9 I was just a waitress when I overheard a mafia boss’s wife whispering to her lover that they had sabotaged her husband’s brakes. I ran to warn him, but I was seconds too late. By the time I reached the mountain road, his car was already disappearing over the cliff, and I became the only person close enough to pull him back from death.

The Moretti estate didn't look like a home; it looked like a fortress disguised as a Italian renaissance palace. Iron gates fifteen feet high swung shut behind the convoy of black SUVs, sealing out the stormy night and the outside world.

I was escorted through a private side entrance, far from the grand marble foyer where I could hear the faint sound of classical piano music playing somewhere in the house. The interior was staggering—gilded mirrors, dark mahogany paneling, and priceless oil paintings lined the hallways, making my throat tighten with imposter syndrome. I was a girl who lived in a studio apartment with leaking pipes and a landlord who threatened eviction every third of the month. I didn't belong here.

A female doctor named Dr. Aris was waiting for me in a spacious room on the second floor. She worked quickly and in total silence, picking glass shards out of my palms, applying antiseptic that made me bite my lip to keep from screaming, and wrapping both of my hands in clean white gauze.

"You're lucky," Dr. Aris said quietly as she packed her medical kit. "No deep tendon damage. But you won't be using those hands for much over the next few days."

"Where is Mr. Moretti?" I asked, looking toward the heavy double doors guarded by two silent, broad-shouldered men in dark suits.

"Being stitched up by my chief," she replied, offering me a small blue pill and a glass of water. "Two broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and a concussion. Most men wouldn't be standing. He's currently holding a meeting in the lower study."

She left without another word. I was given a soft silk robe and a pair of trousers to change into, but I sat on the edge of the plush canopy bed, unable to relax. Every creak of the floorboards made my heart race.

Around 2:00 AM, the heavy oak door unlocked.

I jumped to my feet, my heart slamming against my ribs.

Dante walked in. He had changed into a dark velvet robe, though his chest was heavily bandaged underneath, and his left arm was immobilized in a black sling. His skin was pale, but his gray eyes were bright with a cold, terrifying fire. Behind him walked Marco, holding a leather folder.

Dante gestured for Marco to close the door.

"How are the hands?" Dante asked, stepping closer.

"They hurt," I admitted, wrapping my arms around myself. "Mr. Moretti, please... I did what I could. I saved your life. Can I just go home now? I have a shift tomorrow afternoon, and if I miss it, my manager will fire me—"

"Your apartment was broken into twenty minutes ago," Dante interrupted, his voice completely flat.

I froze. "What?"

Marco opened the leather folder and pulled out three glossy photographs, laying them out on the small tea table between us. I forced myself to look down. My tiny apartment had been completely ransacked. The mattress was slashed open, my closet torn apart, and the small wooden box where I kept my mother's silver lockets was crushed under a boot heel.

"Vanessa’s accomplice—the man with the gold pinky ring—realized someone followed Dante from the restaurant," Marco explained calmly. "They pulled the security footage from Bellini’s parking lot. They saw your car leave right behind his."

"They know who you are, Cara," Dante said, taking another step toward me. The scent of rain, cedar, and antiseptic clung to him. "They know where you live. If you walk out of those gates tonight, you won't survive until dawn. They cannot afford to leave a witness who heard the word 'brakes.'"

The room seemed to spin. My knees went soft, and I had to catch myself on the edge of the bed frame, my gauzed hands stinging from the impact. Everything I had built—my quiet, invisible, safe little life—had been burned to the ground in a single evening because I couldn't just turn a blind eye.

"So what happens to me?" I whispered, tears brimming in my eyes. "I'm trapped here?"

"You're protected here," Dante corrected firmly. "Vanessa currently believes I am dead at the bottom of the canyon. My men are securing the wreckage now, keeping the police away, and letting the story brew in the media. By morning, the news will announce that my vehicle went over the cliff and no survivors have been recovered."

"Why?" I asked, looking up into his stony face. "Why let her think she won?"

A dark, dangerous smile touched the corner of Dante’s mouth, terrifying in its beauty.

"Because a enemy who thinks she has won becomes careless," Dante murmured. "Vanessa will move to claim my assets. She will call a meeting of the Commission to solidify her lover's position. And when she steps into the light... I will tear her world apart."