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Chapter Three: The Heir
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2025-08-29 04:59:43The Virelli estate sat on the edge of the city like a fortress—stone walls, iron gates, and windows that never let in enough light. Inside, everything gleamed with power: polished floors, imported art, and silence so thick it felt like a warning.
Dante Virelli stood in his father’s study, staring at the ledger open on the desk. Names. Numbers. Deals. Debts. Every page was a record of control. Of blood.
He hated it.
He was twenty-two. Sharp-featured, cold-eyed, and already feared by men twice his age. But fear wasn’t power. It was a leash. And Dante had worn it since he was old enough to understand what the Virelli name meant.
Julian Virelli had built an empire from smoke and steel. He’d taught Dante how to shoot before he could shave, how to read a man’s weakness before he could read poetry. He’d said things like “Mercy is a luxury. We don’t afford it.” And “Loyalty is earned in silence, not sentiment.”
Dante had learned. But he hadn’t forgotten.
He closed the ledger and walked to the window. The city stretched below—loud, fast, full of people who didn’t know they were owned. He could see the townhouse where Gabrielle Moreau now lived. He hadn’t meant to notice it. But he had.
She was different.
He’d seen it in the barn. The way she stood between the stable boy and danger without flinching. The way she met his gaze like she wasn’t afraid of what he was. Like she didn’t care.
Most people looked at Dante and saw Julian’s son.
Gabrielle looked at him and saw something else.
And that terrified him.
He hadn’t slept since the encounter. Her voice echoed in his head—“I have a habit of doing what’s right.” He didn’t know what right was anymore. He only knew what was necessary.
But she made him question that.
She had dust on her boots and fire in her eyes. She didn’t belong in the city, and yet she moved through it like she was daring it to break her.
Dante had seen strength before. Ruthless men. Cold women. But Gabrielle’s strength was different. It wasn’t armor. It was defiance.
And it made him feel something he hadn’t felt in years.
Hope.
He walked through the estate, past guards who nodded without meeting his eyes. Past portraits of dead men who had killed to be remembered. He entered the vault room—where the family kept its secrets.
He unlocked a drawer marked Julian Virelli – Private.
Inside was a box. Small. Heavy.
He opened it.
Letters. Dozens. Some signed by Gabrielle’s father.
And beneath them, a photograph.
Julian and Gabrielle’s father. Standing side by side. Smiling.
Dante’s stomach turned.
He pulled out a letter. The handwriting was familiar. His father’s.
She doesn’t know. And she must never know. If she finds out, everything falls apart.
Dante’s hands shook.
She.
Gabrielle.
He read the rest of the letter. It was dated two months before Gabrielle’s father died.
If anything happens to me, protect her. But don’t tell her who I am. She’ll hate me. And she’ll hate you.
Dante dropped the letter.
His father had lied. Had manipulated. Had buried secrets in vaults and blood.
And now Gabrielle was tangled in it.
He didn’t want this life. He didn’t want this legacy. But he couldn’t walk away—not without leaving her in danger.
He stared at the photograph again.
Then he heard footsteps.
Julian Virelli entered the room, his presence like a storm.
“You opened the box,” he said.
Dante didn’t speak.
Julian stepped closer. “She’s not your problem.”
“She is now.”
Julian’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not ready.”
“I’m not you.”
Julian smiled coldly. “No. But you will be.”
Dante clenched his fists. “I won’t become what you are.”
Julian leaned in. “Then you’ll die trying.”
That night, Dante stood on the balcony, watching the city flicker like a fuse. He thought of Gabrielle. Of her voice. Her fire.
He didn’t know what she would do when she found out the truth. He wasn’t exactly sure of the truth himself. His father was a man of many puzzles.
But he knew this:
He had to protect her.
He didn’t even know why he had to protect her. What he knew was that she did not fit into this new world of turmoil she had suddenly been thrown into. Somewhere deep down, he had a nagging feeling he needed to protect her, from his father and maybe even from her own father’s secrets, he had to.
Even if it meant becoming the very thing he swore he’d never be.
Inside the vault, Julian lit a cigar and opened a second drawer.
Inside was a ring.
A woman’s ring.
He turned it over in his hand, smiling.
It belonged to her mother.
And he locked the drawer.
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