant, but Julian was very amanable to the donation. He said to take as much time as you need. Fury hot and bright exploded in my chest, not just anger. Violation. He had reached into my life and rearranged the furniture without asking.

“You controlled my life,” I whispered. “You went behind my back and manipulated my boss. You bought my workplace just to keep me here.” I did what I had to do to keep you alive, he said, voice hard. Marco is out there. The Morettes are out there. If you walk out that door, you are a target. You are leverage.

I removed the variable. I am not a variable. I am a person. You can’t just buy my world to make it convenient for you. He stood up. He loomed over the island, size suddenly intimidating again. It’s not about convenience, Leo. It’s about keeping breath in your lungs. Do you understand what these people do? Do you understand what Marco will do if he gets you? He won’t just kill you.

He will use you to bleed me. He will hurt you in ways you can’t even imagine just to send me a message. I don’t care. I yelled back. I care that you didn’t ask. I care that you treat me like a piece of furniture you need to put in storage. I marched around the island. I got right in his face.

I had to tilt my head back to look him in the eye, but I didn’t back down. You are a control freak, Dante. You think because you have money and guns, you can dictate reality. Well, you can’t dictate mine. I am leaving. I turned to storm out. He moved faster than thought. He didn’t grab my arm. He stepped into my path, a wall of muscle blocking the exit. I tried to sidestep.

He mirrored me. “Move, Dante,” I warned. “Make me,” he challenged. I tried to push past. He didn’t budge. Instead, he stepped forward. I stepped back. He stepped forward again. He backed me up until my hips hit the edge of the granite counter. Trapped. He planted his hands on the counter on either side of me, caging me in.

He didn’t touch me, but he was everywhere. His heat, his scent, his size. He leaned down until we were eye to eye. You are not leaving,” he growled, his voice vibrated in my chest. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic rhythm that wasn’t entirely fear. “Try and stop me,” I hissed, though the threat lacked conviction.

“I am stopping you,” he said. “Look at me, Leo. Look at my face. Look at these scars.” He leaned closer. His nose brushed mine. This is what happens out there, he whispered. This is what the world does. I am not letting that happen to you. We breathed the same air. I saw the flex of gold in his dark eyes, the pulse jumping in his throat.

The anger was still there, burning hot between us, but it shifted. It became something else, something heavy and dangerous. I looked at his mouth, then up to his eyes. He was terrified underneath the rage and the control. He was terrified of losing me. And I was terrified of how much I wanted him to kiss me. I should push him away.

I should scream. I should fight. But I didn’t move. His gaze dropped to my lips. His breath hitched. For a second, I thought he would do it. I thought he would close the distance and devour me right there in the kitchen. But then he blinked. He pulled back just an inch. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, fighting a physical battle with himself.

“You’re staying,” he said, voice rough. “End of discussion.” He pushed off the counter and walked away. He didn’t look back. I stayed there, leaning against the granite, legs trembling, furious, trapped. But as I watched him walk away, muscles shifting under his scarred skin, I realized something else. I didn’t want to leave.

>> Chapter 8, Dante. 3 a.m. The city slept, but the monster in penthouse A did not. I stood by the floor to ceiling window, the glass cool against my forehead. The lights of Manhattan sprawled below. a grid of electric gold that usually made me feel powerful. Tonight, it just looked like a maze I couldn’t solve.

My hand moved almost of its own accord, reaching out to the small terracotta pot resting on the sill. Basil. Leo had insisted on dragging it up here during the evacuation. She had clutched the wilting herb like it was the crown jewels. It needs sunlight, Dante. It needs water.

You can’t just let it die because you’re busy being a warlord. I dipped my finger into the glass of water I’d brought for myself and let a few drops fall onto the dry soil. I brushed a thumb over a green leaf, wiping away a speck of dust. Ridiculous. I was a man who ordered hits. I was a man who dismantled lives with a phone call.

And here I was keeping a $5 plant alive because the girl in the guest room would be sad if it died. I turned away from the window. 3 days. We had been locked in this penthouse for 72 hours. For most people, a long weekend in a multi-million dollar apartment would be a luxury. For me, it was a prison sentence. And my cellmate was driving me absolutely insane.

noon. The phone in my hand radiated heat, hot enough to burn skin. I had screamed at every captain, every lieutenant, every street soldier on my payroll. Find him. But Marco wasn’t just hiding. He was ghosting. I slammed the phone onto the kitchen island. The marble cracked under the impact.

A spiderweb fracture blooming in the expensive stone. I didn’t care. Let it break. The reports were all the same. Empty safe houses, burned vehicles, cold trails. He had gone deep underground, likely out of state. Or he was being sheltered by someone with resources deeper than mine. The Morettes. It had to be them. Marco had sold me out for a percentage.

And now they were protecting their investment. They knew I was hunting him. They knew I was locked in here, protecting Leo, unable to take to the streets myself without exposing her. They were stalling, waiting for me to make a mistake, waiting for me to get desperate. It was working. I dragged a hand down my face. My eyes burned, gritty, and dry.

You’re going to break the other side if you hit it again. I spun around. Leo stood in the doorway of the living room. She wasn’t wearing the oversized t-shirt anymore. She wore leggings that clung like a second skin and a bright, violently yellow tank top that clashed aggressively with my gray furniture. She held the fake Salvatore Rosa painting in her hands.

“I’m working,” I growled. “You’re breaking furniture,” she corrected. She walked over to the island, ignoring my mood, and slapped the painting down on the countertop. Stop yelling at Roco and look at this. I stared at the canvas. The forgery that had started this war. I’ve seen it. It’s fake. Yes, it’s fake, she said, impatience sharpening her tone.

But I got bored while you were shouting, so I took the frame off. Look at the canvas edge. She pointed a slender finger to the raw, unpainted strip of canvas that had been hidden by the wood. I leaned in. There, stamped in faint faded ink, was a symbol. A small circle with the letters GR inside. “So?” I asked.

“So,” Leo said, looking at me like I was slow. Forgers are artists, too, Dante. They have egos. They sign their work, just not where the buyer looks. GR isn’t a factory stamp. It stands for Giovani Rosi, not a relation, she added quickly. He runs a restoration shop in Queens, but he doesn’t just fix paintings. He builds them from scratch for people who want to launder money.

My head snapped up. You know where this shop is? Atoria. She said, “If Marco bought this fake, he bought it from Giovani. And Giovani keeps records. A lead, a solid, tangible lead.” I grabbed my phone. I didn’t yell this time. I dialed Rocco. Atoria, I said. Giovanni Rosi, find him. Squeeze him. He knows where Marco is. I hung up.

The tension that had been crushing my chest for 3 days loosened just a fraction. I looked at Leo. She was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, looking smug. You’re useful, I said. She rolled her eyes. I’m brilliant. There’s a difference. Now, since I just cracked your case, entertain me. I blinked. Excuse me? I’m bored, Dante,” she groaned, throwing her head back.

“I have read every book in your library, which by the way is tragic. You have 12 books on military strategy and zero fiction. Do you hate imagination? I like facts. I can tell.” She dead panned. I’m going crazy. I need to do something. Play a game with me. I don’t play games. Clearly, she gestured to my cracked counter.

But if you don’t give me something to do, I’m going to colorcoordinate your tie collection, and I will do it badly. I looked at her. She was vibrating with restless energy. The yellow shirt seemed to hum in the stark white room. If I didn’t give her an outlet, she would start dismantling my life just to see how it worked. Cards, I said. Her eyes lit up.

Poker. I nodded. I walked to the sideboard and pulled out a deck. Black matte finish weighted perfectly. We play for money? She asked, following me to the living room rug. Wait, never mind. My money is currently ash. Secrets? I said, sitting on the floor. The table felt too formal. The floor felt dangerous. Closer to the ground.

She raised an eyebrow, settling cross-legged opposite me. Secrets, five card draw. If I win, I get to ask a question. You answer honestly. No deflection, no sarcasm. And if I win, ask whatever you want. Deal, she said, shuffling the deck with surprising skill. Her fingers were long, dextrous artists hands. We played.

For the first hour, the war outside faded. The silence of the penthouse stopped feeling oppressive and started feeling intimate. She was good. She bluffed with a straight face that would have made a professional gambler proud. But I was better. I read people for a living. I tracked the tiny twitch in her eyelid when she had a bad hand.

I noted the way she bit her lip when she held an ace. I won the first three hands. “Why art?” I asked, throwing down a pair of kings. “Why restoration?” She sighed, tossing her losing hand onto the rug. Because I like fixing things. I like taking something that’s broken and forgotten and making it beautiful again. It feels hopeful. I looked at the cards.

Hopeful. A foreign concept. Next hand. She won. How did you get the scars? She asked, pointing to my chest. I hesitated. The game was truth. A warehouse fire, I said. 10 years ago, a rival gang locked us in. I got my men out, but the roof collapsed on me. She looked at me, eyes soft. You saved your men.

They were my responsibility. She reached out, her fingers brushing the back of my hand. The contact burned hotter than the fire I was describing. You’re a good leader, Dante, even if you are a grump. The compliment warmed me more than the whiskey I’d been drinking. We played again. The atmosphere shifted. The air grew thick, charged with static.

Every time our fingers brushed, reaching for the deck, a spark jumped the gap. Every time she laughed, a pull tightened in my chest. She was losing badly. I was up four secrets to one. “Okay,” she said, dealing a new hand. “This is it. All in. If I win this, I get the biggest secret. I get to know your real name.” I frowned.

“My name is Dante.” “No,” she said. Your full name, the one on your birth certificate. I bet it’s something embarrassing like Percal or Herbert. It’s Dante, I said. Just Dante. Liar, she teased. Deal. I picked up my cards. Three queens, a jack, a four, a killer hand. She checked hers. No lip biting, no twitching. She smiled, a slow, wicked curve of her lips that made my breath hitch.

I call, she said. She laid down her cards. Royal flush hearts. I stared at the spread. Statistically impossible. The odds of a royal flush were astronomical, and I had been watching the deck. I looked up. She grinned like the Cheshure cat. I win, she crowed. Tell me, Herbert. I reached out lightning fast and grabbed her wrist. She yelped, surprised.

I turned her hand over. Tucked into the sleeve of the yellow tank top, right against her wrist, was the ace of spades. “You cheated,” I said. Her face flushed crimson. “I did not. That was that was just there. You palmed it,” I said, leaning closer. You shuffled the deck and kept the high cards at the bottom. “I saw you.

” She tried to pull away, but I held fast. I wasn’t hurting her, but I wasn’t letting go. “You didn’t see anything,” she argued, laughing. “You’re just a sore loser.” I pulled. She tumbled forward, offbalance, crashing into my chest. Her hands came up to brace herself against my shoulders.

“I’m never a loser, Leo,” I murmured. Our faces were inches apart. Her laughter died. Her eyes went wide, pupils dilating until the brown was swallowed by black. She looked down at my mouth, then back up to my eyes. The air in the room grew heavy, viscous. I should let her go. I should push her away and check my phone for news on the restoration shop. I was dangerous.

I was a target. She was innocent, but I couldn’t. She was right there, warm, soft, smelling of vanilla and defiance. She was in my shirt. She was in my house. She was burrowing under my skin. She cheated at cards. She fought hitmen with hairspray. She watered my basil plant in the middle of the night. She was perfect.

Dante,” she whispered. I didn’t let her finish. I wrapped my hand around the back of her neck, tangling my fingers in her hair. I pulled her down. I kissed her, not gentle, not tentative, desperate, hungry. Three days of pentup frustration, terror, and lust crashing together in a single volatile moment. She made a small sound in her throat, a whimper that vibrated against my lips.

She didn’t pull away. She melted. Her arms wound around my neck, fingers digging into my shoulders. She kissed me back with a fierceness that matched my own. Her mouth tasted like coffee and secrets. I groaned, shifting my weight, pushing her down onto the rug. I hovered over her, caging her in with my body.

I wanted to consume her. I wanted to imprint myself onto her so deeply she would never be able to leave. She arched up against me, legs tangling with mine. The friction was maddening. I moved my hand down her side, slipping it under the hem of the yellow top. Her skin was hot silk and fire. “Leo,” I rasped against her lips.

“Don’t stop,” she breathed. “Please don’t stop.” I didn’t want to stop. I wanted to strip that ridiculous shirt off her. I wanted to worship every inch of her. But somewhere in the back of my mind, a warning bell rang. If I did this, there was no going back. If I crossed this line, she was mine. Not just for protection, not just for now. Forever.

And my forever was dangerous. I pulled back just an inch. Our breaths mingled, ragged, and harsh in the quiet room. Are you sure? I asked, voice rough. She looked up at me, lips swollen, eyes hazy with desire. “Yes,” she said. That was all I needed. I kissed her again, and this time I held nothing back. The phone was forgotten.

The rat was forgotten. The only thing that mattered was the girl in my arms and the fact that I was never ever letting her go. >> Chapter nine. Leo. The next three days dissolved into a haze. A hot, confusing domestic blur that felt less like captivity and more like a fever dream I didn’t want to break. I had lived alone for 5 years.

My space was my sanctuary. messy, chaotic, smelling of tarpentine and lavender. I thought cohabitating with a man like Dante, who probably color-coded his socks and alphabetized his spice rack, would be psychological torture. It wasn’t. It was easy. Terrifyingly easy. Dante was still Dante, broody, intense. He paced the penthouse like a caged tiger, checking his encrypted phone every 5 minutes, barking orders at Rocco that sounded like coordinates for a drone strike.

But with me, the edges softened. He let me blast ’90s alternative rock while I cooked, the base shaking his sterile gray countertops. He let me reorganize his bookshelf because the lack of aesthetic cohesion offended my soul. He even let me steal his shirts, watching me with a heavy possessive heat as I patted around his fortress in cotton that smelled like sandalwood in him.

And the nights we didn’t leave the penthouse. We barely left the bedroom. We tried to make up for a lifetime of touch starvation in 72 hours. He was demanding, possessive, and attentive in a way that ruined me for anyone else. He noticed when my glass was empty. He noticed when I shivered. He noticed when the silence got too loud.

On the fourth morning, the bubble burst. I woke up alone. The sheets on his side were cold. Dante. Silence answered. I pulled on his black t-shirt, my uniform now, and wandered out. The living room stood empty, the kitchen pristine. I drifted toward his office. The door, usually shut tight, stood a jar. Dante. I pushed the door open, empty.

He must be in the shower or maybe downstairs with the security team. I stepped inside. The room smelled of leather and the lingering smoke of his stress. It was the command center of a warlord. Monitors glowed with stock tickers and security feeds. I turned to leave, not wanting to invade his privacy more than I already had. Then I saw it.

A manila folder lying open on the center of his mahogany desk. It wasn’t a digital file. It was physical. Old school. The tab read R O S I C. Curiosity is a curse. It killed the cat and it was about to kill my peace of mind. I walked over. I looked down. The air left my lungs. It wasn’t a dossier on me. It was a dossier on my father.

Bank statements, gambling debts, a detailed timeline of loans taken from the Moretti family. But that wasn’t what stopped my heart. It was the dates. The surveillance photos of my father entering a bedding parlor were dated 3 months ago. The report on his debt structure was dated 6 weeks ago. And there was a note scrolled in Dante’s sharp angular handwriting in the margin.

Debt purchased. Hold leverage. Monitor daughter. Monitor daughter. 6 weeks ago. Long before he knocked on my door to complain about the noise. Long before the tire slashing. Long before the accidental meetings in the hallway. He hadn’t stumbled into my life. He hadn’t saved me because he was a grumpy neighbor with a secret heart of gold. He had bought my father’s debt.

He had targeted me. I was an asset. A variable in an equation I didn’t even know I was part of. Leo. Dante’s voice. Deep and rough came from the doorway. I spun around. The folder slipped from my numb fingers. Papers scattering across the desk like accusations. He stood there dressed in tactical gear. black cargo pants, boots, a tight black shirt that emphasized the width of his chest. He looked ready for war.

He looked at the papers. Then he looked at me. His expression didn’t change, no guilt, no panic, just a cold, hard assessment of the damage. “You knew,” I whispered. My voice trembled, betraying the devastation cracking my chest open. You knew about the debt. You knew about my father before we even met. He walked into the room.

He didn’t stop until he was on the other side of the desk. A barrier of mahogany between us. Yes. The single word hit me like a slap. Monitor daughter, I quoted, pointing at his handwriting. I was a job. I was surveillance. At first, he said. His voice remained steady, maddeningly calm. Your father owes millions.

The Morettes were circling. I bought the debt to keep them away from my territory. I needed to know if you were involved. And when you found out I wasn’t, I demanded. When you found out I was just a broke artist trying to pay rent, did you tell me? Did you warn me? No. Why? To protect your peace, he said. Ignorance is safety, Leo.

As long as you didn’t know you could live your life, I handled it. You handled it? A bitter laugh clawed its way out of my throat. You manipulated me. You let me think we were whatever this is. You let me think it was real. His jaw tightened. A muscle feathered in his cheek. It is real. Is it? I stepped back away from the desk away from him.

Or was I just leverage? Did you sleep with me to keep the asset close to make sure the variable didn’t run? Dante’s eyes flashed. The cold composure cracked. He rounded the desk, moving with that predator speed that usually made me feel safe. Now it made me feel cornered. Don’t, he growled, grabbing my upper arms. His grip was tight, desperate.

Don’t insult what we have. I kept it from you because I knew you would react exactly like this. You would panic. You would run. I did it to keep you safe. I shoved at his chest. I am not a child, Dante. You don’t get to decide what I know about my own life. You don’t get to control me just because you think you know better.

I do know better. He roared back, the sound vibrating through my bones. I know this world. I know what happens to people like you when the truth comes out. You are alive because I controlled the situation. I am a prisoner because you controlled the situation. The silence that followed was deafening, heavy, suffocating.

His phone buzzed once, twice. He ignored it. He stared down at me, his eyes searching mine, looking for the softness that had been there this morning. It was gone. He had burned it. Rocco found him, Dante said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. Marco, he’s at a warehouse in Queens. Moretti soldiers are pinning my men down.

He released my arms. He stepped back. The mask of the dawn slid back into place, sealing away the man who had watered my plants. “I have to go,” he said. “Go,” I said coldly. “Do what you do best. Handle it.” He hesitated. For a second, his hand twitched, reaching for me. He wanted to fix this. He wanted to kiss me goodbye.

I crossed my arms. I put up a wall of ice. He dropped his hand. We finish this when I get back, he said. Do not leave this apartment. Miller is at the door. The lockdown is active. I know the drill. I snapped. I’m the asset in the vault. He flinched. a microscopic reaction, but I saw it. He turned and walked out.

The heavy steel door of the penthouse slammed shut. The deadbolt slid home. I was alone. I stood in the office for a long time, listening to the silence. It didn’t feel peaceful anymore. It felt sterile, dead. I wandered into the kitchen. I tried to make coffee, but my hands shook too much. I ended up sitting at the island staring at my iPad, trying to numb the ache in my chest with work.

I opened my email. Nothing. I opened Instagram. A notification sat in my direct messages. My frown deepened. My restoration account was usually quiet. The message came from a blank profile. No picture. Username user 89402. I opened it. No text, just an image. I tapped the screen. The world stopped. My father. He was tied to a chair.

His face was a map of bruises, one eye swollen shut, blood crusting on his split lip. He looked terrified. Behind him, rusted corrugated metal walls, a glimpse of gray water through a dirty window. My hands shook so hard I nearly dropped the tablet. A second message bubbled up. Come alone or he dies. Then a third. Pier 42.

One hour. My heart slammed against my ribs. A trapped bird desperate for escape. My father. The man who stole my rent money. The man who abandoned me. The man Dante had bought debt from to monitor me. But looking at the photo, seeing the terror in his remaining good eye, he was still my dad.

He was the man who taught me how to mix pigments. the man who used to carry me on his shoulders at the Met. Dante said he was handling it. Dante said I was safe. But Dante had lied. He had lied about everything from the start. Monitor daughter. If I stayed here, I was safe. I was the asset in the tower. If I stayed here, my father died. The Morettes knew Dante was gone.

They knew he was in Queens chasing Marco. They had timed this perfectly. They were drawing me out. I looked at the front door, locked. Miller was outside. Dante’s orders were absolute. I couldn’t walk out. I paced the kitchen. The anger at Dante mixed with the terror for my father, creating a volatile chemical reaction in my blood.

I couldn’t sit here. I couldn’t let my father be executed while I sat in a gray penthouse eating croissants. I had to go. But how? The balcony was a 40story drop. The elevator was locked down. I stopped pacing. My eyes landed on the pantry door. 3 days ago, I had complained about the ventilation noise. Thin floors, Dante had said.

But it wasn’t just thin floors. It was the industrial HVAC system of a repurposed factory. The main shafts were wide. I ran to the pantry. I shoved boxes of imported pasta and cans of San Marzano tomatoes aside. There, behind the shelving unit, a metal grate, not a standard vent, a heavy industrial access panel secured by hex bolts and sealed with a thick rubbery line of industrial caulking. I clawed at it, immovable.

I ran my fingers over the sealant. Siliconebased, hardened. A kitchen knife would snap against it. Dante’s security was perfect. Bulletproof glass, biometric locks. But he hadn’t planned for an art restore. I ran to the guest room. I dug through my tote bag, tossing clothes aside until my fingers brushed cool glass.

a small bottle of xylene, a powerful solvent. I used it to strip varnish from stubborn oil paintings. It dissolved organic compounds. It melted rubber. I grabbed my tool kit, steel sculpting picks, tempered fine point designed to remove microscopic debris from canvas, but strong enough to pick a lock. I sprinted back to the pantry.

I soaked a rag in the xylene. The chemical smell bit into my nose, sharp and dizzying. I pressed the rag against the sealant surrounding the grate. I counted the seconds. 1 minute. Two. I peeled the rag back. The silicone had turned to sludge. I wiped it away, leaving the metal bare. Step one. Now the bolts.

Hexagonal security screws. Impossible without a wrench or patience. I inserted two steel picks into the head of the first bolt. I applied pressure, twisting them against each other for leverage. The same controlled force I used to tighten canvas stretchers. The bolt groaned. It turned a fraction of an inch. Sweat dripped down my back.

Come on, I twisted again. The bolt gave. One by one, I worked them loose. My fingers cramped. My heart thundered in my ears, counting down the minutes I had left to get to Pier 42. The last bolt fell with a metallic clink. I pulled the grate. It swung open on heavy hinges, revealing a dark, dusty throat that swallowed the light. The service chase.

I ran back to the bedroom. I stuffed pillows under the duvet, shaping them into a sleeping form. It wouldn’t fool anyone up close, but on a security monitor, it might buy me 10 minutes. I grabbed my bag, flashlight, pairing knife. I crawled into the pantry. The shaft smelled of dust and old grease. I shimmyed on my stomach, dragging myself toward the ladder.

I didn’t look down. I didn’t think about the rats. I thought about the lie in Dante’s handwriting. Monitor, daughter. I climbed. When I reached the ground floor, the exit grate was locked. Panic flared. I shone the light through the bars. A janitor’s closet. A mop handle leaned against the wall just out of reach.

I extended my arm, straining until my shoulder popped. My fingers brushed the wood. I hooked it. I wedged the handle against the latch mechanism of the grate and shoved. Click. The latch sprang. I tumbled out onto the lenolium floor covered in dust and cobwebs. I slipped out the service door into the alley. The city roared to life around me.

Sirens wailed in the distance, maybe heading toward Queens, toward Dante. I walked two blocks, head down until I found a busy intersection. I hailed a cab. Pier 42, I told the driver. And hurry. I sat back as the cab merged into traffic. I was walking into a trap. I knew that. But I wasn’t just saving my father.

I was running away from the man who had turned my life into a dossier. I always come back. Dante had promised. I hoped he was right. Because I had a feeling I was going to need him before this night was over. And if he did come back, he was going to be furious. >> Chapter 10. Dante. The warehouse smelled of rust, standing water, and imminent death.

Shadows pulled thick in the cavernous space, swallowing the light from the few caged bulbs hanging from the rafters. Shipping containers formed a maze of steel canyons. I moved through it like a wraith, footsteps silent on the concrete. Senses dialed to a frequency that picked up the drip of a leaking pipe 50 ft away.

Rocco was somewhere in this labyrinth. Marco was somewhere in here. And they weren’t alone. Gunfire erupted ahead. Short, controlled bursts echoing off the metal walls. I rounded a corner and saw them. A scene painted in desperation and violence. Marco stood on a rusty catwalk suspended above the main floor. His silhouette stark against the grime streaked windows.

His suit was rumpled, tie loose. The picture of a man whose house of cards was collapsing. He was flanked by three Moretti soldiers, assault rifles trained on the ground below. Beneath them, pinned behind a stack of wooden crates, crouched Rocco. Blood streamed from a cut above his eye, painting half his face crimson. But he fired back with grim determination.

“Give it up, Rocco!” Marco shouted, his voice cracking with hysteria. “It’s over. The Morettes control the ports now. Dante is finished.” I didn’t shout back. I didn’t announce my arrival. I just aimed. I exhaled. The soldier on the left dropped a clean hole in his chest. He tumbled over the railing, hitting the concrete with a sickening thud. Chaos.

Marco spun, eyes going wide as he scanned the darkness. Dante. Terror twisted his face. Good. The remaining two soldiers opened fire on my position. Bullets sparked against the steel container I used for cover, sending showers of hot metal into the air. I didn’t flinch. I counted the seconds. 1 2 3. Reload. I moved.

I broke cover, sprinting toward the metal staircase, firing as I ran. The second soldier on the catwalk jerked and slumped against the railing. The third scrambled for cover, but Rocco popped up from behind his crate and caught him from below. That left the rat. Marco stood alone on the catwalk. He looked at me, charging up the stairs like judgment day.

Then at the exit door 10 ft away. He turned to run. I took the stairs three at a time. My boots rang against the metal. I caught him two feet from the door. I grabbed the back of his expensive Italian jacket and slammed him into the railing. The metal groaned under the impact. He screamed, legs dangling over the 20ft drop.

Dante, wait. We can talk. There’s nothing to talk about, Marco. I snarled, pressing the hot barrel of my gun against his sweating forehead. You sold me out. You tried to kill Leo. It was business, he pleaded, tears mixing with the snot on his face. It was just business. The Morettes offered me a percentage.

They said they wouldn’t touch you if I gave them the routes. You don’t sell family for a percentage, I said, voice low and lethal. Dante, please. I have the codes. I can get them back. I can I pulled the trigger. The shot was deafening in the enclosed space. The rat went limp. The leak was plugged. I let his body slide from my grip.

It hit the floor below with a finality that brought no satisfaction, only a cold, grim resolution. I holstered my weapon and walked down the stairs. Rocco was leaning against a crate, pressing a rag to his head wound. He looked like hell, suit torn, face bloody, but a grin split his face. “Nice timing, boss,” he wheezed. You okay? Just a graze.

Scalp wounds bleed like a stuck pig. He winced, checking the rag. But Marco, he talked before you got here. He was bragging. I froze. Bragging about what? He said he gave them everything. The codes, the roots. Rocco swallowed hard and the girl’s file. My stomach dropped. The air in the warehouse suddenly felt too thin. The girl’s file. Yeah.

He told the Morettes about Leo, about her dad, about how you have her locked up in the tower. Panic, cold and sharp, pierced the adrenaline. I ripped my phone from my pocket. I pulled up the security feed for the penthouse. Black screen, signal lost. Damn it. I dialed Miller straight to voicemail. I dialed the landline in the penthouse.

Dead air. “Can you walk?” I asked Rocco. “Yeah, let’s go now.” We tore back to the city. I drove like a madman, weaving through traffic, mounting sidewalks, running red lights. The engine roared, but it wasn’t loud enough to drown out the silence on the other end of the phone. Monitor daughter.

The words from the file I had left on my desk haunted me. She had seen it. She knew. And now the signal was dead. We screeched to a halt in front of the building. The lobby was dark. I burst through the doors, gun drawn. Miller lay on the floor behind the concierge desk, a nasty gash on his head, unconscious but breathing. The other guards were missing.

I ran for the elevator. The panel was dark, disabled. Stairs, I shouted to Rocco. 40 flights. My lungs burned. My legs screamed with lactic acid. I didn’t slow down. I fueled myself on terror. Please be there. Please be angry. Please be throwing things. Just be there. I kicked open the penthouse door. The apartment was silent.

Not the peaceful silence of a home, but the hollow silence of a tomb. “Leo!” I roared. No answer. I sprinted to the guest room. The door was locked. I kicked it in. Wood splintering around the frame. The bed was made. A lump rested under the duvet. Relief surged. Weak and desperate. Leo. I ripped the covers back, pillows. She was gone.

I stared at the empty bed. Rage, hot and blinding, surged through me, battling with a nausea so intense I almost doubled over. Where was she? The doors were locked. The elevator was down. I ran to the kitchen. The pantry door stood open. Cans of tomatoes were shoved aside. The heavy metal grate, which should have been sealed shut, lay on the floor.

The dark throat of the service shaft gaped open. She had crawled out through the vents like a rat. No, like a desperate animal escaping a trap. “My god,” I whispered. “She’s insane, brave, stupid, insane.” My eyes snagged on her iPad, sitting on the marble counter. The screen glowed in the dim light. I walked over. A message, an image.

Carlo Rossi tied to a chair. Beaten. Come alone or he dies. Pier 42. 1 hour. I slammed my fist onto the marble counter. The crack from earlier shattered completely. A chunk of stone crashing to the floor. She had gone to save him. She had walked right into a killbox to save the man who sold her out. She didn’t know.

She didn’t know he was the villain. She thought she was being a hero. Rocco stumbled into the apartment, chest heaving, face pale. “Boss, get the car,” I said. My voice sounded foreign to my own ears, deadly calm, void of humanity. Where is she? Pier 42, I said with the Morettes. Rocco swore a harsh sound. That’s a trap, Dante. It’s a killbox.

We can’t just walk in there. Watch me. I stalked to my office. I opened the biometric safe behind my desk. I pulled out everything. assault rifles, flash grenades, knives. I strapped a tactical vest over my chest. I loaded magazines until my pockets were heavy with lead. I was going to burn the city down.

I was going to kill every single person who touched her. I walked back to the elevator, racking the slide on a rifle. Rocco waited by the stairs, eyeing the arsenal. We’re going to war,” he asked. “No,” I said, stepping past him. “We’re going to a slaughter.” >> Chapter 11. Leo. The cab driver was chatty. He talked about his kids, his chronic back pain, and the unseasonable humidity.

I nodded at intervals, made humming noises that sounded like agreement. But the world was muted. Sound couldn’t penetrate the static screaming in my ears. My heart wasn’t beating. It was vibrating. A frantic bird trapped in a cage of ribs. We pulled up to Pier 42. It wasn’t a pier anymore.

It was a graveyard for industry. A desolate stretch of waterfront lined with the skeletal remains of warehouses and rusting chainlink fences. The only light bled from a single street lamp that flickered with an ominous epileptic rhythm. Keep the meter running? The driver asked, eyeing the shadows nervously. No.

I shoved a watt of cash, bills I’d found crumpled in the bottom of my bag, at him. Go. Don’t wait. He didn’t argue. He took the money and sped off, tires screeching on the cracked asphalt, leaving me standing in the cold, salty wind. I turned toward the warehouse from the photo. Massive. A dark hulk blotting out the few stars visible through the city smog.

No guards, no perimeter. Bad sign. No guards meant they weren’t worried about intruders. It meant the door was unlocked because they were expecting a guest. I pushed open a side door. Metal ground against metal. A scream in the silence. I stepped inside. The space was vast, swallowing me whole. It smelled of diesel, standing water, and decay.

In the center of the cavernous floor, under a pool of harsh surgical white light, sat a chair. And in the chair sat my father. He looked exactly like the photo, head hanging low, face a map of purple bruises, lips split and swollen. Pathetic. Dad. The cry tore from my throat. I sprinted across the concrete, sneakers slapping loud and frantic. He looked up.

One eye was swollen shut. The other widened. Leo. I reached him and fell to my knees, hands hovering, afraid to touch him, afraid to cause more pain. I fumbled for the ropes binding his wrists to the chair arms. They were tight, biting into his skin. Are you okay? My voice shook. Did they hurt you? We have to go.

I have a knife in my bag. Hold on. I stopped. He wasn’t looking at me. He was looking over my shoulder. And he wasn’t crying. He wasn’t shaking. His breathing was steady. His gaze was clear. Calm. I pulled back, fingers freezing on the knot. “Dad,” he sighed, a heavy, resigned sound. He looked down at the ropes, then back at me.

A slow, sad smile spread across his bruised face. “You always were a good girl, Leo,” he said softly. Always trying to fix things, always trying to clean up the mess. I froze. The temperature in the room seemed to drop 20°. Steps echoed on the concrete behind me. Slow, deliberate. the click of expensive leather shoes on stone. I turned around.

Three men emerged from the shadows of the shipping containers. Two were walls of muscle in cheap leather jackets holding baseball bats like extensions of their arms. The third was older, dressed in a silk suit that looked jarringly out of place amidst the grime. Silver hair, a face carved from cold marble. Paulo Moretti.

I recognized him from the news, from the files on Dante’s desk. Welcome, Leonora, he said. His voice was smooth, viscous like oil. We were wondering if you would show up. I stood up, putting myself between him and my father. A useless gesture, but instinct took the wheel. “Let him go,” I said.

My voice wavered, but I held my ground. You wanted me. I’m here. Let him go. Moretti laughed, a dry, humorless sound that scraped against my nerves. Oh, we’re not holding him, my dear. He’s here voluntarily. I blinked. What? I turned back to the chair. Dad, I whispered. One of the guards walked past me. He didn’t hit my father.

He pulled a pocketk knife and sliced the ropes with a casual flick of his wrist. My father stood up. He rubbed his wrists, wincing slightly, but there was no fear in his movement. He walked past me. He walked to a metal table near the wall where a silver briefcase sat waiting. He popped the latches. Inside, neat stacks of cash glowed under the warehouse lights.

My father ran his hands over the money. He looked at it with a tenderness he had never shown me. He looked at it like it was his child. It’s a lot of money, Leo, he said his back to me. More than I owe. Enough to start over. Brazil, maybe. Or Thailand. The air left the room. My lungs pumped, but nothing went in. You You sold me? I choked out.

He turned around. He looked tired. Not guilty, just weary. Look, Leo, you were always trouble, always asking questions, always needing things. Shoes, paint, tuition. You cost me a fortune. He shrugged. A casual gesture. Like he was discussing a bad stock option, not his daughter. At least now you’re worth something, he said.

Dante Moretti is obsessed with you. Paulo here says he’ll pay double just to watch Dante bleed trying to get you back. It’s just business, sweetheart. Business. My knees gave out. I stumbled back. Hip hitting the metal chair he had just vacated. Dante was right. He had told me. He had warned me. He’s a crook, Leo. He’s a rat. And I had defended him.

I [clears throat] had yelled at Dante. I had climbed through a ventilation shaft, stripped the skin off my knees, and walked into a trap because I thought Dante was the villain and my father was the victim. I was an idiot. A naive, stupid idiot. Moretti walked closer, eyeing me with cold appraisal. “She’s pretty,” he said to my father.

“Feisty, too. I like feisty.” My father didn’t even look at me. He closed the briefcase with a solid click. Just get me to the airport, Paulo. That was the deal. Moretti nodded to one of his guards. Get him a car. The guard led my father away. He walked past me without a glance. He didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t say sorry.

He clutched his money to his chest and walked out of my life. I watched him go. The warehouse door slammed shut. The sound echoed like a gunshot. and something inside me snapped. The heartbreak vanished. The shock evaporated. All that remained was rage. Pure white hot, blinding rage. I looked at Moretti.

He was smiling at me. He saw a broken girl. He saw a scared little thing abandoned by her daddy. He was wrong. Dante hadn’t just protected me. He had taught me. He had shown me what real strength looked like. It wasn’t about the absence of fear. It was about what you did when you were terrified. Moretti took a step toward me.

Now, he said, checking his watch. We wait for your boyfriend. I wonder how long it will take him to. He turned to grab a beer bottle from the table next to him. He took a sip, relaxed, triumphant. I saw my chance. While his head was tilted back, I moved. I grabbed the metal chair. I swung it. It hit the table with a deafening crash.

The beer bottle shattered. Glass exploded, spraying amber liquid and shards everywhere. Moretti jumped back, cursing, shielding his face. “What the hell?” “Grab her!” he shouted at the remaining guard. The guard lunged. I dropped to the floor. I wasn’t trying to fight him. I was scrambling. My hand found a shard of brown glass, 3 in long, jagged, lethal.

I clenched it in my fist. I felt it bite into my own palm, the pain sharp and grounding. The guard grabbed me by the hair, hauling me up. “You little bitch!” he growled. I didn’t struggle. I let him pull me close. Then I jammed the glass into his thigh. He screamed and let go, clutching his leg. I ran.

I didn’t run for the door. They would catch me on the open floor. I ran for the maze of shipping containers stacked along the back wall. Get her, Moretti roared. Don’t shoot her. We need her alive. That was my advantage. They couldn’t kill me. Not yet. I scrambled up a stack of pallets, tearing my jeans, scraping my skin. I squeezed into a gap between two rusted containers.

dark, tight smell of ozone and rust. I huddled there, chest heaving, clutching my bloody glass shard. “Come out, Leonora!” Moretti yelled, his voice echoing. “There’s nowhere to go. Dante is coming to die, and you’re going to watch.” I pressed my hand to my mouth to stifle my breathing. I wasn’t waiting for Dante. I wasn’t waiting for a hero.

My father had sold me. He thought I was just a bargaining chip. But chips don’t fight back. I gripped the shard tighter. Let them come. >> Chapter 12. Dante. The shipyard was a kill box. I knew it the second I drove through the broken gate. Silence hung heavy and unnatural over the sprawling complex. Darkness pulled in every corner, hiding a hundred sniper nests and a thousand ways to die.

I didn’t care. I slammed the SUV into park and bailed out before the engine stopped turning. “Stay in the car,” I ordered the driver. “If you see anything move that isn’t me or the girl, shoot it.” I didn’t wait for an answer. I moved toward the main warehouse, rifle raised, boots silent on the cracked asphalt.

My men were already engaged. Gunfire echoed from the north side of the yard. Short bursts punctuated by shouts. The Morettes had set up a perimeter trying to keep us out. They were failing. They fought for a paycheck. My men fought for their lives and I fought for something much more dangerous. I flanked the building, moving through the shadows like a ghost.

I found a side door rusted shut. One kick sent it flying inward with a screech of tortured metal. I stepped into the warehouse. Chaos greeted me. Gunfire erupted from the catwalks. Bullets sparked against the metal containers, sending showers of hot sparks into the air. The noise was deafening.

A cacophony of violence that vibrated in my teeth. I ignored it all. I scanned the floor, hunting for one thing. Leo. I saw Moretti first. He crouched behind a forklift, screaming orders into a radio. His expensive suit was ruined, torn at the shoulder. Panic etched his features. Good. I raised my rifle and put two rounds into the forklift’s engine block.

Steam hissed out in a violent cloud. Moretti scrambled back, cursing. “Where is she?” I roared. My voice carried over the gunfire. Moretti looked up. He saw me. And for the first time in 10 years, real fear flickered in his eyes. Kill him. He screamed at his men. Kill him now. Bullets chewed up the concrete around my feet.

I dove behind a stack of pallets returning fire. I took out a guy on the catwalk. He fell, crashing into a pile of crates with a sickening thud. I moved again, hunting. I checked behind a shipping container. Empty. I checked behind a stack of oil drums. Empty. Then I saw it. A flash of movement near the back wall. A small figure huddled behind a wooden crate.

Leo. She wasn’t cowering. She wasn’t crying. She held a gun, a heavy black pistol, likely scavenged from a fallen guard. She gripped it with both hands, arms shaking violently, her face was pale, eyes wide and wild, but she aimed. She pointed the gun at the open space in front of her, ready to shoot anything that crossed her line of sight.

My heart slammed against my ribs. “Leo!” I shouted. She jerked. The gun swung toward me. I froze. Panic ruled her. She was trigger-happy. If I startled her, she would put a bullet in my chest before she recognized my face. “Leo, it’s me,” I yelled, dropping my rifle to my side and raising my hands. “It’s Dante. Don’t shoot.

” She blinked, her eyes focused on me. Recognition flooded her face, followed instantly by a relief so profound her knees buckled. “Dante,” she whispered. I ran to her. I slid across the concrete, coming to a stop beside her crate. I grabbed her shoulders. “Are you hurt? Did they touch you?” She shook her head frantically. No, I I stabbed him. The guard.

I took his gun. I glanced at the weapon in her hand. The safety was still on. She couldn’t have fired it even if she wanted to. I reached out and gently pried it from her death grip. I clicked the safety off and tucked it into my belt. I leave you alone for 5 minutes, I growled, voice thick with emotion.

And you start a war. She let out a choked laugh that sounded more like a sob. I didn’t start it. I just participated. Gunfire erupted again, closer this time. A bullet pinged off the crate right above our heads. Wood splinters rained down on us. “We have to go,” I said. “Now I pulled her up.

I kept my body between her and the shooters, a human shield.” “Stay low,” I ordered. “Move when I move.” We ran. We wo through the maze of containers, dodging bullets and debris. I fired back blindly, suppressing the Moretti soldiers just enough to keep their heads down. The exit loomed ahead. The door hung open, moonlight spilling onto the dirty floor, just 10 more feet.

Then I saw him. A guard popped up from behind a barrel directly in our path. He raised his rifle. He aimed at Leo. I didn’t think. I didn’t calculate. I shoved her. Leo went sprawling, skidding across the concrete toward the door. At the same time, I stepped into the line of fire. The impact hit me like a sledgehammer.

It spun me around. My shoulder exploded in pain. My arm went numb. I dropped my rifle. Dante, Leo screamed. I stumbled, falling to one knee. The world went gray at the edges. The guard racked his slide, preparing to finish the job. I reached for the pistol in my belt with my good hand. It felt miles away. Then a shot rang out, not from the guard, from behind me.

The guard’s head snapped back. He dropped. I turned my head. Leo was on her knees near the door. She held the gun I had taken from her, the one with the safety off. Smoke curled from the barrel. She had shot him. She scrambled toward me. She grabbed my good arm and hauled me up. “Get up!” she screamed, “Get up, Dante.

” I groaned, forcing my legs to obey. The pain in my shoulder was blinding. A white hot fire that pulsed with every heartbeat. We stumbled through the door and into the cool night air. My men were there. They swarmed us providing cover fire, shouting orders. Backup had arrived. Rocco was there.

He saw the blood soaking my shirt. He saw Leo holding me up. “Get him in the car,” he yelled. He grabbed my other arm, helping Leo drag me toward the SUV. I’m fine, I grunted, though my voice sounded weak and far away. It’s just a shoulder. Shut up, Leo snapped. Get in the car. They shoved me into the back seat. Leo climbed in after me.

In the distance, sirens began to wail, a chorus of them getting louder by the second. Blue and red lights flashed against the shipyard walls. The cops were coming. Rocco slammed the door shut, but he didn’t get in. He leaned through the open window, face grim. I’m staying, he said. “What?” Leo asked, eyes wide. Someone has to handle the cleanup, Rocco said, tapping his breast pocket where he kept his badge and his cash, implying the connections he had on the force.

I’ll deal with the cops. I’ll deal with the bodies. You just get him out of here. Go, I rasped. Private clinic. Rocco slapped the roof of the car. The driver hit the gas. The SUV peeled out of the lot, leaving the chaos and the sirens behind. I leaned back against the leather seat. The pain began to recede, replaced by a cold numbness that wasn’t good.

I looked at Leo. She pressed her hands against my shoulder, trying to staunch the bleeding. Her hands were covered in my blood. Her face was stre with dirt and tears. She looked beautiful. She looked fierce. You shot him, I whispered. She looked at me. Her eyes were hard. He was going to kill you. I smiled.

It probably looked more like a grimace. You’re a natural, Leo. Don’t talk, she said, voice trembling. Just don’t die. Okay. You promised you always come back. Don’t make a liar out of yourself. I’m not going anywhere. I said my eyes felt heavy. I let them close. I wasn’t dying. I knew that it was just a bullet. I had taken worse. But as the darkness crept in, the only thing I could feel was her hand on my chest.

keeping my heart beating. And for the first time in my life, I didn’t mind being saved. >> Chapter 13. Leo. The clinic was less a place of healing and more a purgatory with expensive upholstery. Hidden behind a non-escript door in an upper east side brownstone, it boasted no signage, no reception desk, and no pity.

just a small waiting room with leather chairs that cost more than my tuition and a pervasive smell of antiseptic that failed to mass the copper tang of blood. I paced the Persian rug back and forth, a pendulum swinging between terror and rage. Two hours. My clothes were a disaster. My favorite hoodie was stained dark with Dante’s blood, a gruesome tie-dye of violence. My hands were clean.

I had scrubbed them raw in the bathroom sink with scalding water and harsh soap, but the phantom warmth of his life force still clung to my skin. Every time the door to the surgery suite opened, my heart seized, but it was always nurses moving with blurred efficiency carrying trays of gleaming steel and bags of saline. They didn’t look at me.

I was furniture. I was collateral damage. Rocco occupied one of the leather wing backs. He still wore his blood spattered suit, looking like he’d just walked off the set of a slasher film. He scrolled through his phone with infuriating calm. “Stop pacing, kid,” he said without looking up.

“You’re going to wear a hole in the rug, and that rug is antique. 19th century hares.” I stopped midstride. I turned to glare at him. “How do you know that?” Dante lectures. He grunted. You pick things up. Is he going to die? My voice scraped against my throat, raw and horsearo. Rocco snorted. Dante, die from a shoulder wound, please.

He’s been shot three times before, stabbed twice, blown up once. He’s too stubborn to die. The devil doesn’t want the competition. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to hold my shattering pieces together. He lost a lot of blood. He’s got plenty of blood. Rocco dismissed. He’ll be fine. The dock is good.

Used to be chief of trauma at Mount Si before he developed a taste for highstakes poker. He owes us. He’ll fix him. I looked at the closed door. I wanted to believe him. But I kept seeing Dante’s face in the car, the gray palar. The way his eyes had rolled back. I always come back. He better. If he died after saving me, after making me fall in love with him, I would find a way to resurrect him just so I could kill him myself.

The door clicked open. Not a nurse. The doctor, an older man, thin as a rail, nervous energy radiating off him like heat. He wiped his hands on a towel stained pink. He’s awake. I didn’t wait for permission. I didn’t wait for Rocco. I pushed past the doctor and into the inner sanctum. The room was small, sterile, and freezing.

In the center lay a narrow medical bed, and on the bed lay Dante. He was pale. His tan faded to parchment. His shoulder was encased in thick white bandages that stood out starkly against his skin. Wires hooked him to a monitor that beeped a steady, reassuring rhythm. But his eyes were open. Dark, tired, but focused.

Locked on the door. Locked on me. “Leo,” he rasped. The sound of my name broke the dam. I let out a breath I had been holding since the shipyard. I walked to the bed, hands hovering, afraid to touch him, afraid to break him. “You’re alive,” I said. stupid. Obvious. He tried to smile. It was weak. A ghost of his usual arrogant smirk.

Told you. Tears pricricked my eyes. I blinked them back furiously. I wasn’t going to cry. I had cried enough for one lifetime. You look like hell, I said. You look beautiful, he countered, even covered in dirt. and he glanced at my hoodie. Is that my blood? Yes. Looks good on you, he murmured. Possessive. I let out a watery, hysterical laugh.

You’re delirious. That’s the morphine talking. Maybe, but I like the drugs. I reached out and took his hand. His fingers were warm, calloused, strong. He squeezed back, weak, but present. “My father?” I asked quietly. Dante’s expression hardened instantly. The softness vanished, replaced by the flinty gaze of the dawn.

“Gone,” he said. He got on a plane to Rio an hour ago. Rocco tracked the flight. I nodded. A pang hit my chest, a hollow ache where my heart used to be, but it wasn’t sharp anymore. It was dull. Old injury. Good, I said. Dante watched me carefully, assessing the damage. Do you want me to find him? I can make a call.

I can have someone waiting for him when he lands. He won’t make it out of the airport. I looked at him. I saw the offer in his eyes. absolute brutal. He would do it. He would drag my father back here or make him disappear into the Brazilian rainforest just because I asked. I thought about the warehouse. The way my father had caressed the money.

The way he hadn’t even looked at me as he left. You were always trouble, Leo. No, I said, “Let him go. He’s not worth it. He’s not worth your time, and he’s certainly not worth mine.” Dante squeezed my hand again. “You sure?” “I’m sure,” I said. He made his choice. He chose the cash. I looked down at our joined hands, his scars against my paint stained skin, stone and spark.

“I only care about you, Dante.” His eyes softened, the gold flex catching the harsh medical light. He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed my knuckles, a gentle, reverent gesture that made my heart stutter. “Come here,” he said. I looked at the narrow bed. “There’s no room.” “And you’re hurt.” “I don’t care,” he said.

“I need you close. The monitor is annoying me. I need a better heartbeat to listen to.” He shifted, wincing, gritting his teeth as he moved to the edge. I climbed on carefully. I avoided his injured shoulder, curling up against his good side. I rested my head on his chest, avoiding the wires. His heart beat strong and steady against my ear.

Thump, thump, thump, thump. He wrapped his good arm around me, holding me tight, grounding me. A nurse bustled in a moment later, clipboard in hand. She stopped dead. Miss, you can’t be in the bed. She scolded, eyes wide. He needs rest. The sutures are fresh. You need to Dante opened his eyes.

He didn’t lift his head. He just turned his gaze on her. It was the same look he had given me that first night in the doorway. The predator, the monster. She stays, he growled. The nurse snapped her mouth shut. She looked at him, then at the monitor, then at the door. I’ll I’ll come back later to check your vitals. She squeaked.

She retreated fast. I smiled against Dante’s chest. You’re scaring the staff. “Good,” he grunted. “Maybe they’ll let us sleep.” I closed my eyes. The smell of antiseptic faded, replaced by the scent of Dante, sandalwood, sweat, survival. I was exhausted. My body achd from the adrenaline crash. My heart was bruised, but I was safe.

“We’re going home tomorrow,” Dante whispered into my hair. “Back to the fortress.” I nodded. “Home.” It wasn’t just a building anymore. It wasn’t just gray furniture and security cameras. It was him. And as I drifted off to sleep in a narrow hospital bed, wrapped in the arms of a mob boss who had bled for me, I realized something terrifying.

I didn’t want to leave the fortress. I wanted to help him defend it. >> Chapter 14. Dante. Recovery was not noble. Recovery was boring. It was painful. It involved an obscene amount of daytime television and broth that tasted like dish water filtered through a gym sock. I was a terrible patient. I was restless.

I was cranky. I snapped at the nurses. I growled at Rocco when he brought me paperwork. And I tried to leave the bed approximately 17 times a day. The only person who could make me stay put was Leo. She had officially infiltrated the penthouse, not as a guest, not as a prisoner, as an occupying force.

She had dragged her life up from 4B, clothes, books, and a strange collection of antique paint brushes that smelled of tarpentine. She had filled the gray void of my apartment with color and chaos. Throw pillows that were actually soft appeared on the couch. Greenery sprouted on the window sills, plants she talked to like they were pets.

And then there were the paintings. I walked into the living room, arms still confined to a sling that itched like hell and stopped dead. Hanging above the fireplace in the place of honor usually reserved for family crests or legitimate masterpieces hung the fake Salvatore Rosa. I stared at it. The brush work was wrong. The varnish was fake. It was a lie.

A symbol of the betrayal that had almost gotten us both killed. Leo walked in behind me carrying a bright neon green balloon that bobbed aggressively in the air. Like it? She asked, voice innocent. I turned to glare at her. Why is that on my wall? Because it’s a good story, she said, tying the balloon to the back of a minimalist Italian chair.

And because it reminds you that I’m always right. I grunted, eyeing the balloon. It read, “Get well soon, grumpy in cheerful, bubbly letters. It reminds me that Marco was a thief. It reminds you that you have good taste in women. She corrected, patting my good arm. Now sit down. You look pale. And stop scowlling at the balloon.

You need color. Your aura is beige. I sat. The couch was softer than it used to be. It smelled like her. Vanilla and paint. I watched her pour tea. She wore one of my shirts again. The sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her hair was in that messy bun that made my fingers itch to pull it down. She looked happy. She looked at home.

And that terrified me. The war was over. Marco was dead. The Morettes were broken. Their territory seized by the feds after Rocco anonymously leaked their ledgers. The threat was gone, which meant Leo didn’t need to be here anymore. She didn’t need my protection. She didn’t need my fortress. She could go back to her normal life.

She could go back to the gallery, to her friends, to a world where people didn’t get shot in shipyards. She deserved that life. She deserved better than a scarred monster who couldn’t sleep without a gun under his pillow. I had to let her go. The thought made my chest ache more than the bullet wound.

But I knew it was the right thing to do. I had to be noble. I had to be selfless. I hated being selfless. Leo, I said. She looked up, a cookie halfway to her mouth. “Hm, we need to talk.” She put the cookie down. Her expression shifted, guarding herself instantly. That tone, that’s your I’m the boss tone. I don’t like it.

It usually precedes you locking me in a room or shooting someone. I leaned forward, wincing as my shoulder pulled tight. You’re safe now, I said. The Morettes are gone. Your father is gone. There’s no one hunting you. She nodded slowly. I know. Thanks to you. So, you can leave. She blinked. Leave? You can move back downstairs or get a new place. I’ll pay for it.

You can go back to work. You can have your life back. She stared at me. She didn’t look happy. She looked confused, then annoyed. “Are you kicking me out?” “No,” I said quickly. I’m I’m setting you free. Leo, look at me. I’m a criminal. I have enemies. I have scars. My life is violence and paranoia. You don’t belong here.

You belong in the light. You deserve someone who can give you peace, not this. I gestured around the room, at the security monitors, at the gun on the sideboard, at myself. I’m a monster, Leo. I break things. I hurt people. And eventually, I’ll hurt you. Not because I want to, but because that’s what happens to people close to me. They get caught in the crossfire.

I took a breath. My heart pounded against my ribs. Facing a firing squad was easier than this. So, you should go while you can before I drag you down with me. Silence stretched between us, heavy and thick. Leo looked at me. She cataloged my face, my sling, my eyes. She didn’t look scared. She didn’t look relieved.

She rolled her eyes. “Are you done?” she asked. I blinked. “What? Are you done with the tragic monologue?” because it was very dramatic, very Shakespearean, but also incredibly stupid. She stood up. She walked over to me and stood between my knees. She put her hands on my face, forcing me to look up at her.

Her palms were warm, smelling of sugar cookies. “You are an idiot, Dante,” she said softly. “I frowned. I’m trying to save you. I don’t need saving, she said. I saved myself, remember? I stabbed a guy. I shot a guy. I think I’m doing okay in the survival department. But shut up, she said. You think you’re a monster? Fine, maybe you are.

But you’re my monster. You saved me when my own father sold me. You gave me a home when mine was unsafe. You listened to me about the painting,” she leaned closer. “And I know you watered my basil plant,” she whispered. I froze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Liar,” she grinned. “I saw you three nights ago.

You thought I was asleep. You were wiping dust off the leaves like it was a holy relic. Monsters don’t water basil, Dante. Heat flushed up my neck. Caught. It looked dry, I muttered. Exactly, she smiled. You nurture things. You protect things. You’re not just violence, Dante. You’re loyalty, your protection, and you make really good espresso.

She leaned in, her forehead resting against mine. I’m not going anywhere, she whispered. I love your fortress. I love your gray couch. And I love you. So unless you physically throw me out, I’m staying. I stared at her. She loved me. The words hit harder than the bullet. She loved me. the monster, the brute, the man who watered her plants in the dark.

I wrapped my good arm around her waist and pulled her into my lap. She settled there easily, like she belonged, like she had always been there. “You’re stubborn,” I muttered into her neck. “I’m persistent,” she corrected. “Just like you.” I kissed her. It wasn’t desperate like the first time. It wasn’t fearful like the last time.

It was slow, claiming, a promise sealed in breath and heat. I realized then that I had lost the argument before it even started. I never stood a chance against her. She had walked into my life with a broom handle and a bad attitude, and she had dismantled my defenses brick by brick. Fine, I said against her lips. You can stay. But the balloon goes.

The balloon stays, she countered, pulling back with a satisfied smirk. It matches the plants. It’s neon green, Leo. It matches nothing. It matches my mood, she said. Now eat a cookie. You’re too skinny. I took the cookie. I looked at the fake painting on the wall. I looked at the ridiculous balloon.

I looked at the woman in my lap. My shoulder throbbed. My enemies were dead. My life was complicated. But for the first time in forever, my fortress didn’t feel empty. It felt like home. >> Chapter 15. Leo. The penthouse smelled different. Sterility and ozone had vanished, replaced by the chaotic, vibrant scent of life.

Fresh basil from the herb garden thriving on the balcony. The one Dante secretly watered when he thought I was asleep. Mixed with the sharp tang of tarpentine from my new studio in the guest room. And tonight, overriding it all, the rich aroma of garlic, expensive bo and rockus laughter filled the air. 6 months.

It felt like a lifetime. It felt like 5 minutes. I leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping wine, observing the invasion of Dante’s fortress. The crew had assembled. Rocco, looking surprisingly dapper in a suit free of blood stains, held court near the fireplace. Miller, the guard who had failed to stop my ventilation shaft escape, laughed as he recounted the story to a new recruit, gesturing wildly with a bread stick.

Even the doctor from the clinic had joined, looking healthier and less twitchy than the night he stitched Dante back together. A family dinner, dysfunctional, dangerous, heavily armed, and perfect. Dante sat at the head of the table. He didn’t brood. He didn’t check the security feed on his phone every 30 seconds.

He leaned back, a glass of red wine loosely gripped in his hand, listening to Rocco’s story. A small, genuine smile played on his lips, softening the harsh lines of his face. Then he looked up. His gaze cut through the noise and found me across the room. The smile deepened. Not the polite, terrifying smile he gave his business associates. The private smile.

The one that promised trouble. The one that said, “Come here.” I pushed off the counter, smoothing the emerald green silk of my dress. A far cry from bunny slippers and oversized t-shirts, but just as comfortable in this new world we had built. As I passed Rocco, he raised his glass. To the boss, he toasted.

Then he winked at me. And to the boss’s boss. Laughter erupted around the table. Dante rolled his eyes, but as I approached, his hand shot out, wrapping around my wrist. He pulled. I tumbled into his lap. I settled there easily, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, my fingers brushing the hair at the nape of his neck.

He felt solid, warm. mine. Are they behaving? I whispered against his ear. Mostly, he murmured, his hand resting possessively on my thigh, thumb tracing slow circles on the silk. Rocco is trying to convince the new guy that you’re a ninja. I laughed. I’m not a ninja. I’m just resourceful. And dangerous, Dante added, his voice vibrating against my ribs.

Don’t forget dangerous. You shot a guy, Leo. My men are still terrified of you. Good. Fear commands respect. My gaze wandered the room. The penthouse had transformed. The stark hospital white walls were gone, painted a warm, creamy beige that caught the evening light. The fake Salvatore Rosa hung proudly over the fireplace, a constant, hilarious reminder of our disastrous beginning.

But flanking it were real paintings, legitimate acquisitions I had scouted at auctions. He was going legitimate, slowly, painfully. You don’t just wake up one day and retire from being a mob boss. But the shift had started. Real estate investments, tech startups, funding my restoration studio. He used his terrifying reputation to keep the peace rather than start wars. And I helped.

I vetted the investments. I checked the provenence of the art. I used my eyes, the eyes that saw the truth beneath the varnish, to make sure he never got played again. We were a team, the artist and the enforcer. Beauty and the beast. The dinner wound down. The crew filtered out, offering respectful nods and promises to see us next week.

When the elevator doors slid shut on the last of them, silence reclaimed the penthouse. but not the heavy lonely silence of before. A comfortable shared quiet. Dante stood up, shifting me to my feet. He offered his hand. Come outside. I took it. He led me onto the balcony. Manhattan sprawled below us, a carpet of glittering diamonds on black velvet.

The wind whipped past, cool and biting, but Dante draped his suit jacket over my shoulders, enveloping me in his heat. We stood at the railing, watching the city breathe. “It’s beautiful tonight,” I said. He didn’t look at the skyline. His dark eyes remained fixed on me. “It is,” he agreed. He reached into his pocket.

My breath hitched. He pulled out a small black velvet box. He didn’t kneel. That wasn’t Dante’s style. He wasn’t asking a question. He was stating a fact. He snapped the box open. Inside sat a ring. It wasn’t a diamond. It wasn’t clear or white or, God forbid, gray. It was a stone of a very specific brilliant blue.

It shimmerred in the low light, a vibrant, piercing azure that seemed to glow from within. I stared at it. I knew pigments. I knew light. It was ceruan. Dante watched my face, gauging the reaction. Do you recognize the color? He asked softly. I looked up, throat tight. It’s It’s perfect. But why? It took me two months to find a gem that matched, he said. Matched what? The paint, he said.

The smudge on your cheek the morning I picked you up and the color you were screaming about the first night you banged on my door. You said you were trying to match a patch of blue sky no bigger than a fingernail. I stared at him. My mouth fell open. You You remembered that? I remember everything, Leo, he said.

I remember the yellow ochre on your chin. I remember the bunny slippers. I remember you telling me that you restore things people have forgotten. He took the ring from the box. He took my left hand. And he added, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. I knew if I bought you a gray diamond, you’d throw it off the balcony.

You hate gray. I laughed, a wet, choked sound. I do hate gray. This is your sky, Leo, he said, sliding the ring onto my finger. It fit as if made for me. the one you were fighting to fix. Tears pricricked my eyes hot and fast. He hadn’t just bought jewelry. He had bought a piece of the moment he fell for me.

He had paid attention to the messy, chaotic details of my life when I thought he was just a monster in a suit. “Dante,” I whispered. “This isn’t a proposal,” he said, voice turning serious. “I’m not asking you to marry me. Not yet. I know you want to build your studio. I know you want your independence. He held my hand, thumb brushing the blue stone. This is a promise, a marker.

It tells the world that you’re mine, that I’m yours, that no matter what happens, no matter what wars we fight or what demons we face, we face them together. He looked into my eyes. The darkness of his past still lingered there. shadows that would never fully fade. But a fierce burning light lived there now, too.

“You saved me, Leo,” he rasped. “You walked into my fortress with a broom handle, and you saved me from myself. I am yours forever.” I looked at the ring, my sky. “You are ridiculous,” I said, wiping a tear from my cheek. “You found a gem to match my stressinduced paint smudge?” He smirked, that familiar, arrogant expression I loved more than oxygen.

I’m a man of detail, Leo. You know that. Shut up, I said. And kiss me. He didn’t hesitate. He pulled me close, wrapping his arms around me, burying his hands in my hair. He kissed me with the same hunger, the same desperation, the same consuming passion as that first time on the rug. But this time, fear didn’t taste like copper in my mouth.

No goodbyes lingered in the touch, just a promise. Stone and spark. We were opposites, the artist and the criminal, the chaos and the control. But together, we had built a fire that would never burn out. And as I melted into him, high above the city that had tried to break us, I knew one thing for certain. My neighbor was loud.

He was dangerous. He was trouble. But he was the best thing that had ever happened to me.