Not his pawn

Sophia's knock still echoed through the penthouse, sharp and urgent, but I didn't move toward the door.

Neither did Dante.

His eyes stayed locked on mine, storm-gray and unreadable, waiting. The question I'd been about to ask—tell me about the file, about the photos, about the surveillance on my apartment—burned in my throat, but something shifted inside me. A decision. A line I drew in the sand of my own mind.

I was done being the girl things happened to.

"Don't answer that yet," I said, my voice steadier than I expected. I stepped back from him, putting deliberate space between us. The heat of his nearness still clung to my skin, but I needed clarity. Not the fog of cedar and want. "Sophia can wait thirty seconds. This can't."

Dante's head tilted a fraction. The cut on his cheek had stopped bleeding, but the dried blood made him look even more dangerous. "Essa—"

"No." I held up a hand. The same hand that had gripped the knife earlier, knuckles white with fear. Now it was steady. "You said ask you anything. You said once I hear the answers, there's no going back. Fine. But I'm not asking from the edge of your bed like some frightened girl you're protecting. I'm asking standing on my own feet."

Something flickered in his gaze. Surprise, maybe. Or respect. With Dante, it was hard to tell the difference.

"Sophia's out there saying Enzo made a public move," I continued, keeping my voice low. The bedroom felt enormous and small all at once—the massive bed, the city lights bleeding through the curtains, the shattered glass still glittering on the carpet in the other room. "She's going to come through that door with information that affects me. Before she does, I need to know if you've been watching me since before tonight. If you have photos. If there's a file with my name on it that makes me a target instead of a person."

The knock came again. Harder. "Dante! This isn't a social call. Your son just made a play for the Rossi docks. Armed men. If you're done playing honeymoon with the girl, we have a war to stop."

I didn't flinch at honeymoon. I filed it away—Sophia's jealousy, her desperation to diminish me. Another piece on the board.

"The file," I said. "Thirty seconds. Truth."

Dante held my gaze for three heartbeats. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. Not mine—his. He unlocked it with a quick press of his thumb, navigated to something, and handed it to me.

"I won't lie to you," he said, voice rough at the edges. "I told you I looked into you when you started dating Enzo. That was true. Background, history, patterns. Standard vetting for anyone who gets close to my family."

I looked down at the screen. A dossier. My name at the top: Essa Kane, age 22. Below it, bullet points—my mother's name, the date she left, the foster homes, my high school transcripts, my part-time jobs, my address. Clinical. Cold. The kind of file a Don would have on anyone.

But no photos. Not the kind the unknown texter had hinted at.

"This is what you have," I said. Not a question.

"Scroll down."

I did. And my stomach tightened.

There were photos. Three of them. Grainy, taken from a distance—me outside my apartment building, me walking to my car, me sitting at a café with Lila. Time-stamped from three weeks ago.

"That's it," Dante said before I could speak. "Three photos. Taken by my security team during Enzo's loyalty review. I ordered them stopped the moment I saw them."

"Stopped." The word came out flat.

"I've done darker things than surveillance, Essa. I won't pretend otherwise. But I don't stalk women I haven't met." His jaw tightened. "Someone is sending you those texts to make you afraid of me. Someone who *did* take more photos and wants me blamed for them."

Sophia. The name clicked into place like a bullet in a chamber. Or Lila. Or both, working angles I couldn't see yet.

The knock turned into a pound. "Dante, I swear to God—"

"Almost done, Sophia," Dante called, but his eyes never left mine. "Essa. I kept you in the dark about the vetting because I keep everyone in the dark. It's how I survive. But the photos, the surveillance—someone's twisting it. Someone wants you running from me instead of trusting me."

I handed the phone back, my fingers brushing his. The spark was still there, forbidden and electric, but I didn't let it cloud my judgment. "Then I have a condition."

His brow arched. "A condition."

"You want me to stay under your protection? Fine. I'll stay. But I'm not a lamp you can move from room to room whenever bullets fly. If there's intel about me—files, photos, threats—I see it. All of it. No more vetting from the shadows. You want my trust? Earn it."

The silence stretched. Sophia's foot tapped audibly in the hallway.

Then Dante did something I didn't expect. He nodded. Slow, deliberate. "Agreed."

"Good." I smoothed down my dress, the same black dress I'd worn to give myself to his son, now smudged with dust from the shattered window. "Now let your ex in before she breaks the door down."

Dante opened the door, and Sophia Rossi swept in like a blade.

She was striking in a way that made my teeth ache—tall, sharp-featured, wearing a fitted black pantsuit that probably cost more than my rent. Her dark hair was pulled back tight, and her eyes, cold and calculating, swept the room in one efficient arc. They paused on me. Hardened.

"Still here," she said, her tone carefully neutral. "Lucky girl."

"Sophia." Dante's voice carried the same cold authority he used on everyone, but there was an edge now. "Report. What's Enzo done?"

Sophia's gaze lingered on me for a beat too long before she answered. "He's taken the Rossi docks. Six armed men, maybe more. Word is he's claiming you've gone soft—too distracted by your son's little girlfriend to lead." She said *girlfriend* like it tasted bad. "He's calling for a sit-down with the families. If he gets it, he'll use it to challenge your authority publicly."

Dante didn't react outwardly, but I felt the shift in the air around him. Coiled danger. "The Rossi docks are insured by the Castellano agreement. If Enzo touched them without Marco Castellano's permission, he's already dead. He just doesn't know it yet."

"He knows." Sophia crossed her arms. "He's claiming *you're* the one violating the agreement. Using family resources to protect an outsider." Her eyes flicked to me again, pointed and accusatory. "Her."

There it was. Enzo's play. Not just reclaiming me—using me as the excuse to fracture Dante's alliances. I was leverage again, even when I wasn't in the room.

And that meant I couldn't just stand here silently while they discussed my fate over my head.

"Marco Castellano," I said, stepping forward. Both of them turned. "He's the Castellano family head, right? Runs the south-side operations?"

Sophia blinked, surprised that I'd spoken. Dante's expression flickered—interest, sharp and assessing.

"Enzo's saying Dante's protecting an outsider," I continued, working through it out loud. "But I'm not an outsider anymore. I was in Enzo's penthouse when men broke in to kill me. I'm marked. That makes me part of this whether anyone likes it or not." I met Sophia's gaze directly. "If Marco Castellano thinks Dante's gone soft, let him meet me. Let him see I'm not some random girlfriend hiding behind the Don's back. I'm the woman Enzo tried to use as bait and failed."

Sophia's mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Bold words for a twenty-two-year-old who walked into the wrong room."

"Maybe." I held her stare. "But you said it yourself—Enzo's making this public. If I hide, it proves his point. If I stand beside Dante at that sit-down, it proves Dante's not hiding anything. He's protecting family."

The word family landed hard. Sophia's mask slipped a fraction before she recovered.

Dante stepped closer to me. Not blocking me, not shielding me. Standing beside me. "The girl's right," he said quietly. "Enzo wants a spectacle. We give him one—but not the one he expects." He looked at Sophia. "Arrange the sit-down. Tomorrow night. Neutral ground."

Sophia's eyes narrowed. "You're seriously bringing her?"

"I'm bringing an asset Enzo underestimated." Dante's hand found the small of my back—not possessive, not controlling. Grounding. "That's all you need to know."

Sophia held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded curtly. "Tomorrow night. I'll send the details." She turned to leave, but paused at the door. Her eyes met mine one last time. "For your sake, little girl, I hope you're as smart as you think you are."

Then she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her.

The silence she left was heavy but clean. Like the air after a gunshot.

I exhaled, my heart pounding in my ears. I'd just volunteered to walk into a room full of mafia dons and stare down the man who'd tried to use me as bait. The man I'd almost given everything to.

What the hell did I just do?

Dante turned me to face him, his hands settling on my shoulders. Up close, I could see exhaustion warring with something fiercer in his eyes. "You didn't have to do that, little one."

"Yes, I did." My voice only shook a little. "You heard Sophia. Enzo's using me as the excuse. If I'm not part of the response, I'm just a liability. A weakness." I lifted my chin. "I won't be anyone's weakness."

His thumb traced my collarbone, feather-light. The touch sent heat spiraling down my spine, but this time I didn't fight it. This time I let it anchor me.

"You were never a weakness," he murmured. "A complication, yes. A variable I didn't plan for." His voice dropped lower. "But not a weakness."

"Then teach me." The words came out before I could stop them. "If I'm walking into a sit-down with the families, I need to know what I'm walking into. Politics. Alliances. Who to trust and who to smile at while hiding a knife."

Something shifted in his expression. That unreadable mask cracked, just slightly, revealing raw hunger and something deeper—pride, maybe. Or the start of obsession, looking back at me with my own face reflected in it.

"You want me to teach you the game."

"I want to stop being a pawn." I held his gaze. "You said you'd earn my trust. This is how. Stop protecting me from the shadows and start preparing me for the light."

Dante was quiet for a long moment. Then he cupped my face with both hands, his rough palms warm against my cheeks, his storm-gray eyes burning into mine with an intensity that stole my breath.

"Tomorrow morning," he said. "We start. But tonight, you rest. Real rest. The bedroom is yours. I'll take the couch."

"Dante—"

"Essa." My name was a rough caress. "You've been bait, target, and survivor all in one night. You've stared down my son, my ex, and me. You've earned a few hours of peace."

He was right. The exhaustion was creeping in now, my legs heavy, my eyelids threatening to betray me. The adrenaline crash was real, and I hated it.

"Fine." I stepped back, and his hands fell away slowly, like he was reluctant to lose contact. "But tomorrow morning, you tell me everything. The file. The photos. Sophia. Enzo. All of it."

"All of it," he agreed.

I walked toward the bedroom, then paused at the door. Looked back. He was still standing there, broad and dangerous, silhouetted against the city lights. A man who could ruin me. A man who might already be ruined by me.

"Dante?"

"Yes?"

"The unknown texter." I pulled out my phone, the screen dark and waiting. "They're going to send another message. They want me afraid of you. What if I answer back—and set a trap of my own?"

His eyes glittered with something dark and approving. "That, little one, sounds like the beginning of a very good plan."

I nodded, stepped into the bedroom, and closed the door.

Alone, I sat on the edge of the massive bed, Dante's scent still clinging to the pillows. My phone buzzed almost immediately.

Unknown: He's lying to you. The file is thicker than he showed. Ask about the photos from Valentine's Day.

Valentine's Day. Four months ago. Before tonight. Before the penthouse. Before I'd ever met Dante Moretti's eyes across a room and felt the world tilt.

If those photos existed, someone had been watching me long before Enzo's setup. Someone who wanted me to believe it was Dante.

But I'd just seen his file. Three photos, time-stamped three weeks ago. Clinical. Vetting. Not stalking.

Which meant someone else had the other photos.

And I was going to find out who.

I typed a reply with steady fingers: I want proof. Send me the Valentine's photos. If Dante's lying, I'll meet you in person.

Let them think I was afraid. Let them think I was still the naive girl who'd walked into the wrong room.

I wasn't that girl anymore.

The message sent. I lay back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling, my heart pounding with fear and something that felt dangerously like hope.

Tomorrow, the game began.

And I was done playing defense.