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Chapter Twenty-One - Photos, Food, and Assets

“Can I see the photos?”The question was casual. Too casual.Like she already knew the answer.I didn’t respond right away. I watched her instead—how she held the fork carefully, how she tried to chew slowly, politely, like she wasn’t starving. Her posture was controlled, but her eyes betrayed her. They flicked to the stack of photos again and again, hunger of a different kind sharpening her focus.Information hunger.That was more dangerous than the other kind.I grabbed three photos off the island and slid them across the counter, setting them just beyond the edge of her plate.“Don’t touch anything else,” I said.She nodded once, already leaning forward.I caught the way her pace changed—how the food became secondary, how she ate faster now, controlled but urgent. I smirked despite myself.Then she froze.Fork paused halfway to her mouth.Her eyes locked on one of the photos.Not the twins’ faces.The wall behind them.“That,” she said quietly.I stilled.She swallowed, set the for

Chapter Twenty-Two - The Meeting and the Siren

I didn’t bother unchaining her for the meeting.That alone made my men uneasy.Aria stood at my side in the strategy room, wrists still cuffed, the chain clipped to a heavy ring bolted into the floor beneath the table. She didn’t look restrained. She looked coiled—eyes sharp, posture relaxed, like she was daring someone to underestimate her.The table was already covered in maps, photos, and timelines. Marco, Rocco, and two of my lieutenants stood waiting. Conversation died the second they noticed her.Good.“Sit,” I ordered.They did.I gestured to the maps. “The Sage twins have pushed into Fifth Avenue. We know that. What we don’t know is how they’re staying three steps ahead of us.”Rocco pointed to a marked route. “We think they’re moving product through rotating fronts. Art galleries, pop-up events—”“No,” Aria said calmly.Every head snapped toward her.Marco stiffened. “Boss—”“Let her talk,” I said.She leaned forward as far as the chain allowed, studying the map like it belon

Chapter Twenty-Three - Outlawed

The cameras flickered across the screen in front of me, one feed after another lighting up the darkened strategy room.I wasn’t breathing.I watched Dante move through the compound with lethal calm, weapon in hand, body loose and ready. He didn’t rush. He didn’t hesitate. He went straight toward the west corridor.Straight toward Dale.My father’s favorite.My father’s oldest friend.Dale never failed. He’d always said the job mattered more than the cost. That if it killed him, so be it — the mission would still be finished.That was what made him dangerous.That was what made my father sending him here feel wrong.Until it didn’t.Because there was only one reason Dale would be inside this house.Not for territory.Not for Dante.For me.My father hadn’t just abandoned me.He’d outlawed me.The feed switched just as Dante stepped into the corridor.Dale was already there.Older now. Grayer. But his posture was exactly the same as I remembered — relaxed, patient, like violence was jus

Chapter Twenty-Four - The Choice

The phone is still on the table.I don’t look at it again.I don’t need to.Five hundred thousand dollars.My name.My father’s signature written between the lines like a death sentence.The room hums with tension, but inside me something goes very still.I don’t break.I don’t cry.I straighten.Slowly, I lift my eyes to Dante.He’s watching me like he expects me to fold—or explode. Like he’s bracing himself to decide what to do about me.I don’t give him that.“If my father wants me dead,” I say calmly, “then I want his empire.”The words land heavy.Marco inhales sharply behind me. Someone curses under their breath.Dante doesn’t react right away.Good.I step closer to the table, palms braced against the wood.“He doesn’t issue bounties lightly,” I continue. “This isn’t punishment. It’s containment. He thinks I’ve compromised his control.”I look up at Dante, meeting his gaze head-on.“He’s wrong.”Silence.Then Dante says quietly, “You’re asking for war.”“No,” I correct. “I’m of

Chapter Twenty-Five - Orders

I leave the room before the silence turns into something dangerous.The hallway is still humming with adrenaline when I spot Marco lingering near the stairwell, shoulders tight, eyes darting like he’s already anticipating bad news.“Move her upstairs,” I say, voice flat. “Room next to mine.”Marco blinks. Once. Twice.“You’re—” He swallows. “Boss, you can’t be serious.”I don’t slow down.“She stays under my roof,” I continue. “Constant watch. Full access.”Marco takes a half-step after me. “She’s a Moretti. She broke out twice. She almost killed you. Putting her next to your—”I stop.Not abruptly.Deliberately.The air changes.I turn my head just enough to look at him.Not with anger. Not with rage.With disappointment.“Say it again,” I tell him quietly.Marco stiffens. “I just think—”“That’s the problem,” I cut in softly. “You’re thinking. When I didn’t ask you to.”His throat works as he swallows.Rocco steps forward before he can finish the sentence. “I’ll handle it,” he says

Chapter Twenty-Six - Upstairs

Rocco comes back alone.That, in itself, tells me something.He doesn’t reach for his gun. Doesn’t bark orders. Doesn’t look at me like I’m a bomb about to go off.Compared to Marco—who looks like he might pass out if I breathe too close—Rocco is… tolerable.“Alright,” he says, keeping his tone neutral. “We’re moving.”He steps closer and carefully undoes the cuffs around my wrists. The metal clicks open, and for half a second, my muscles tense on instinct.I don’t move.Rocco watches me anyway, sharp-eyed but not hostile.“Follow me,” he says. “Please.”Please.Interesting.I do as he asks.We head upstairs, and I catalog everything automatically. Habit. Training. Survival.A marble side table near the stairwell—heavy enough to smash a skull if tipped right.A decorative vase full of dried branches—one snapped at the right angle could puncture a throat.A wrought-iron railing—wrap, pull, twist. Neck broken in seconds.A glass lamp—shatter, use the base, drive it upward.Fifty ways to

Chapter Twenty-Seven - Shower and no chains

There’s a knock at the door.I’m already facing it when it opens.Rocco steps in first, followed by a woman who immediately changes the temperature of the room—and several of Dante’s men hauling duffel bags. Not small ones. Big, overstuffed, weapons-grade bags.My eyes flick over them automatically.Clothes, I think.Probably.The woman doesn’t wait for introductions.She snaps her fingers once, sharp and decisive. “Out. All of you.”The men hesitate for exactly half a second.Then they’re gone.The door closes behind them, leaving just the three of us and a small mountain of bags.Rocco clears his throat. “I’ll—uh—wait outside.”She waves him off without looking. “Good.”Rocco gives me an apologetic glance and disappears.The woman turns to me and finally smiles.Not fake.Not cruel.Curious.“I’m Danika,” she says. “Dante’s sister.”That explains… a lot.She looks me up and down slowly, thoughtfully—like I’m a project instead of a threat.Then she wrinkles her nose.“Oh,” she says.

Chapter Twenty-Eight - Bad Signals

Marco doesn’t jump.That’s the thing.He flinches when he’s shot at. He braces when orders come down hard. He tenses when things go wrong. But he doesn’t jump—not like that.I’m watching the camera feed when it happens.Bathroom corridor. Static angle. Clean line of sight.Aria opens the door, wrapped in a robe, hair twisted up in a towel, calm as a drawn blade.Marco jerks back like she’s pulled a gun.Three steps. Maybe four.Hands half-raised. Eyes wide.My jaw tightens.That reaction doesn’t fit the man I know.Marco’s fear isn’t about her being dangerous—that I expect. It’s sharper than that. Guilty. Startled. Like he wasn’t expecting to be caught standing where he was.I rewind the feed.Marco approaches the door. Stops. Raises his hand.He hesitates.Why hesitate?Aria opens the door.Marco recoils.I pause the frame right there.His pupils are blown. His breathing shallow. That’s not just nerves. That’s adrenaline that didn’t have time to burn off.What were you about to do?

Chapter Twenty-Nine - Emotionally Wet

Danika doesn’t ease into it.She goes straight for the bags like she’s about to conduct an experiment—and I’m the subject.“Alright,” she says, already pulling things out and draping them over the bed. “First rule: we figure out what you hate.”I fold my arms. “Most of this.”She snorts. “Good. Honesty saves time.”She holds up a silk blouse the color of blood-red wine.I make a face. “No.”“Why?”“Too delicate,” I say. “I don’t want to worry about ripping something if I have to move fast.”Danika hums thoughtfully and tosses it aside. “Function over form. Got it.”She picks up a fitted black jacket next—stretch fabric, clean lines.I reach for it before I can stop myself. “That.”Her eyes light up. “See? You do have taste.”“Dark colors,” I add. “Black. Charcoal. Deep blue. Nothing loud. Nothing that shows stains.”She pauses. “That’s… grim.”“That’s survival.”Danika studies me for a moment, then nods. “Okay. But you need to understand something.”I glance at her. “What?”“Fashion is

Chapter Thirty - Tattoo's & Pain

Dante doesn’t say anything at first.He just stands there, eyes still dark from whatever passed through him when he walked in and saw me dressed like this—like I belonged in his world.Then his gaze shifts.Not to my face.To my back.I feel it immediately, like a touch that never happens.“The scars,” he says finally. Not accusing. Not gentle either. Just… steady.“What happened?”The question lands heavier coming from him than it did from Danika.I turn slightly, enough that he can see them clearly. There’s no point hiding them. They’re part of me whether I like it or not.I turn just enough to face him. “Which one?”“The scars,” he says. “Who did that to you.”“My brothers,” I answer. “All of them. Together.”His jaw tightens.“It was tradition,” I add. “The girls were marked. Identifying scars. The boys got tattoos instead.”“Tattoos,” he repeats, like the word tastes wrong.“They’re symbols,” I say. “Rank. Loyalty. Ownership.”“And you?” he asks quietly.I hesitate, then lift my

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