Nobela ni Golden

Dante’s POVDante perched on the edge of his bed, the moonlight slicing through the blackout curtains in slats of silver. His suit lay discarded on the floor, and the only sound in the room was the soft drip of the marble sink. He’d sent his guards home—this was a private matter now, one he needed to face alone.Alessia.Thoughts of her burned hotter than any bullet wound. She was alive, but shaken—her defiance wounded him more than any physical blow could. After the fire alarm and that intercepted message, he knew she was digging into his past. Whoever had sent her that warning letter knew his secrets… or suspected them. And Dante intended to find out which of his men had failed him, before turning his wrath on the traitor.He rose, buttoning his shirt with slow precision. Action was the remedy for doubt. He paced toward the balcony overlooking the estate grounds, the floodlights carving the darkness into stark triangles. A single black sedan waited at the gate—a message from the riv

Alessia’s POVThe silk sheets were too soft.Alessia lay awake, buried in layers of luxury she never asked for. Gold threads lined the edges of her nightdress. The bed smelled faintly of roses—an invasive, artificial sweetness that made her stomach turn.She hadn’t slept.Not since she arrived in this place Dante called “home.”A gilded cage, more beautiful than any prison had the right to be. No windows opened. No doors unlocked without biometric access. And everywhere she turned, his presence lingered like smoke—impossible to escape.She turned on her side and stared at the far wall.A mural stretched across it—Venus rising from the sea, naked and divine.Above her bed.Typical.Dante had taste. Expensive, calculated, and unapologetically male.The door clicked open. She tensed instinctively but didn’t sit up.It was the maid. Silent, eyes lowered, she placed a tray on the marble table near the balcony and disappeared just as quickly.A routine.Tea. Fresh fruit. Sliced croissants.

Catalina’s POVCatalina never believed in ghosts.Not until she became one.The world thought her dead—cremated, scattered, erased. Her name scrubbed from databases, her face removed from archives, her file closed in every intelligence and mafia network from Italy to Dubai. But she hadn’t died in that fire. She had clawed her way out of it, broken and bloodied, with nothing left but vengeance and a half-burnt photograph.She stood now in the backroom of a decaying speakeasy tucked beneath Venice’s cracked bones. Time hadn’t touched the walls here, nor the velvet drapes that sagged from the ceiling. Smoke curled lazily under golden lamps, mingling with the scent of spilled gin and lies.Across from her, a man in a bloodstained shirt shook in his bindings. His lips trembled like they might forget how to lie.“I didn’t know who she was,” he whimpered. “I was just delivering a message. That’s all. A letter from a girl named Chiara Romano.”Catalina stirred the ice in her glass with a silv

Dante’s POVBlood was a language Dante Moretti spoke fluently.It painted the marble floors of the Romano estate now—stark crimson streaks across pale stone. Chiara Romano lay motionless in the hall, her lifeless eyes wide with horror. Her throat had been slit so cleanly, it was almost surgical.A message.But to whom?Dante stood over the body, his expression carved from granite. The scent of death clung to the air—metallic, final. His men moved silently around him, securing exits, sweeping rooms. Lorenzo Romano barked into a phone nearby, cursing, panicking. But Dante tuned him out.His mind was already three steps ahead.This wasn’t random.It was calculated. Intimate. Someone had come into the heart of this fortress and executed a girl without hesitation.A warning?Or a cover-up?His eyes narrowed.Chiara had been close to Alessia. Too close. Constant whispers, hushed meetings. If Alessia was planning something—escape, rebellion, treason—it would’ve gone through her.Now Chiara i

Alessia’s POVThe moment his lips crashed against hers, something inside Alessia shattered.It wasn’t the kiss.It was the claim.Feral. Dominant. Final.Dante Moretti had made it clear—he didn’t want her love. He wanted her submission. Her silence. Her spine.And for one, terrifying second, she’d kissed him back.Now, hours later, she stood beneath the spray of a scalding shower, scrubbing her skin raw. Steam curled around her like smoke, but it couldn’t purge the memory of his touch. His breath. His promise.Try to run again, and I won’t stop at kissing you.She pressed her palms to the cold marble tile, breath shallow, heart pounding. Not from fear.From rage.He thought he could own her.He thought her father’s name and an unwanted ring were enough to bring her to heel.But she’d spent her entire life learning to survive in the shadows of powerful men. She hadn’t endured the control of Don Lorenzo Romano just to be handed off like some bloodied olive branch to a Moretti.Alessia t

Dante Moretti’s POVPower didn’t need to shout.It didn’t flaunt, beg, or tremble.It watched. It waited. It crushed anything that didn’t bow.Dante Moretti understood that better than anyone.He stood alone on the Romano balcony long after the guests had returned to their champagne and shallow conversations, his eyes fixed on the moonlit garden below. From this height, the world looked so quiet. So still. As if chaos wasn’t pulsing just beneath the surface of it all.As if Alessia Romano hadn’t looked at him tonight like she wanted to bury a knife in his chest.A slow smirk curved his mouth.She’d be a challenge. He’d known that before he ever laid eyes on her. The Romano heiress was sharp-tongued, prideful, beautiful—an untamed flame wrapped in silk and pearls.But what the world didn’t understand was that Dante didn’t fear fire.He consumed it.He took a long sip from his crystal tumbler, letting the bourbon burn its way down his throat. Below, the party raged on. Don Lorenzo was p