The city stretched before him in lights and shadows, glittering like a thousand lies told under cover of night. From the penthouse balcony, Dante watched in silence, the weight of his world pressing down like it always did—steady, unrelenting, his crown forged from blood and fear. A glass of whiskey hung loosely in his hand, the amber liquid catching the glow of the skyline.
But his thoughts weren't on the city. They weren't on the men running his empire or the deals that had to be sealed by morning. No. His mind was tangled somewhere else entirely.
Her.
Serena Vale.
He could still hear her voice from their walk, soft yet defiant, still see the uncertainty flickering in her eyes when she looked at him—like some part of her recognized danger even if she couldn't name it. She fascinated him, unsettled him in ways he had no right to allow.
He set the glass down with a sharp clink against the marble railing, his jaw tightening.
"Vale's daughter."
The name carried venom even in his own mouth.
Her father's betrayal had nearly cost Dante everything. Years ago, Vale had stood in these same shadows, trusted, respected—until greed or fear or weakness drove him to break the unbreakable. And though Vale was long dead, his treachery lived on in memory, burned deep into Dante's blood.
He should hate her. By all logic, by every oath he lived by, he should want nothing more than to strangle the life out of her with his bare hands, to erase every trace of Vale's bloodline from the earth.
And yet…
The thought of her smile burned in his chest. The image of her walking beside him tonight, so unaware of the fire she was walking into, was carved into his mind. Innocent. Untouched by the world he ruled. She had no idea what kind of storm lingered at her doorstep.
He ran a hand through his dark hair, exhaling slowly. "What the fuck are you doing, Dante?" he muttered under his breath.
Behind him, the sliding doors opened, letting in the faint hum of conversation and music from the room inside. Matteo, his second-in-command, stepped out, his expression sharp.
"You've been out here a long time." Matteo's gaze flicked to the untouched decanter on the table, then back to Dante. "Something on your mind, boss?"
Dante didn't answer right away. He straightened, pulled his jacket tighter over his broad shoulders, and finally turned to face the man who had been with him since his earliest days of power.
"Vale's daughter," Dante said simply.
Matteo's brows shot up. "You saw her?"
Dante's silence was answer enough.
Matteo cursed under his breath, raking a hand over his jaw. "Boss… with all due respect, why even look twice at her? You know who she is. What her bloodline means."
Dante's gaze hardened, though his voice stayed calm, deliberate. "I don't look twice at anyone. But she…" He trailed off, struggling to shape the thought into words. "She isn't her father."
"No," Matteo agreed quickly, "but she is his daughter. And if anyone else in the families finds out she's in the city, connected to you—"
"They won't," Dante snapped, his tone sharp enough to cut. His eyes gleamed, dangerous, warning Matteo to stop pushing.
A tense silence fell between them. Inside, the party of lieutenants and capos carried on—wine flowing, laughter loud—but out here, the air was thick with unspoken truth.
Matteo finally lowered his voice. "This could spiral fast, Dante. You've already got rivals circling, and if word gets out that you're sniffing around Vale's bloodline, it won't just be business—it'll be war."
Dante smirked coldly, lifting his glass again. "Let them come."
But when he looked back toward the city, it wasn't rivals or war he saw—it was Serena, her dark hair catching the glow of streetlamps, her lips parting slightly as though she wanted to ask him questions but didn't dare.
A dangerous pull.
He should've walked away tonight. Should've ended it. But instead, he found himself planning the opposite.
The morning light spilled across the long glass table, the city buzzing awake below them. Dante sat at the head of the table, crisp shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show the tattoos curling up his forearm. A cup of untouched espresso sat by his papers.
The door swung open without a knock. Only one man in Dante's world had that audacity.
"And here he is, the king of the fucking city, already brooding before breakfast," Andres announced, tossing a folder down like it was nothing more than a deck of cards.
Dante arched a brow, unimpressed. "You're late."
"I brought pastries." Andres held up a paper bag like it was peace offering. "You don't even like them, but I do. So technically, I'm early for my breakfast."
Dante shook his head, fighting the faintest curve of a smile. Andres flopped into the seat to his right, casual as ever, loosening his tie. He was everything Dante wasn't—carefree, talkative, a man who could sit at the table of devils and still crack a joke.
"You tracked the docks last night?" Dante asked, ignoring the bag.
"Handled," Andres said around a bite of croissant. "Matteo cleaned up, no heat. Smooth as butter." He swallowed, then gave Dante a sly look. "Now, about the real update. Our lovely Miss Serena Vale."
Dante's gaze sharpened instantly. "What about her?"
"Relax, boss. She went home. Straight to her mother, then her little pack of friends. Harmless." Andres leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. "Cute girl, though. Big eyes. The type that makes you forget you've killed men before breakfast."
Dante's jaw ticked. "Watch your mouth."
Andres smirked. "Oh, don't tell me the ice king has a soft spot. You've asked me about her three times in twenty-four hours. That's a record, boss. Normally, you forget women exist five minutes after you leave their bed."
Dante's silence was answer enough. He turned toward the skyline, his reflection caught faintly in the glass—sharp suit, harder eyes, a man carved from control.
"She's Vale's daughter," he said at last, voice low, dangerous. "That makes her my business."
Andres leaned forward, elbows on the table, his grin fading into something gentler. "Yeah, but she's not him. Don't confuse the two." He paused, studying his friend. "You've carried that betrayal a long time, Dante. Don't let it blind you."
For a moment, the only sound was the city outside. Dante's fingers drummed against the armrest of his chair, a subtle rhythm betraying thought.
"She stays under watch," Dante said finally, finality in every syllable.
Andres gave a mock salute with his half-eaten pastry. "Whatever you say, boss. But careful—watch her too long, and you might forget which side of the chessboard she belongs on."
Dante shot him a sharp look, but Andres only grinned wider, unbothered. That was the thing about Andres—he was the only man in Dante's empire who could poke at the cracks in his armor and live to laugh about it.
Still, when Andres leaned back and started talking about shipments and crews, Dante wasn't listening. His mind was still caught on Serena Vale—on her laugh, her eyes, the way she walked beside him last night without knowing she was already entangled in a game she couldn't escape.
And this time, Dante wasn't sure if he wanted to free her.