The rain pounded against my skin, each drop feeling like tiny needles piercing through the thin fabric of my waitress uniform. I couldn’t remember how long I’d been walking, minutes or hours. It all blurred together as my fever climbed higher. The neon lights of downtown reflected in puddles around me, distorting and wavering like my consciousness.

Just a few more blocks, I whispered to myself, my voice drowned by thunder that rattled the windows of closed shops. Just make it home, Ellie. My apartment wasn’t much. A studio above a laundromat with perpetually flickering lights and a shower that ran cold more often than not. But it was mine. Or it would be until the end of the month when rent was due and my bank account would once again fail to meet the demand.

I stumbled, my worn out sneakers slipping on the wet pavement. The world tilted sideways and I grabbed onto a nearby street lamp. It’s cold metal shocking against my burning skin. The restaurant manager’s words echoed in my mind. Don’t come back until you’re not contagious. We can’t afford to have customers getting sick. What he meant was, “Don’t come back until you’re not contagious, and we don’t have to pay you sick leave.

” 3 days without work meant 3 days without pay, and 3 days without pay meant I couldn’t afford the antibiotics the clinic had prescribed for my infection. A car splashed through a puddle near the curb, drenching my legs with dirty water. I didn’t even have the energy to curse. My vision blurred, dark spots dancing at the edges.

The rain had soaked through everything, my clothes, my hair, my bones. I couldn’t remember ever feeling this cold. I blinked hard, trying to focus on the crosswalk ahead. That’s when I noticed it. A sleek black car idling at the intersection. its engine a low purr that somehow cut through the storm’s chaos. The windows were tinted so dark they looked like pools of ink reflecting nothing but more darkness.

Something about it made me pause. In this neighborhood, a car like that meant one thing. Trouble. I turned down a side street, my legs shaking with each step. My breath came in short, painful gasps. The fever was getting worse. Behind me, I heard the gentle rumble of an engine. The black car had turned onto the same street.

Panic shot through me like electricity, momentarily clearing the fog in my head. I quickened my pace, each step sending jolts of pain through my body. The car kept pace, moving slowly, like a predator stalking wounded prey. I tried to run, but my body betrayed me. The world tilted again, this time refusing to write itself. The wet pavement rushed up to meet me, and I felt my knees buckle.

The last thing I saw before darkness claimed me was the black car stopping beside me, its door opening like the mouth of some great beast. Warmth. That was the first sensation that registered when consciousness returned. Warmth and the smell of expensive leather. Something soft cradled my body and the gentle hum of an engine vibrated beneath me.

I forced my eyes open, panic immediately flooding my system. I wasn’t on the street anymore. I was in a car. The black car stretched across a back seat so spacious it could have fit my entire apartment’s furniture. You’re safe now. The voice came from my right, deep, smooth, with the faintest trace of an accent I couldn’t place.

I turned my head, wincing at the pain that shot through my temples, and saw him. He sat with one leg crossed over the other. His posture relaxed, yet somehow still commanding every molecule of air in the vehicle. A tailored black suit hugged his broad shoulders. The fabric so fine it seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.

His face was all sharp angles. High cheekbones, a strong jaw dusted with perfect stubble, and eyes so dark they reminded me of obsidian. Those eyes were fixed on me with an intensity that made my breath catch. Who? My voice came out as a rasp. I tried to sit up, but a wave of dizziness forced me back down.

“Don’t move,” he said, uncrossing his legs and leaning slightly toward me. “You have a high fever. My doctor is waiting for us.” His doctor, not a doctor, his doctor. As if he owned the medical professional the same way he owned this car, with its butter soft leather seats and privacy partition separating us from the driver. I couldn’t see. I don’t need a doctor.

I lied, struggling to sit up again. I need to go home. His mouth, full lips that contrasted with the hardness of his other features, curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. In this condition, you collapsed on the street. If I hadn’t been there, he let the sentence hang, unfinished, but clear in its implication.

Fear and gratitude war within me. Thank you for helping me. But Ellie Morgan, 24, waitress at Bellinis, lives alone in an apartment on Westmore Street. No family in the city. He recited these facts about my life as casually as someone might read a weather report. Ice replaced the fever in my veins.

How do you know my name? His eyes never left mine. I make it my business to know everything that happens in my territory. Territory. Not neighborhood or district. Territory. That’s when recognition clicked into place. The car, the suit, the air of authority that seemed to bend reality around him. Stories whispered by kitchen staff during late shifts at Bellinis.

Warnings about certain tables, certain customers, the mysterious man who owned not just the restaurant, but half the businesses in the area. Dante Russo, the youngest son who had taken control of the Russo crime family after his father’s mysterious death three years ago. A man whose name was spoken in hush tones, if at all. And I was alone in his car. Mr.

Russo, I whispered, the name feeling dangerous on my tongue. Something flickered in his eyes. Surprised perhaps that I’d recognized him or pleasure that I knew who he was. Either way, it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Call me Dante,” he said, his voice softening a fraction. He reached out and I flinched involuntarily.

He paused, then continued more slowly, placing the back of his hand against my forehead. His skin was cool against my burning face. “Your fever is getting worse. We’ll be at my home soon.” “Your home?” Alarm shot through me. “No, I need to go to my apartment, please.” His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Your apartment has no heat, no food in the refrigerator, and is currently being watched by people who mean you harm.

My mind reeled, trying to process his words through the fog of fever. People who what? Why would anyone be watching my apartment? Instead of answering, Dante pressed a button on a console beside him. A small compartment opened, revealing a bottle of water and some pills. Take these. They’ll help with the fever until we arrive.

I stared at the pills suspiciously. I don’t take things from strangers. A dark chuckle escaped him, the sound sending an unexpected shiver down my spine, one that had nothing to do with my illness. Ellie, he said, my name sounding different in his mouth, almost like a possession. If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn’t need to drug you.

The worst part was I believed him. With shaking hands, I took the pills and the water bottle. The cool liquid was heaven against my parched throat, and I found myself drinking half the bottle in desperate gulps. Dante watched me, his gaze never wavering. There was something in the way he looked at me, like I was something precious and breakable, something he’d been searching for.

“Why are you helping me?” I asked after swallowing the pills, which tasted like ordinary Tylenol. He was quiet for a long moment, his eyes tracing over my face as if memorizing every detail. Finally, he said, “Because you’re mine to protect, the words hung in the air between us.” Heavy with meaning I couldn’t fully grasp. “Mine.

” The possessiveness in that single word should have terrified me more than it did. “I don’t belong to anyone,” I said, my voice stronger than I expected. Something that might have been respect flashed in his eyes, followed quickly by amusement. “Not yet.” Before I could respond, the car slowed and turned. I pushed myself up enough to see out the window.

We were passing through large iron gates that opened automatically, revealing a long driveway flanked by perfectly manicured gardens. At the end stood what could only be described as a mansion, a sprawling structure of stone and glass lit up against the night sky like something from a fairy tale or a nightmare.

Welcome to my home,” Dante said as the car came to a stop at the front entrance where two men in dark suits stood waiting, seemingly unbothered by the rain that had slowed to a drizzle. Panic rose in my chest. “I can’t stay here. I don’t know you. I need to go home, Ellie.” The way he said my name made me freeze. The man your father stole from, the man whose money paid for your college education before you dropped out, has discovered you’re in the city.

He sent people to watch your apartment tonight. If you go back there, you will not survive until morning. The world seemed to stop. My father had been gone for years, disappearing after my mother died, occasionally sending money that I’d used for tuition. Money I’d assumed came from his gambling wins. I’d never questioned where it came from.

Not until the payments stopped and I had to drop out. “How do you know about my father?” I whispered. Dante’s eyes softened fractionally. the only indication that he recognized the shock and fear coursing through me. “Because the man he stole from was my father’s closest associate, and because I’ve been watching you for much longer than you realize,” Ellie Morgan, the car door opened from the outside.

Rainscented air rushed in along with the imposing figure of a man who could only be a bodyguard. “Sir,” the man said, his eyes never looking directly at Dante. “The doctor is waiting inside.” Dante nodded, then turned back to me. You have two choices. Come inside willingly where you’ll be safe, treated, and we can discuss your situation, or I can have my men carry you inside, and we’ll have that discussion once you’re feeling better.

” He delivered this ultimatum calmly, as if both options were perfectly reasonable, as if this were a normal negotiation, and not my life spinning completely out of control. I looked from Dante to the open door, to the grand house beyond. Every instinct screamed that walking into that house would change everything.

That once I crossed that threshold, I’d be stepping into a world I might never escape. But the alternative was returning to an apartment where people apparently waited to kill me over something my father had done. I’ll come inside, I said finally, my voice barely audible. But I’m leaving as soon as I’m better. Something like satisfaction flickered across Dante’s perfect features.

“Of course,” he agreed, though his tone suggested he didn’t believe it for a second. As I moved to exit the car, another wave of dizziness washed over me. I swayed, and suddenly Dante’s arms were around me, strong, secure, and far too intimate. He lifted me as if I weighed nothing, cradling me against his chest.

The scent of him enveloped me. sandalwood, amber, and something darker underneath. Something dangerous. “I can walk,” I protested weakly, even as my head fell against his shoulder, my body betraying me again. “I know you can,” he murmured, his lips close to my ear. “But you don’t have to anymore. I’ve got you now.

” As he carried me toward the grand entrance of his mansion, past the stone-faced guards who kept their eyes averted, I couldn’t help but feel like I was being carried not into safety, but into a beautiful cage. And the most terrifying part was the small voice inside me that whispered, “Perhaps being his captive wouldn’t be so terrible after all.

” I dreamed of chains made of silk and gold, beautiful but unbreakable, wrapping around my wrists and ankles. In the dream, I couldn’t tell if I was struggling against them or surrendering to their embrace. A voice called my name from the darkness. My father’s voice, then my mother’s, then one I didn’t recognize, but somehow knew belonged to Dante.

When I woke, sunlight was streaming through floor toseeiling windows, draped with sheer white curtains that billowed in a gentle breeze. For one disorienting moment, I thought I might be dead. The room was too beautiful, too pristine to be real. The bed beneath me was enormous, with sheets so soft they felt like clouds against my skin.

I ran my hand over the crisp white duvet, marveling at its plushness. My fever had broken. The pounding in my head had subsided to a dull ache, and the bone deep chill had been replaced by comfortable warmth. I was wearing silk pajamas that definitely weren’t mine. pale blue, perfectly fitted, as if they had been made for me.

The thought of someone changing my clothes while I was unconscious sent a flush of embarrassment through me. I pushed myself up to sitting position and took stock of my surroundings. The bedroom was larger than my entire apartment, decorated in shades of cream and blue. A sitting area with two elegant armchairs faced a marble fireplace.

One wall was entirely glass, revealing a breathtaking view of manicured gardens, and beyond them the glittering skyline of the city. On the nightstand beside the bed sat a glass of water, two pills, and a handwritten note. I picked it up, surprised by the elegant, slanting handwriting. Take these when you wake. The doctor will return at noon to check on you.

Do not leave the room until I come for you. D. The commanding tone of the note sent a flutter of indignation through me. Who was he to order me around? Yet, even as I thought it, I found myself reaching for the pills and water, swallowing them obediently. Only after I’d taken them did I realize how foolish that was.

They could have been anything. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, relieved to find my strength mostly returned. My waitress uniform was nowhere to be seen. Instead, there was a robe draped over a nearby chair, silk, like the pajamas in a slightly darker shade of blue. I put it on and patted barefoot across the plush carpet to try the door. Locked, of course.

I was a prisoner then, a very comfortable one, but a prisoner nonetheless, I returned to the windows, which opened onto a small balcony. Stepping outside, I was immediately struck by the contrast between this place and my life. From here, I could see perfectly trimmed hedges, a large swimming pool with water so blue it hurt to look at, and gardens bursting with colorful flowers, several men in dark suits patrolled the grounds, their stances alert and watchful.

Guards, or perhaps more accurately, soldiers. Looking at the drop from the balcony to the ground below, I estimated it to be about 20 ft. not survivable without serious injury. Even if I could somehow make it down, those guards would spot me instantly. I went back inside, frustration building in my chest. What did Dante want with me? What had my father done that was so terrible it had put me in danger years later? The room had another door, which opened into a luxurious bathroom with a shower big enough for five people and a soaking tub

that looked like it belonged in a spa. I stared at my reflection in the enormous mirror. My face was pale but no longer feverish. My brown hair tangled and falling past my shoulders. My eyes, usually a dull gray, seemed brighter, somehow more alert. I looked healthier than I had in months. Despite everything, I decided to shower, if only to give myself time to think.

The hot water felt incredible on my skin, washing away the last vestigages of my illness. I used the expensive looking products lined up neatly on a shelf, shampoo that smelled of vanilla and jasmine, body wash that left my skin feeling like silk. When I emerged, wrapped in a towel, I found that the bedroom door was now open, and Dante was there, sitting in one of the armchairs by the fireplace.

I froze, one hand clutching the towel more tightly around me. He looked even more imposing in daylight. His dark hair was immaculately styled, his jaw freshly shaven. He wore another perfectly tailored suit, this one navy blue, with a crisp white shirt open at the collar. He was reading something on a tablet, his long fingers occasionally swiping across the screen.

He looked up as I entered, his dark eyes taking in every inch of me. I felt naked despite the towel, exposed in a way that went beyond physical. “You’re feeling better?” he said. It wasn’t a question. I nodded acutely aware of the water droplets trailing down my neck and shoulders. Yes, thank you for for helping me. His eyes lingered on a droplet making its way toward my collarbone.

Get dressed. There are clothes in the closet. Then we’ll talk. With that, he returned his attention to the tablet, dismissing me as casually as if I were a servant. Anger flared in my chest, hot and sudden. You know, most kidnappers aren’t so rude to their victims. His head snapped up, eyes narrowing. For an instant, I saw something dangerous flash across his face, a reminder that beneath the polished exterior was a man accustomed to violence.

“Kidn?” He set the tablet aside and stood, his movements fluid and controlled. “Is that what you think this is?” He took a step toward me, and I instinctively backed away. My retreat seemed to displease him, his jaw tightened. “I saved your life,” he said, his voice low and measured. “If I hadn’t been watching you, you would have died on that street, either from your fever or from the men who were following you.

And now I’m locked in a room in your house, wearing clothes that aren’t mine, being told what to do.” I raised my chin, refusing to be intimidated despite the hammering of my heart. What would you call it? A smile curved his lips, though it didn’t reach his eyes. Protection. I didn’t ask for your protection.

You didn’t have to. He moved closer, and this time I held my ground. Some things are inevitable, Ellie. Some connections can’t be ignored or denied. We were less than a foot apart now. I could smell his cologne, that same intoxicating blend of sandalwood and amber, and something else that was just him. Up close, I could see that his eyes weren’t solid black as I’d first thought, “But a very dark brown with flexcks of gold near the pupil.

” “What connection?” I asked, my voice embarrassingly breathless. “I don’t know you until yesterday. I didn’t even know you knew I existed.” “I’ve known about you for 2 years,” he said, the casual admission stunning me into silence. “Since the day you started working at Bellinis? Since the day I realized who you were?” and who am I? The question came out as barely more than a whisper.

He raised a hand and I flinched, expecting. I wasn’t sure what, but all he did was brush a wet strand of hair back from my face, his fingers lingering against my cheek. You’re the daughter of the man who betrayed my father and stole millions from our family. His touch was gentle, at odds with his words. You’re the woman who’s been using that stolen money while living like a popper.

And you’re the only leverage I have to draw your father out of hiding. The floor seemed to drop from beneath my feet. Leverage, I repeated numbly. His hand fell away from my face. Get dressed. There’s much to discuss. He turned and walked to the door, pausing at the threshold. The closet is through there, he said, nodding toward another door I hadn’t noticed.

Everything should fit. I’ll have breakfast sent up. Join me on the terrace in 30 minutes. Then he was gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click. This time I heard no lock engage, but I knew I was no less trapped than before. I moved woodenly to the closet door, my mind reeling. My father had stolen from the Russo family.

The money he’d sent me for college, money I’d used without question, had been stolen from dangerous criminals. The closet was a room unto itself, larger than my bedroom at home. Racks of clothing lined the walls. Dresses, blouses, skirts, jeans, all still with tags attached. A quick glance confirmed my suspicion.

Everything was exactly my size. A chill ran through me that had nothing to do with my damp skin. How long had Dante been planning this? How much did he know about me? I chose the simplest outfit I could find. jeans, a soft gray sweater, and ankle boots. Everything fit perfectly, of course. I found underwear and bras still in packaging in a drawer, again, exactly my size.

The intimacy of it made me shudder as promised when I emerged from the closet. I found a tray of food waiting on a small table by the window. Fresh fruit, pastries, yogurt, coffee. My stomach growled at the site, reminding me I hadn’t eaten a proper meal in days. I ate quickly, trying to gather my thoughts. If Dante was telling the truth, if my father had stolen from his family and people were after me because of it, then leaving might actually be more dangerous than staying.

But remaining here meant placing myself at the mercy of a man who saw me as nothing more than a means to an end. Leverage. By the time I finished eating, I’d made up my mind. I would hear what Dante had to say. I would learn as much as I could about my situation, and then I would find a way out, away from both Dante Russo and whoever was hunting me.

I followed the hallway outside my room, passing artwork that probably cost more than I’d earn in 10 lifetimes. The house was eerily quiet, though I sensed I wasn’t alone. Eyes watched from discrete corners, cameras, guards, or both. The hallway opened onto a grand staircase that descended into an enormous foyer with marble floors and a crystal chandelier.

I made my way down, my footsteps echoing in the vast space. A uniformed maid appeared, seemingly from nowhere. “Miss Morgan,” she said, her expression carefully blank. “Mr. Russo is waiting for you on the east terrace. Please follow me.” She led me through a series of rooms, each more opulent than the last, until we reached a set of French doors that opened onto a stone terrace overlooking the gardens.

Dante sat at a glass table reading a newspaper, a cup of coffee in front of him. He looked up as I approached, his eyes taking in the outfit I’d chosen. “Thank you, Maria,” he said to the maid, who nodded and disappeared back into the house. He stood as I reached the table, an oddly gentlemanly gesture from a man who was essentially holding me captive.

“Please sit,” I took the chair opposite him, hyper aware of the guards positioned at discrete intervals around the perimeter of the terrace. “How are you feeling?” he asked, studying my face with an intensity that made my skin prickle. “Better?” I said stiffly. “The fever’s gone.” “Good,” he sipped his coffee. Dr.

Her Mendes said it was a severe infection. If left untreated much longer, it could have developed into pneumonia. I didn’t know how to respond to his concern, so I changed the subject. You said my father stole from your family. Dante sat down his cup, his expression hardening. 5 years ago, your father worked as an accountant for several businesses owned by my family.

He used his position to embezzle just over $10 million before disappearing. The amount made my head swim. That’s impossible. My father was just a gambling addict who abandoned me after my mom died. He could barely hold down a job at H&R Block. A humorless smile curved Dante’s lips. Your father, Robert Morgan, was one of the most skilled financial criminals on the East Coast.

The gambling addiction was real, but it was also a cover that allowed him to move in certain circles to gain certain information. I shook my head, unable to reconcile this image with the man who taught me to ride a bike, who’d cried at my high school graduation. If what you’re saying is true, why hasn’t he been arrested? Because what he stole from us wasn’t exactly legal to begin with. Dante’s voice was matter of fact.

We couldn’t exactly file a police report. Of course not. Because they were criminals, mafia. And now, because of my father’s actions, I was caught in their world. So what now? I asked, forcing my voice to remain steady. You keep me prisoner until my father magically appears to save me. He hasn’t contacted me in over 2 years.

He has no idea where I am. Oh, he knows exactly where you are, Dante said, leaning forward slightly. The money he sent you for college, it came with tracking software attached to the transfers. Every time you accessed those funds, he could see your location. I felt sick. That’s not possible. It’s not only possible, it’s the truth.

Your father has been keeping tabs on you while staying carefully out of sight. Dante’s eyes narrowed. And now that Victor Petrov knows you’re in the city, your father will be very, very interested in your situation. Victor Petrov? The name was vaguely familiar. a whispered boogeyman in Bellini’s kitchen. A shadowy figure even more feared than the Russos.

The man your father ultimately stole from. My father was merely the middleman. Dante’s jaw tightened. When your father disappeared with the money, Petro held my father responsible. It led to complications. The way he said complications made me think of blood and violence, of the rumors about how the elder Russo had died.

And now Petro’s men are looking for me. I said, the pieces falling into place. To use me to get to my father, just like you’re doing. Dante’s expression darkened. There’s a difference. Petro will torture and kill you whether your father returns the money or not. I’m offering you protection in exchange for using me as bait. In exchange for your cooperation.

He reached across the table, his fingers brushing mine. I pulled away, but not before feeling the electric current of his touch. Work with me, Ellie. Help me find your father before Petrov does. And what happens to my father if I help you find him? I asked, already knowing the answer. Dante didn’t flinch.

He pays for what he’s done. You’ll kill him. That depends on him, Dante said, his tone suggesting this was a perfectly reasonable response. If he returns what he stole and provides certain information we need, he might survive. If not, he shrugged one broad shoulder, my hands clenched into fists beneath the table.

And if I refuse to help you, his dark eyes held mine, then I can’t protect you from Petrov. It’s that simple. You’re giving me a choice between helping you hunt down my father or being handed over to a man who will torture and kill me,” I said, anger rising in my chest. “That’s not a choice at all.” “Welcome to my world, Ellie.” His smile was grim.

We rarely get the choices we want, only the ones we can survive. I stood abruptly, my chair scraping against the stone terrace. I need time to think. Dante remained seated, watching me with those unreadable dark eyes. Of course, you have until tomorrow morning to decide. He took a sip of his coffee. In the meantime, you’re free to explore the house and grounds, but don’t attempt to leave. My men have orders to stop you.

For your own protection, of course. The thinly veiled threat hung in the air between us. “And if Petrov’s men find me here,” I asked. Something dangerous flashed in Dante’s eyes. “They won’t.” “You sound very confident.” I am. He stood then, towering over me, because anyone who tries to take what’s mine doesn’t live long enough to regret it.

There was that word again, mine, as if he’d already decided I belong to him. I’m not yours, I said, the words coming out with more force than I intended. I’m not a possession or a bargaining chip. I’m a person. For a moment, I thought I’d gone too far. A muscle ticked in Dante’s jaw, and his eyes darkened with something that might have been anger or something else entirely.

Then, to my surprise, he laughed. It was a rich, genuine sound that transformed his face, making him look younger. Almost boyish. Brave little Ellie, he said, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. This time, I was too startled to pull away. Most people wouldn’t dare speak to me that way.

I’m not most people, I said, my heart racing at his proximity. No, he agreed, his voice dropping to a near whisper. You’re not. That’s precisely why you’re here. Before I could respond, he stepped back, the moment broken. Maria will show you around, he said, his tone returning to business-like efficiency. I have matters to attend to, but I’ll join you for dinner. 7:00.

It wasn’t a request, as if on Q. The maid appeared at the terrace doors. Dante nodded to her, then to me, and strode past us into the house, leaving me with more questions than answers, and a growing sense that I was sinking deeper into a world from which there might be no escape. Maria turned out to be more than just a maid.

As she guided me through the sprawling mansion, I realized she was Dante’s head of household staff, a position that clearly commanded respect from the other employees we encountered. They all nodded differentially as we passed, their eyes carefully, avoiding direct contact with either of us. “Mr. Russo has instructed me to show you anything you wish to see within the house and immediate grounds,” she explained in a crisp, professional tone.

Her accent was faintly Eastern European, her English flawless. “The east and west wings are primarily for business and are restricted, as is the basement level. In other words, here are the boundaries of your cage.” The house was even more impressive by daylight. We walked through a library with twotory bookshelves and leather armchairs that looked like they belonged in an old British movie, a home theater with plush recliners and a screen bigger than most cinema screens I’d frequented, and an indoor pool housed in a glass salarium

filled with tropical plants. “How many people live here?” I asked as we passed yet another sitting room, this one decorated in shades of emerald and gold. Mr. Russo maintains a full-time staff of 23, including security personnel, Maria replied. The household proper consists only of Mr. Russo himself. I frowned.

No family? Something flickered across Maria’s carefully composed features. A shadow of emotion quickly suppressed. Mr. Russo’s father passed away 3 years ago. His mother lives in Italy. His older brother is no longer involved in family matters. The hesitation told me there was much more to that story, but Maria had already moved on, showing me to a sunlit room filled with easels and art supplies. “Mr.

Russo mentioned you studied art before you had to leave college,” she said, watching as I ran my fingers over expensive brushes arranged neatly in ceramic holders. “He thought you might enjoy this space.” A chill ran down my spine. I had indeed been an art major before dropping out, but how did Dante know that? I’d never put it on my resume at Bellinis, never mentioned it to anyone there.

The depth of his knowledge about me was becoming increasingly disturbing. Mr. Russo seems to know a lot about me. I said carefully, watching Maria’s reaction. She met my gaze directly for the first time. Mr. Russo is thorough in all matters he considers important. And apparently, for whatever reason, I fell into that category.

After the tour concluded, Maria left me in the art studio, informing me that lunch would be served on the terrace in an hour if I wish to join, or could be brought to me here. I opted for the latter, not wanting to venture back outside where Dante’s guards were more visible. Left alone, I found myself drawn to the supplies.

It had been nearly 2 years since I’d held a proper brush, since I’d had the luxury of creating something simply for the joy of it. My fingers itched with the need to make something, to channel the storm of emotions inside me into something tangible. I selected a canvas, arranged paints on a palette, and began to work. I didn’t plan what would emerge.

I simply let my hands move, colors flowing together in swirls of deep blue and black, shot through with streaks of gold. It wasn’t until I stepped back that I realized I’d painted a pair of eyes, dark, intense, flecked with gold. Dante’s eyes. Frustrated with myself, I set the brush down and turned away from the canvas. A quiet knock at the door announced the arrival of lunch.

A delicate salad with grilled chicken, fresh bread, and sparkling water delivered by a young woman who wouldn’t meet my gaze. As I ate, I tried to organize my thoughts. I needed to make a decision by morning. Help Dante find my father or face Petro on my own. Neither option was acceptable, which meant I needed a third choice. Escape.

But how? The house was guarded. The grounds patrolled. I had no money, no phone, no identification. Even if I managed to get past the security, where would I go? My apartment wasn’t safe. I had no close friends in the city, no family to turn to. After lunch, I returned to exploring the house on my own, this time with an eye toward possible exits.

I noted the locations of doors, windows, the patterns of the guards movements. But everywhere I went, I sensed eyes on me, cameras hidden in discrete corners, staff members appearing just as I was testing a door or examining a window latch. By late afternoon, I’d made my way to a small courtyard garden nestled between two wings of the house.

It was more secluded than the main gardens with high stone walls covered in climbing roses and a small fountain bubbling at its center. I sat on a stone bench, closing my eyes and tilting my face toward the sun, allowing myself a moment of peace amid the chaos my life had become. It was my mother’s favorite place. I startled at the sound of Dante’s voice, my eyes flying open.

He stood at the entrance to the courtyard, his suit jacket gone, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to expose strong forearms. In this more casual state, he looked younger, less like the untouchable mafia boss, and more like a man in his early 30s with the weight of an empire on his shoulders. “Your mothers?” I asked, watching as he crossed to the fountain, running his fingers through the clear water.

“She designed this courtyard herself when my father built this house,” he said. his expression softening slightly at the memory. She said it reminded her of her grandmother’s home in Tuscanyany. For the first time since I’d met him, Dante seemed genuinely human, vulnerable, even. It was disconcerting.

Maria said she lives in Italy now. He nodded, withdrawing his hand from the water and wiping it on a handkerchief he produced from his pocket after my father died. She couldn’t bear to stay. Too many memories. His eyes met mine. She calls every Sunday, asks when I’ll settle down, give her grandchildren. The mundane detail of weekly calls from a mother asking about grandchildren seemed so at odds with the dangerous world Dante inhabited that I almost laughed, but the intensity of his gaze stopped me. “What do you tell her?” I asked

instead. A faint smile curved his lips. that I’m waiting for the right woman, someone strong enough to survive in our world, but gentle enough to remind me of my humanity. There was something in the way he looked at me as he said this that made my heartbeat faster. I stood abruptly, needing to put distance between us.

“Have you made your decision?” he asked, the brief moment of vulnerability disappearing behind his usual mask of control. “I haven’t even had a full day to think,” I protested. But you’ve been thinking about it all day, he countered, moving closer to me. I can see it in your eyes, in the tension of your shoulders. You’ve been planning, calculating, looking for a way out.

I swallowed hard, not bothering to deny it. Can you blame me? You’ve given me an impossible choice. No, he said, surprising me with his honesty. I don’t blame you. In your position, I’d do the same. He was close enough now that I could smell his cologne, see the faint shadow of stubble already returning along his jaw. Despite everything, I found myself noticing the curve of his mouth.

The way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks when he looked down. “What would you do?” I asked, my voice betraying me by emerging as little more than a whisper. “If you were me,” his eyes locked with mine. I’d recognize that the world I thought I knew was a lie. I’d accept that I was in danger regardless of my choices. And I’d align myself with the devil I could see rather than the one lurking in the shadows.

So I should trust you because you’re honest about your intentions to use me. You should trust me, he said, reaching out to brush his knuckles against my cheek. Because despite what you think, using you is not my only intention. The touch sent electricity racing across my skin.

I stepped back, bumping into the stone bench behind me. “Then what are your other intentions, Mr. Russo?” I demanded, trying to sound defiant rather than breathless. His eyes darkened. “I think you already know.” Before I could respond, the sound of someone clearing their throat interrupted us. A man in a dark suit stood at the courtyard entrance, his expression carefully blank.

“What is it, Gabriel?” Dante asked, irritation clear in his voice. You have a call, sir. From Moscow. Moscow. Where, if I remembered correctly from whispered conversations at Bellinis, Victor Petrov was based. Dante’s entire demeanor changed instantly, hardening into the cold, dangerous man I’d first met. I’ll take it in my office. He turned back to me.

Our dinner engagement stands 7:00. I’ve had clothes laid out for you. With that, he stroed away, leaving me alone in the courtyard with my racing thoughts and the lingering warmth of his touch on my skin. The dress was blood red, floor length, with a slit that reached mid thigh and a neckline that plunged lower than anything I’d ever worn.

It fit like it had been made for me, which given everything else in the closet, it probably had been. I stared at my reflection in the mirror, barely recognizing myself. My hair had been styled by a woman who had appeared at my door an hour ago, introducing herself as Dante’s personal stylist.

She had transformed my usually straight brown locks into soft waves that framed my face, applied makeup that made my gray eyes look larger and more luminous, and added a subtle shimmer to my collar bones and shoulders. The overall effect was stunning and completely foreign. I looked like the kind of woman who belonged on the arm of a man like Dante Russo.

Sophisticated, elegant, and completely out of my depth. At precisely 7:00, there was a knock at my door. I opened it to find not Dante, but one of his guards. A tall, broad-shouldered man with a scar running along his jawline. “Miss Morgan,” he said with a slight nod. Mr. Russo asks that you join him in the dining room.

I followed him through the winding corridors of the mansion, increasingly aware of how the dress moved with my body, how the silk whispered against my skin with each step. By the time we reached the grand staircase descending to the main floor, my nerves were stretched to breaking point. The guard led me to a set of double doors, which he opened with a flourish.

The dining room beyond was dimly lit with candles, their warm glow reflecting off crystal and silver. A table that could have seated 20 was set for just two, with Dante standing at its head, a glass of red wine in his hand. He was wearing a black suit that made his earlier attire look casual by comparison. The suit was clearly custom-made, emphasizing his broad shoulders and narrow waist.

His dark hair was freshly styled, his jaw clean shaven. He looked like sin personified. When he saw me, he went absolutely still, his eyes darkening as they traveled slowly from my face down the length of my body and back up again. The intensity of his gaze made me feel both powerful and utterly vulnerable. Ellie, he said, his voice deeper than usual.

You look breathtaking. Despite everything, I felt a flush of pleasure at the genuine appreciation in his eyes. “Thank you,” I said, suddenly shy. Your stylist is very talented. The dress merely compliments what was already there, he said, setting down his wine and crossing to me. He took my hand, raising it to his lips in an oldworld gesture that should have seemed ridiculous, but somehow didn’t.

Beautiful in every way, he guided me to my seat, his hand at the small of my back sending tingles up my spine. As he held my chair, I caught a glimpse of something on the inside of his wrist. a small tattoo, some kind of symbol partially hidden by his sleeve. Once I was seated, Dante returned to his place at the head of the table, close enough that I could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes when he smiled.

“Wine?” he offered, gesturing to a bottle in an ice bucket beside the table. I nodded, watching as he poured a rich red liquid into my glass. “Is this where you tell me your plans for my father?” His smile didn’t falter, but something in his eyes hardened slightly. No, Ellie. This is where I get to know the woman behind the file I’ve studied for 2 years.

The woman who worked three jobs to stay in school until the money ran out. The woman who paints with her emotions rather than her eyes. He raised his glass in a toast. This is where I learn who you really are. I reluctantly touched my glass to his, the crystal making a delicate ringing sound. And why would that matter to you? He took a sip of his wine, watching me over the rim of his glass.

Because, as I told you earlier, using you as leverage is not my only intention. Then what is? Dante leaned forward slightly, his eyes never leaving mine. To make you mine in every way that matters. I nearly choked on my wine. “Excuse me?” Dante watched me with those penetrating eyes, seemingly amused by my reaction.

You’re surprised,” he stated rather than asked. “I’m” Words failed me. Baffled, horrified, intrigued. All of these emotions swirled together into a confusing mess I couldn’t begin to untangle. “You want to use me to get to my father. You’ve made that clear.” “Yes,” he admitted without a trace of shame. But that’s business. This, he gestured, between us, is something else entirely.

A server appeared silently beside us, placing the first course in front of each of us, something delicate involving scallops and micro greens. I stared at it, buying time to compose myself. Let me understand, I said finally, looking up at him. You’ve been watching me for 2 years because of what my father did. You waited until I was sick and vulnerable to bring me here.

You’ve threatened to hand me over to a man who would torture and kill me if I don’t help you. And now you’re saying you want what exactly? a relationship. His jaw tightened slightly. When you put it that way, it does sound rather problematic. Problematic. I set down my fork with a clatter. It’s insane. Perhaps, he conceded, taking a sip of his wine.

But then, most powerful emotions are somewhat insane. Wouldn’t you agree? I stared at him, trying to see past the confident exterior to whatever lay beneath. Was this all part of his manipulation? a way to ensure my cooperation by confusing me, making me feel special. Why me? I asked finally. If this isn’t just about my father, why have you been watching me for 2 years? There must be dozens of beautiful, sophisticated women who would be thrilled to be with someone like you.

Someone like me, he repeated, a edge entering his voice. You mean a criminal, a monster? I mean, a powerful, wealthy man, I countered, though we both knew the other descriptions fit as well. Dante set down his glass and leaned forward, his gaze so intense I had to resist the urge to look away.

The first time I saw you, you were serving tables at Bellinis. A customer, a drunk stock broker with wandering hands, grabbed you as you passed. Do you remember what you did? I did remember. It had been my third week on the job, and the man had groped me as I tried to serve his table. I dumped a glass of red wine in his lap and told him if he touched me again, the next thing in his lap would be a steak knife.

A smile tugged at the corner of Dante’s mouth. You stood there, all 5’4 of you, facing down a man twice your size with such fierce dignity that everyone in the restaurant went silent. The manager came rushing over, ready to fire you on the spot until I signaled to him to leave it alone. I hadn’t known that last part.

I’d always wondered why I hadn’t been fired that night. I was simply defending myself, I said quietly. With courage and fire, Dante agreed. That night, I had you investigated. I wanted to know who you were. This waitress with the spirit of a lioness. When I discovered your connection to Robert Morgan, I was intrigued.

“So, you’ve been watching me because my father stole from your family and because I stood up to a handsy customer?” I shook my head, unconvinced. “That’s not enough to explain this.” I gestured at the candle lit dinner, the dress, everything. “No,” he agreed. “It’s not.” He fell silent as the server returned to clear our plates and bring the second course.

some kind of pasta with truffles. The rich aroma filled the air between us. Over these two years, Dante continued once we were alone again. I’ve watched you struggle, adapt, survive. I’ve seen you help homeless people outside the restaurant, giving them food you could barely afford to spare. I’ve seen you stay up all night to finish a painting, then go straight to your first shift without complaint.

I’ve seen your strength, your compassion, your fire. The intensity of his gaze made me uncomfortable. The idea that he’d been watching me so closely for so long was both terrifying and in some strange way flattering. So, you admire my character, I said carefully. That still doesn’t explain why you’d want someone like me, someone like you, he echoed, throwing my words back at me.

You mean someone honest, loyal, and kind? Someone who creates beauty even when surrounded by ugliness. He took a sip of his wine. You’re right. Why would a man like me want those qualities in his life? The sarcasm wasn’t lost on me. You know what I mean? I’m a waitress with no money, no connections, no status. I’m no one.

You’re not no one to me, he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. Something in his tone made my heart skip a beat. I forced myself to remember the situation. That I was essentially his prisoner, that he was using me to get to my father, that his world was one of violence and crime.

“Even if what you’re saying is true,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “It doesn’t change the fact that you’re holding me here against my will. That’s not exactly the foundation for whatever it is you’re suggesting.” Dante was quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable. You’re right, he said finally, surprising me.

The circumstances are far from ideal. But sometimes, Ellie, life doesn’t give us perfect beginnings. Sometimes we have to create something beautiful from chaos. Before I could respond, a commotion sounded from somewhere beyond the dining room. Raised voices, the sound of hurried footsteps. Dante’s posture changed instantly, tension radiating from him as he turned toward the door.

It burst open to reveal the man called Gabriel, his usually impassive face tight with urgency. Sir, we have a situation. Dante stood in one fluid motion. What is it? Perimeter breach on the east side, Gabriel reported. Three men. Our cameras caught them scaling the wall. Dante’s expression hardened into something deadly. Petrov’s men.

We believe so, sir. My blood ran cold. Petro, the man Dante had said would torture and kill me. His men were here at the mansion. Dante turned to me, his eyes dark with a rage I hadn’t seen before. Go with Gabriel. He’ll take you to the safe room. To Gabriel, he added, “No one gets to her. No one.” The fierce protectiveness in his voice sent a shiver down my spine.

Gabriel moved to my side, his hand on my elbow, already guiding me toward the door. I resisted, turning back to Dante. “What are you going to do?” I asked, hating the tremor in my voice. Something dangerous flashed across his face. “I’m going to make it very clear what happens to anyone who tries to take what’s mine.

There it was again, that possessive claim. But this time, with danger literally at the gates, I couldn’t find it in myself to object.” Gabriel tugged at my arm more insistently this time. Miss Morgan, we need to go now. I let him lead me from the dining room, casting one last glance at Dante, who was already speaking rapid fire instructions into a phone.

The elegant, almost charming man from dinner had vanished, replaced by something much more dangerous. Gabriel hurried me through a series of corridors I hadn’t seen before, eventually leading to a heavy door hidden behind a bookcase in what appeared to be a study. The room beyond was small, but wellappointed. with a comfortable sofa, a television, and a compact kitchenet.

A security panel on one wall displayed feeds from various cameras around the property. “You’ll be safe here,” Gabriel said, checking the locks on the door. The walls are reinforced. No one gets in without the code. “What’s happening out there?” I moved to the security panel, scanning the different camera feeds. Most showed empty hallways or gardens, but one captured a group of Dante’s men moving in formation across the lawn, weapons drawn.

“Pedro’s men are testing our defenses,” Gabriel said grimly. “They must have discovered you’re here.” A chill ran down my spine. “How?” “I’ve only been here a day,” Gabriel’s expression was grim. “We believe there may be a leak. someone who informed Petro of your presence in Dante’s organization. The idea that someone close to Dante had betrayed him made the situation even more terrifying.

If Dante’s own people couldn’t be trusted, how could he protect me? “We’ll find the traitor,” Gabriel said, his hand resting on the gun holstered at his side. Mr. Russo doesn’t tolerate betrayal. “I believe that. I’d seen the look in Dante’s eyes when he learned of the breach. Cold, deadly determination. For all his talk of wanting me, of admiring my character, he was still a man accustomed to violence, a man who had likely killed before and would kill again.

Yet somehow that knowledge didn’t frighten me as much as it should have. Not when that violence was being directed at people who meant me harm. “Will Dante be okay?” I asked, surprising myself with how much I cared about the answer. Gabriel’s expression softened slightly. Mr. Russo can take care of himself. His concern right now is your safety.

As if on Q, one of the security feeds showed Dante striding across the main foyer, surrounded by armed men. He had removed his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves, revealing not just the tattoo I’d glimped earlier, but a full sleeve of intricate designs. In his hand was a gun held with the confidence of someone intimately familiar with its use.

Even through the grainy security footage, the power and danger emanating from him was palpable. This was the real Dante Russo. Not the charming dinner companion or the vulnerable man in his mother’s garden, but the head of a criminal empire. A man to be feared. And despite everything, despite knowing exactly what he was, I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

He cares for you,” Gabriel said quietly, watching me watch Dante on the monitor. “I haven’t seen him like this about anyone before.” I turned to face him, startled by the personal observation from someone who had seemed completely professional until now. “You’ve worked for him a long time,” Gabriel nodded. “Since we were boys, our fathers worked together, and when they died, we continued the tradition.

” “So, you’re not just his employee, you’re his friend,” I realized. I’m whatever he needs me to be, Gabriel replied, his loyalty evident in every word. Guard, advisor, friend. As is everyone in his inner circle. He gave me a pointed look. We protect our own. Our own. The implication was clear.

In Dante’s mind, at least I was already counted among that number. Before I could respond, the security panel beeped. One of the exterior cameras showed three men being forced to their knees in the garden. Dante standing before them, his gun pointed casually at the ground by his side. Though there was no audio, the message was clear.

These were the intruders captured alive. He’ll want to question them, Gabriel explained, his tone matter of fact. Find out how they knew you were here. What Petro’s plans are. I swallowed hard, not wanting to think about what that questioning might entail. And then Gabriel’s eyes met mine, unflinching. And then he’ll make an example of them.

I remained in the safe room for what felt like hours, watching the security feeds with growing anxiety. The cameras showed Dante’s men moving through the house and grounds with military precision, searching for any additional intruders. The three captured men had been taken somewhere off camera to be questioned.

As Gabriel had said, I tried not to imagine what was happening to them. Gabriel stayed with me, occasionally receiving updates through an earpiece he wore. His expression gave nothing away. But the tension in his shoulders told me the situation was far from resolved. “Why would Petrov send only three men?” I asked, breaking the silence that had stretched between us.

“If he knew I was here, why not send a larger force?” Gabriel considered this reconnaissance most likely. “They weren’t expecting to extract you. just to confirm your location and assess our security. For a larger attack later, I concluded, my stomach dropping. He nodded grimly. Petrov is methodical. He doesn’t act without information.

So, what happens now? I hugged my arms around myself, suddenly aware of how exposed I felt in the red dress, how unprepared I was for the dangerous reality of Dante’s world. Now, we prepare, Gabriel said simply. Mr. Russo won’t let them get to you. The conviction in his voice was oddly reassuring, though I wasn’t sure why I should feel comforted by the idea of Dante’s protection.

After all, he was using me, too, just in a different way than Petrov would. Yet, I couldn’t deny the difference. Dante had saved me from the rain, had his doctor treat my infection, had offered me safety and comfort, even if it came with golden chains. He wanted something from me, yes, but he’d also shown glimpses of genuine care, of something more complex than mere calculation.

A flicker of movement on one of the monitors caught my attention. Dante was walking down a hallway alone now, his white shirt splattered with what could only be blood. My breath caught in my throat. Gabriel noticed my reaction. It’s not his, he said quietly. I wasn’t sure if that was meant to be reassuring.

The security panel beeped and Gabriel moved to check a small screen next to the door. Nodding to himself, he entered a code and the heavy door swung open to reveal Dante. He changed his shirt but couldn’t hide the tension in his jaw or the cold fury still simmering in his eyes. Those eyes found mine immediately, scanning me from head to toe as if assuring himself I was unharmed.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice rough around the edges. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. He turned to Gabriel. Double the perimeter guards, change all the security protocols, and find whoever leaked her location. I want them found before dawn. Gabriel nodded, his expression grim. Yes, sir. With a final glance at me, he left, closing the door behind him.

Dante and I were alone in the small space of the safe room. He seemed larger somehow, his presence filling every corner, the controlled violence still emanating from him like heat from a flame. Did they? I hesitated, not sure I wanted the answer. Are they dead? Two of them, he said without emotion.

The third will be once he tells me what I need to know. A shiver ran down my spine at the casual way he spoke of killing. And what is it you need to know? How Petro found out you were here? Who’s working for him inside my organization? His eyes darkened. And how much time we have before he sends more men? What did they tell you? I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

Dante moved to the small bar in the corner of the room, pouring himself a measure of amber liquid. He downed it in one swallow before answering. Petrov knows about my interest in you. His eyes met mine over the rim of his glass. He thinks it’s a weakness he can exploit. Is it? The question escaped me before I could stop it.

Something flashed in his eyes. Anger, frustration, or perhaps something more vulnerable. What do you think? I thought of how he’d reacted to the breach. The cold fury, the immediate action to protect me, the blood on his shirt. I think you’re dangerous, I said honestly. I think you’re capable of things I can’t even imagine.

But I also think you care about me, even though it doesn’t make any sense. A humorless smile curved his lips. “Welcome to my dilemma.” He set down his glass and moved toward me, stopping when just a foot of space remained between us. Close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body. Could smell the faint metallic scent of blood beneath his cologne.

“Petr will come for you with everything he has,” he said, his voice low and intense. Not just because of your father now, but because he knows taking you would hurt me. “Why?” I asked, needing to understand. Why do you care so much? You barely know me. I know enough. His hand came up to cut my cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle, given the violence I knew those hands were capable of.

I know you paint when you’re upset. I know you saved the crusts from your sandwiches for the birds in the park near your apartment. I know you called your mother’s phone number for months after she died. Just to hear her voicemail message, tears pricked at my eyes. The depth of his knowledge about me was terrifying and strangely intimate.

You’ve been watching me that closely? Yes, he admitted without shame. At first because of your father, then because I couldn’t stop. That’s I struggled for the right word. Unsettling. A low chuckle escaped him. I’ve been called worse. His thumb brushed across my lower lip, his eyes following the movement. I need you to understand something, Ellie.

Whatever happens next, whatever you decide about helping me find your father, I will not let Petrov touch you. You are under my protection now permanently. The possessiveness in his voice should have angered me. But instead, it sent a different kind of shiver through me, one that had nothing to do with fear. And if I don’t want your protection, I challenged, even as I leaned slightly into his touch.

If I want to leave once this is over, his eyes darkened. Then I would let you go,” he said. Though the words seemed to cost him, but I would still protect you, whether you wanted it or not, whether you were mine or not. There it was again, that word. Mine. But this time, it didn’t sound like ownership. It sounded like belonging, like choice.

“I don’t know what I want anymore,” I admitted. The events of the past 24 hours leaving me unmed, a drift in a sea of confusion and conflicting desires. Then let me tell you what I want,” Dante said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I want you safe. I want you by my side. I want to wake up to your fire and your compassion and your strength every day for the rest of my life.

” My breath caught at the raw honesty in his words, at the intensity of emotion in his eyes. “You don’t even know if I can help you find my father,” I reminded him, trying to hold on to some semblance of reality in the face of his overwhelming presence. This isn’t about your father anymore,” he said, his hand sliding to the nape of my neck.

“It hasn’t been for a long time.” And then he was kissing me, his lips claiming mine with a hunger that stole the breath from my lungs. I should have pushed him away. I should have remembered that I was his prisoner, that he was a criminal, that his hands were stained with the blood of men he had killed just hours before.

Instead, I found myself responding with a passion that matched his. my hands clutching the front of his shirt, pulling him closer. It was madness. It was fire. It was the most alive I had felt in years. When we finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, I could see the surprise in his eyes. Not at his actions, but at the intensity of my response.

Ellie, he breathed, his forehead resting against mine. Tell me to stop. Tell me this isn’t what you want. But I couldn’t because despite every rational thought screaming that this was insanity, my heart was pounding with a different truth. That in his arms, I had finally found something I hadn’t even known I was looking for. I can’t, I whispered.

My hand still clutching his shirt. I can’t tell you to stop. A sound that was half grown, half triumph escaped him. And then he was kissing me again, his hands sliding down to my waist, lifting me effortlessly and pressing me against the wall of the safe room. My legs wrapped around him instinctively, the slit in my dress allowing the movement without restriction.

You should know, he said between kisses, his lips trailing fire down my neck. Once I make you mine, I will never let you go. Not truly. The warning in his words penetrated the haze of desire. I placed my hands on his chest, pushing back slightly to look into his eyes. I need to know something first, I said, my voice unsteady. My father.

What will happen to him if we find him? Dante’s expression darkened. But he didn’t look away. The truth? I nodded, bracing myself. If he returns what he stole and gives us the information we need about Petrov’s operations, he lives, Dante said, his voice hardening. If he refuses, he didn’t need to finish the sentence.

I understood the implication perfectly. And you expect me to help you knowing that? I asked, my hands dropping from his chest. Dante set me down gently, but didn’t move away, keeping me trapped between his body and the wall. I expect you to make your own choice, Ellie. Knowing all the facts, knowing who I am, knowing what’s at stake, I closed my eyes, trying to think past the pounding of my heart and the lingering taste of him on my lips.

My father had abandoned me years ago, had stolen millions of dollars, had put me in danger without a thought for my safety. He wasn’t the man I had believed him to be. And Dante, for all his darkness, had shown me more care and honesty in one day than my father had in years. If I help you, I said slowly, opening my eyes to meet his gaze, I want your word that you’ll at least try to bring him in alive, that killing him will be the last resort, not the first.

Something like respect flashed in his eyes. You have my word. And afterward, I continued, needing to establish this before I lost myself in him again. I want a real choice about staying or going, about us. No manipulation, no threats. Dante’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. A real choice, I promise. His hand came up to cut my face again.

But know this, I will do everything in my power to make you want to stay. The intensity of his gaze left no doubt that he meant every word. This dangerous, complicated man wanted me with a ferocity that was both terrifying and exhilarating. “Then I’ll help you,” I said, making my decision. I’ll help you find my father.

Relief and triumph flashed across his face before he schooled his expression. Thank you, he said simply, and then he was kissing me again, his hands tangling in my hair, his body pressing mine against the wall with delicious pressure. I surrendered to it, to him, to the madness of wanting a man who lived in darkness but looked at me like I was his light.

Whatever happened tomorrow, finding my father, facing Petrov, I would face it with Dante at my side. For better or worse, our fates were now intertwined. And as his hands slid the straps of my dress from my shoulders, as his lips traced fire across my skin, I found I no longer wanted it any other way.