Chapter 4.

Chapter 4: The First Mistake

This stranger—Dante, has been protecting my brother for half a year.

While I had no idea.

"Who ARE you people?" I whisper.

He writes slowly: The question isn't who we are. The question is: what are you going to do now?

I look at him.

This dangerous man who's been watching me. Broke someone's wrist for touching me. And has guards protecting Mason.

"I'll help you," I say. "Find your thief. Whatever you need. Just... keep Mason safe."

He writes: Deal.

Then adds: Welcome to my world, Iris. I promise I'll keep you both alive.

I hope he's telling the truth.

Because I just made a deal with someone who might be more dangerous than the people hunting me.

But what choice do I have?

We arrive at the penthouse around midnight.

I received a message from Dante's men that my brother was safe. They sent me footage evidence. Said that the incident had been contained.

When I asked how, Dante asked if I really want to know.

I don't know if I want to know, but it's all I thought of, on the drive here.

The elevator doors open straight into the apartment.

No hallway. Just... luxury.

Dante gestures for me to go in first, and I step inside on shaky legs.

My brother almost died. And I can't stop shaking.

Dante shows me to a guest room. It's huge, bigger than my entire apartment back home.

King-size bed. Private bathroom. Windows showing the entire city lit up below.

He writes: You're safe here. Rest.

Then he leaves.

Closes the door softly behind him.

I should feel safe. But this place is a fortress. Armed guards everywhere.

But I can't rest. My brain won't shut off.

Every time I close my eyes, I see that man grabbing my wrist. Dante breaking his wrist like it was nothing. The phone call threatening Mason.

What if Dante's people hadn't been there?

What if Mason had—

No. I can't think about that.

I lie down on the bed. Stare at the ceiling.

Sleep doesn't come.

At 3 AM, I give up.

I need water. Or air. Or something.

I open my door as quietly as I can.

And almost trip over Dante.

Sitting on the floor right outside my room, his back against the wall.

My first instinct is fear. He's blocking my exit.

Then I realised, he's not blocking, per se.

"What are you doing?" I whisper.

He looks up. Writes: Making sure no one gets to you.

"By sitting on the floor?"

Yes.

"Don't you sleep?"

Not much.

I should go back inside. Lock the door. Keep distance between us.

Instead, I sit down.

Not close to him. I leave space between us.

But I sit.

The silence stretches. It's uncomfortable.

Finally, I break it. "Why are you really doing this?"

I told you. I've been looking for you.

"That's not an answer."

He stares at his notebook for a long moment.

Then starts writing. Slowly.

My sister was eight years old. Emilia. She loved birds. Used to sing all the time. Drove our father crazy.

These keychains were her favorites. She said nightingales sing in cages because they refuse to let captivity steal their voice.

I don't say anything. Just listen.

She died in the fire. August 4, 2007. The same fire that killed your mother.

My chest squeezes painfully.

This man lost his family the same day I lost mine.

We were both just kids.

"You said my mother was the target. Why?"

I don't know. I was twelve. My father locked me in a closet. Made me watch. I don't know why he did it.

"Your father did it," I say quietly.

Yes.

Long pause.

Wow. I should hate him. His father killed my mother. But we were both victims that night.

"I'm sorry," I say, for both of us.

He just looks at me.

Writes: You should go back to bed.

I nod. Stand up.

But at the door, I turn back. "Thank you. For sitting out here."

He nods.

And I realize, this conversation was a tiny crack in the wall between us.

I go back inside. This time, I fall asleep.

I wake up around 8 AM.

Sunlight stream through the huge windows.

For a moment, I forget where I am.

Then it all comes rushing back.

I take a shower. Okay, AMAZING water pressure. Showering is my new go-to for stress relief. Way better than what I had in my apartment.

There are clothes in the closet. My exact size.

Jeans. T-shirts. Even a hoodie.

How does he know my size?

Right. He's been stalking me for a year.

I should be creeped out.

But I'm not. Why not?

I head out to find coffee.

The smell leads me to the kitchen.

And there he is.

Dante Vitale. The man who broke someone's wrist last night. Making eggs.

"You cook?" I ask.

He glances at me. Writes: Sometimes.

He slides a plate across the counter to me.

Eggs. Toast. Coffee—black, no sugar.

He remembers.

We eat in silence. It's weirdly... normal.

I feel his gaze on me the entire time.

"What?" I finally ask.

He writes: You have a bruise. On your wrist. From last night.

I look down. There's a faint purple mark where Richard grabbed me. I'd forgotten about it.

Before I can respond, Dante reaches out.

Takes my wrist gently.

His hand is warm. Careful. I watch how he examines the bruise. How his jaw clenches tight.

Then he writes with his other hand: I should have broken both his hands.

I should pull away. Tell him to stop touching me.

But his thumb brushes over my pulse point.

Just once. Barely a touch.

My breath catches.

Our eyes meet.

The air between us changes. Gets heavier. Charged. Dangerous.

He's staring at my mouth. I'm staring at his.

When did we get so close?

We're leaning toward each other—

His phone buzzes. LOUD.

We both jump apart like we've been burned.

He checks his phone.

Writes quickly: My people found something. I need to check it.

Then he's gone.

I sit there, heart pounding.

What was that? What almost happened?

Why did I almost let him kiss me?

He's a STALKER. A criminal. His father killed my mother.

But my wrist still tingles where he touched me.

The worst part?

I wanted him to kiss me.

And I'm terrified of what that means.

After eating, I clear out my plates and rush out of the kithen. I need to clear my head.

Need to focus on something else.

Information. That's what I need.

I grab the laptop and sit on the couch. Time to learn who Dante Vitale really is.

I type his name into the search bar.

Results flood in:

Dante Vitale. Age 30. Billionaire heir to the Vitale empire.

Shipping. Construction. "Import/export."

Net worth: $2.3 billion.

That's... a lot of money.

I dig deeper.

Then I find it:

"Vitale Family Tragedy - Three Dead in Warehouse Fire"

Article dated: August 5, 2007.

Victims: Marco Vitale (father, 45). Sofia Vitale (mother, 42). Emilia Vitale (daughter, 8).

Survivor: Dante Vitale (son, 12).

Cause of fire: Arson suspected. Never proven.

Then I decide to search: "Lucia Hale death 2007"

Nothing.

Zero results.

I try again: "Warehouse fire August 4 2007 victims"

The Vitale family comes up. Front page news. Investigations. Memorials.

But no mention of my mother. At all.

It's like Lucia Hale never existed.

Why?

Why would someone erase her death from the internet? I hear footsteps behind me.

Dante.

I turn the laptop so he can see. "My mother died the same day as your family. Same fire. But there's no record of her death online. Nothing. Someone scrubbed it."

He goes very still as he sttares at the screen.

Writes: What was your mother's full name?

"Lucia Hale. Why?"

Hale was her married name?

"I... I think so? I was seven when she died. I don't remember much."

He pulls out his phone. Scrolls through something.

Then shows me the screen.

It's an old photo from a newspaper society page. Dated 1999.

A beautiful woman in an elegant dress at some fancy event. She looks exactly like me. Same eyes. Same face. Just older.

The caption reads: "Lucia Santino, heir to the Santino fortune, attends annual charity gala."

"That's my mom," I whisper, shaking.

Your mother wasn't Lucia Hale. She was Lucia Santino. And that's why people are hunting you.

"I don't understand. Who are the Santinos?"

He writes slowly, carefully:

One of the five founding families. The most powerful one. And you're the last surviving heir.

"What does that mean?"

It means you're worth more dead than alive to four families.

Then he adds:

And worth everything alive to me.

Before I can process what that means, his phone rings. He answers with three quick taps and listens.

His face goes dark. Dangerous.

He writes fast: They found us. We need to leave. NOW.

"What? Who found us?"

I'll explain in the car. Pack. Only essentials. Two minutes.

"Dante—"

NOW, Iris.

The way he writes it—sharp, urgent, makes me move. I run to the guest room.

Grab my phone. The photo of me as a kid. The clothes I was wearing yesterday.

My hands won't stop shaking.

Who found us? How did they find us?

Are we safe anywhere?

Dante appears in the doorway. He's got a bag over his shoulder. Gun visible at his waist.

Writes: Stay close to me. No matter what happens. Understand?

I nod and he takes my hand.