Married to the devil of valtieri

Chapter 1: The Debt

The first thing Isla Vance noticed was that the man holding the gun was not the one she should be afraid of.

He stood by her brother's chair, young and sweating, his hand shaking on the grip. The real danger sat across the restaurant at the corner table, perfectly still, turning a glass of red wine with two fingers like he had all night.

Dante Moretti.

Everyone in Valtieri knew the name. Nobody said it above a whisper.

"Isla," her brother Marco croaked. His lip was split and one eye was swelling shut. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Isla stood frozen in the doorway of Bellavista, the little restaurant where she kept the books six nights a week. It was past midnight. The chairs were stacked on the tables. The only light came from one lamp over the corner booth.

She should have run. Instead she walked straight in, because that was Marco bleeding on the floor, and she had never in her life been able to walk away from him.

"Let him go," she said. Her voice came out steadier than she felt.

The man at the corner table finally looked up.

His eyes were grey, cold, and unhurried. They moved over her once, from her rain-soaked hair to her worn shoes, and she felt weighed like something at a market.

"You must be the sister," Dante said. His voice was low and calm, which was worse than shouting. "Sit."

"I'd rather stand."

"Sit, Miss Vance. I don't repeat myself, and I'm being generous tonight."

The young man with the gun shifted nervously. Isla's knees wanted to give out, so she sat. The chair across from Dante was still warm, as if someone had just left it in a hurry. She decided not to think about why.

Dante slid a thick folder across the table. "Your brother borrowed money from a man who works for me. Four hundred thousand dollars. He lost it all in three weeks at a table he had no business sitting at."

Isla's stomach dropped. "That's not possible. Marco doesn't have that kind of..."

"He doesn't," Dante agreed. "That is the problem."

She opened the folder with trembling hands. Dates. Signatures. Her brother's handwriting, unmistakable, on every page. The number at the bottom made the room tilt.

"I can pay it back," she whispered. It was a lie, and they both knew it.

"With what? You earn nineteen dollars an hour counting my own restaurant's money." He said it lightly, almost kindly. "Yes, Miss Vance. Bellavista is mine. So is the building, the street, and most of the people on it. I know exactly who you are."

A chill ran down her spine. She had worked here for two years and never once seen him. Yet he knew her wage.

"What do you want?" she asked.

For the first time, something flickered in his face. It might have been amusement, or interest. She couldn't tell, and that frightened her more than anything else.

"Smart girl. You didn't beg. Most people beg." He leaned back. "Tell me something. When you balance the books here, do you notice anything strange?"

Her heart skipped. She did notice. For three months, small amounts had been disappearing from the nightly totals, never enough to be obvious. She had quietly kept her own notes in a notebook hidden in her bag, too scared to tell anyone, because telling the wrong person in this city could get you killed.

"No," she said quickly.

Dante smiled, slow and sharp.

"Liar." He said it almost gently. "You've been writing it down for ninety-one days. Do you know how I know? Because someone in my organization has been stealing from me, and the only person clever enough to catch him is the quiet girl in the back office who thinks nobody sees her."

Isla's mouth went dry.

"Here is my offer," he continued. "Work for me. Not here. In my house, in my study, going through every ledger my family owns. Find the thief. Do it, and your brother's debt disappears, and he walks out of this room alive."

"And if I refuse?"

Dante said nothing. He only glanced at Marco, then at the young man with the gun.

The message was clear enough.

Isla swallowed hard. "How long?"

"Until I'm satisfied." His gaze held hers. "You'll live in my home, under my protection. My men will go where you go. You'll answer to me and no one else."

"That's a kidnapping."

"It's a job," he said smoothly. "With excellent security."

She stared at him, at the expensive suit, the steady hands, and the faint scar along his jaw that she suddenly, stupidly, wanted to stop looking at. This man could ruin her life with a single phone call. Yet there was something else under the ice, something tired and watchful, like a man who trusted nobody because he had learned the hard way.

"Why me?" she asked softly. "You could hire anyone."

For a long moment, he didn't answer.

"Because," Dante said at last, "everyone I hire is afraid of me. You walked into a room full of guns to save your brother, and you still tried to bargain. I want someone who isn't afraid to tell me the truth."

He stood. He was taller than she expected, and the room seemed to shrink around him. He held out one hand, palm up, not a request but an invitation she couldn't refuse.

"Decide, Miss Vance. Your brother is bleeding."

Isla looked at Marco. He shook his head weakly, whispering don't, Isla, don't.

She looked back at the hand held out to her. Her mother had once told her that every door worth walking through is a little terrifying.

Isla placed her hand in his.

His fingers closed around hers, warm and unexpectedly gentle, and a strange current ran up her arm. Dante felt it too. She saw it in the tiny pause of his breath, the way his eyes dropped to their joined hands and then lifted again, sharper than before.

"Welcome to the family," he murmured.

Outside, thunder cracked over Valtieri.

And somewhere in the dark, someone who had been stealing from the Moretti family for three months read the message that had just landed on his phone: She's been taken in. She knows.

He began to smile.