Chapter 8

The Article and the Anchor

Livia’s fingers tightened around the edges of her tablet, the screen’s blue glow casting shadows across the penthouse’s living room. Milan’s skyline glittered beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, but her eyes were locked on Clara’s article, the headline searing into her: Milan’s Underworld: Power, Bets, and Blood. Her sister’s words sliced through the city’s glamour, naming Russo’s shell companies and hinting at a “shadow king”—Alessandro, unnamed but unmistakable. Livia’s pulse hammered, each sentence a step closer to danger. Clara didn’t know her sister was tangled in that same web, a pawn turned player.

She set the tablet down, her hands trembling, and reached for the drawer in the coffee table. Tucked beneath a stack of Alessandro’s business cards was Clara’s old letter, its paper worn from years of folding and unfolding. Livia, I’ll always fight for you. Come home. The ink had faded, but the words still twisted her heart. She clutched the letter, her auburn hair falling over her face, hiding the guilt that burned in her green eyes. Clara was out there, chasing truth, while Livia hid secrets—Sergio’s note, the dock ambush, Matteo’s vengeful silhouette. Warning her sister could save her, but it might unravel everything Livia was building with Alessandro.

The safehouse key in her pocket pressed against her thigh, a reminder of his trust after last night’s chaos at the docks. Alessandro’s hand shielding her, his raw guilt over Vincenzo, his murmured “You’re more than I expected”—those moments anchored her, even as Clara’s article threatened to pull her under. She wasn’t Dante’s trophy anymore, but was she free enough to protect her sister?

Footsteps broke her thoughts. Alessandro entered, his black suit rumpled from the night’s fight, his obsidian eyes scanning her. “You look like you’re carrying the world,” he said, his voice low, introverted but piercing. He leaned against the doorway, his faint scar catching the light, a silent question in his gaze.

Livia shoved the letter back into the drawer, her movements too quick, betraying her nerves. “Just catching up on the news,” she said, her tone light but strained. She tapped the tablet, Clara’s article still open, her heart racing. Would he see it? Would he guess her connection to the journalist tearing into his world?

He crossed the room, his cedarwood scent brushing past her, and glanced at the screen. His jaw tightened, but his voice stayed even. “Your sister’s bold,” he said, his eyes flicking to hers, searching. “She’s poking a hornet’s nest.”

Livia’s breath caught. He knew about Clara. Of course he did—nothing escaped him. “She’s always been stubborn,” she said, her voice steady despite the knot in her stomach. “Doesn’t know when to stop.” Her fingers brushed the drawer, the letter’s weight pulling at her. Warn Clara, or protect Alessandro’s trust? The choice clawed at her.

Alessandro sat across from her, his long fingers steepled, his silence heavier than words. “She’s putting herself in Russo’s sights,” he said finally, his tone clipped. “And yours, if anyone connects you.” His gaze softened, a rare crack in his armor. “You want to warn her, don’t you?”

Her eyes widened, her defiance flaring. “You don’t get to read my mind,” she snapped, but her voice cracked, betraying her. She stood, pacing to the window, Milan’s lights blurring through her unshed tears. “She’s my sister, Alessandro. My only family. But if I reach out, she’ll dig deeper, and…” She trailed off, her hands clenching. And Russo would come for them both.

He rose, stepping closer but not touching her, his presence a quiet storm. “You’re not alone in this,” he said, his voice low, deliberate. “But choose carefully. Russo plays dirty.” His hand hovered near her shoulder, then dropped, respecting her space. “Whatever you decide, I’ll back you.”

Livia turned, her green eyes meeting his, her heart pounding. His trust—the key, his words—felt like a lifeline, but it came with a price. “Why?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. “Why risk it for me?”

His lips twitched, a ghost of a smile. “Because you’re not just a prize,” he said, echoing his words from the terrace. “You’re my equal.” He left her there, his footsteps fading, leaving her with the city’s pulse and Clara’s letter burning in her hands.

The decision churned in Livia’s gut as she slipped out of the penthouse that evening, her black coat wrapped tight against the autumn chill. She’d memorized Clara’s address from the letter, a modest apartment in Brera, far from the opulence of Alessandro’s world. The subway rattled beneath Milan, its fluorescent lights flickering like her resolve. She could knock— on her sister’s door, tell her to back off, to run—but Clara’s stubborn streak matched her own. And if Russo’s mole was watching, one wrong move could expose them both.

She stood outside Clara’s building, the rain slicking her hair, her fingers hovering over her burner phone. A text to an anonymous number was safer, less traceable. Stop the articles. You’re in danger. She hit send, her jaw tight, then deleted the message from her history. Her heart screamed to do more—to see Clara, to hug her—but the letter in her pocket, its faded promise, held her back. She wasn’t that scared girl anymore, sold to Dante for her father’s debts. She was a player now, and players didn’t break.

Her phone buzzed, not from Clara but from Sofia. Enjoying Alessandro’s cage, Livia? He’ll tire of you. Livia’s blood boiled, her thumb smashing the delete button. Sofia’s taunts, dripping with jealousy, were a cheap shot, but they hit hard. She’d seen her at the gala, draped over Alessandro, her sultry smile failing to sway him. Livia’s chic elegance had outshone her, but Sofia’s schemes—and her ties to Dante—made her a shadow Livia couldn’t ignore.

Back at the penthouse, Livia found Rosa in the kitchen, her sharp-eyed maid glancing up from polishing silverware. “You look like you’ve been wrestling demons,” Rosa said, her voice soft but knowing, her wary glance piercing. She’d shared her own betrayal story of betrayal with Livia before—her brother’s double-cross with the Contarini family—and her insight grounded Livia.

“Something like that,” Livia said, her voice dry. She slid onto a stool, her fingers tracing the counter’s marble veins. “How do you live with family who hurt you? Who don’t see you?”

Rosa paused, her hands still. “You don’t live for them,” she said. “You build something they can’t touch.” Her eyes flicked to Livia’s pocket, where the letter peeked out. “But you don’t forget them either.”

Livia nodded, her throat tight. Rosa’s words echoed Alessandro’s trust, Clara’s defiance, her own transformation. She wasn’t just surviving—she was rewriting her story.

Her phone buzzed again. Dante: You can’t erase me, Livia. I’ll take it all down. She deleted it, her hands steady, her pity for his desperation gone, replaced by resolve. But Clara’s article, its words bold and unyielding, lingered in her mind. She pulled out the letter one last time, her fingers trembling, and tucked it into her jacket, not the drawer. She wasn’t ready to let go, but she wasn’t ready to break either.

As she headed to her room, Alessandro’s study door was ajar, the watch’s faint tick echoing. She paused, her heart catching at the memory of his grief—over Vincenzo, his raw guilt. He’d backed her choice with Clara, risked his empire for her. She owed him the truth—about the letter, her fear, maybe even Sergio—but the key in her pocket held her fast. Her transformation wasn’t done. Under Milan’s watchful stars, she vowed to protect Clara, outsmart Dante and Sofia, and earn Alessandro’s trust—not as his trophy, but as his partner, in a city that never slept.