Chapter 20: Symphony of Surveillance

MARISOL

I stepped into the crisp Washington morning, Mr. Buttons trotting close beside me.

Dante’s mansion loomed ahead, dark and hulking, carved into the forest like it had grown from the ground itself. The air pressed against my skin, too still, too sharp.

Someone was watching.

I felt it, the sensation crawling up the back of my neck like a warning I couldn’t outrun.

The sensation wasn’t new. It dragged something jagged and half-buried from the back of my mind.

I was sixteen. I’d slipped out to walk my father’s gardens. Something I was rarely allowed to do.

One of his guards looked at me. Just a second too long.

Not leering. Just... assessing.

My father saw.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask.

He shot the man in the head, right there on the path beside me. Blood sprayed across my legs.

He didn’t flinch.

Neither did I.

After that, I stayed inside. Learned to live behind walls, where no one could look without consequences. Where I couldn’t make someone die just by stepping into the light.

And now, I was walking toward another fortress full of eyes I didn’t trust. Only this time, I wasn’t a girl. And I didn’t intend to hide.

Gravel crunched beneath my boots, every step cracking through the tension strung tight across the grounds.

Shadows shifted in the trees. Movement blurred into the outline of armed guards, barely visible, stationed with precision. Hiding in plain sight.

Their stillness spoke louder than motion: we see you. We don’t need to move to be dangerous.

A low hum buzzed above me. I looked up, sharp and sudden. A drone hovered overhead, silent and precise.

Its camera locked onto me, sharp as a predator’s eye. Its focus pinned me like prey.

Heat prickled down my spine. Breathe. Just breathe.

This wasn’t a home. It was a warning, wrapped in luxury. Control, displayed like art.

Everything about the place screamed Dante: clean lines, cold brick, beauty honed to intimidate.

I tightened my grip on Mr. Buttons’ leash. Every eye, every lens, pressing in like invisible fingers closing around my throat.

Two more guards stepped forward near the front doors, emerging from the shadows like they’d been waiting there all along.

One glance in my direction, then back to scanning the perimeter.

In Dante’s world, safety wasn’t the absence of danger. It was knowing exactly where danger stood.

Warm light spilled through the windows, soft and golden. Deceptive.

A lie dressed in silk, whispering comfort it didn’t mean to keep.

The driveway curved toward the entrance with surgical precision. Even the hedges looked sharpened.

At the door, Felix stepped forward. His face unreadable, movements clipped.

Mr. Buttons growled low, sharp, and fierce for his size. I scooped him up, threaded my fingers into his fur, comforting myself in the warmth of him.

Dante greeted him with a nod, handed over a sleek, gunmetal device.

“Scan her. Make sure it’s working.”

Felix took the device, but his gaze caught mine and held. Not curiosity. Not suspicion.

Wary. Like I was a match too close to gasoline.

My eyes dropped to the spot I’d kicked him. A small, vicious satisfaction lit low in my chest.

Then up. Slow. Let him remember.

“How are... things?”

His mouth thinned. “Still attached. Miraculously.”

Dante’s voice slipped in, dry. “Try not to provoke her this time.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Felix muttered. “I like walking upright.”

He scanned me in silence. No lingering. No comments. Lesson learned.

The device beeped.

“All good,” he said.

Dante’s hand brushed the small of my back. Warm. Too familiar.

I didn’t trust the steadiness it offered. He always touched like he owned the moment. Like I was his to move, to control.

And just like that, I stepped into the lion’s den.

The air inside wrapped around me, thick with polish and money.

My anger slid back beneath my ribs, replaced by something colder. Unease. It wound tighter with every step.

The house swallowed me whole.

I forced myself not to flinch as the door clicked shut behind me.

It was the kind of quiet that watched. Even the air smelled expensive—leather, waxed wood, something faint and chemical beneath it all. Like a sterilized memory.

This wasn’t a home. It was a mask. The kind meant to make people feel safe while hiding the blade underneath.

I’d grown up around polished surfaces and imported art. Wealth that looked pristine from the outside but bled violence into the floorboards.

That house had crystal chandeliers too. Blood still looked the same on marble.

Mr. Buttons shifted in my arms, ears twitching. I wasn’t the only one unsettled.

Dante didn’t build homes. He built control.

And still, some part of me wanted to follow the warmth.

God, what was wrong with me?

I knew better.

Warmth here wasn’t comfort. It was bait.

I’d been lured by soft smiles and gold trim before. The safety was always conditional. Fragile. It could be taken away the second I stepped out of line.

Just like with my father.

The first time I laughed too loud at a family dinner, he shattered a wine glass against the table and told me I wasn’t raised to be an American.

This place felt the same. A beautiful stage where silence bought survival.

I wasn’t here to feel safe. I was here to stay ahead.

Even if part of me, some foolish, broken piece, wanted to believe there could be something soft in Dante’s world. Something real.

I clutched Mr. Buttons tighter.

He gave a small whine, as if to remind me exactly where I was.

Pristine in a way that felt sterile. Perfect like a set piece. Designed, not lived in.

Hardwood gleamed beneath my boots, the herringbone pattern too precise to be accidental.

A chandelier glowed above, casting gold across everything like money could buy warmth.

Minimalist art. Beige furniture. Soft lighting. All arranged to distract from the steel underneath.

Dante didn’t decorate. He built illusions.

A woman stepped into the foyer, silver hair twisted into a neat bun. Her smile was warm. Practiced.

“Marisol, this is Maria,” Dante said. “She’ll show you to your room.”

Maria inclined her head.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Marisol,” she said, her voice soft with a northern Mexican accent.

Her gaze landed on Mr. Buttons, warming.

“And who’s this handsome fellow?”

“This is Mr. Buttons,” I said, my voice softening as I stroked his fur. He trembled slightly. Or maybe that was me. “I hope he’s welcome here?”

“Of course,” Maria said gently. “We’ll make sure he’s comfortable too.”

I hesitated, the weight of him anchoring me. Then I followed her toward the stairs.

Kindness didn’t belong in a place like this. It felt like lace over a knife. I didn’t know what to do with it.

Halfway up, I looked back.

Dante stood near the door, speaking in low tones to two of his men. Armed. Silent.

Eyes scanning like predators.

The image hit harder than it should have.

My father used to stand just like that before heading out on cartel business. Surrounded by men just like those. Suits sharp. Guns visible. Orders short.

I used to watch from the stairs too, barefoot and half-hidden behind the banister, listening to plans I didn’t understand and warnings I wasn’t meant to hear.

Even then, I knew they weren’t just men. They were weapons. And my father was the hand that aimed them.

Now I couldn’t tell if the man at the base of the stairs was any different.

His eyes found mine. Flat. Measuring. A warning.

Just like before.

He gave a small nod, then turned away.

I exhaled slowly.

My footsteps echoed on polished wood. I trailed my fingers along the cool banister, letting the chill center me.

One step at a time. I’d figure this out.

I had to.