The next morning dawned with a silence that felt deceptive. No gunfire, no shouting guards, no smashed glass—just the muted hum of the Cavelli estate settling into routine. Yet under the calm, Lottie felt the tension coiled tight, like a storm waiting to break.
She sat in the library, staring at a book she hadn't turned a page of in over an hour. Her mind kept circling back to the same truth Gabe had driven home the night before: she was tethered to him now, whether she liked it or not.
The heavy creak of the door pulled her from her thoughts. Gabe stepped inside, his presence consuming the space instantly. Black suit, tie slightly loosened, eyes sharp as cut glass. He didn't ask if he could sit; he simply did, across from her, as if claiming the air between them.
"Richard Vitale made a move," he said, voice even but cold.
Lottie's chest tightened. "Another attack?"
"No." His gaze locked on hers, unreadable. "A message."
She frowned. "What kind of message?"
Before he could answer, Marco appeared in the doorway, holding an envelope with gloved hands like it was toxic. "Special delivery," he said dryly. "Dropped at the gate this morning. No return address, but… let's just say subtlety isn't Vitale's strong suit."
He handed the envelope to Gabe. Gabe slit it open with a swift motion, eyes scanning the contents. His jaw clenched once, then he set the letter on the table and slid it toward Lottie.
Her hand shook as she reached for it.
The paper was thick, the ink bold and cruel:
Charlotte Rossi,
The Cavelli prince cannot keep you forever. Come willingly, and you'll be spared. Resist, and you'll burn with him.
—R.V.
Her stomach lurched. "He—he's threatening me directly now?"
Gabe leaned back, arms crossed, his expression carved from stone. "He always was. Now he wants you to know it."
Marco gave a low whistle. "Gotta admire the guy's penmanship, at least. Real dramatic flair."
Lottie shot him a look. "Not helping."
He lifted his hands. "What? I'm just saying, if the whole mafia gig doesn't work out, Vitale could have a future in ransom notes."
Gabe's glare cut him off. Marco sighed and stepped back, muttering under his breath about "tough crowds."
Lottie returned her gaze to the letter. Her heart hammered, but anger slowly seeped into the cracks of her fear. "He thinks I'll just walk to him? Like I'm some… prize to be handed over?"
Gabe's voice was low, dangerous. "You're Daniel's sister. To him, that makes you both a prize and a weapon."
She swallowed hard. "And what am I to you?"
The question slipped out before she could stop it.
Silence stretched. Gabe's eyes locked on hers, and for a heartbeat she swore she saw something flicker there—something raw, unguarded. But then it was gone, buried under the steel of his composure.
"You're under my protection," he said.
Not an answer. Not really. But she didn't press, because the weight of it was already too much.
By afternoon, the estate buzzed with movement. Guards doubled at the gates. Cars were checked twice before being allowed near the grounds. Gabe held meetings in low, heated tones behind closed doors, while Marco's sardonic commentary drifted through the halls.
Lottie wandered into the kitchen, desperate for something normal. She found Marco leaning against the counter, flipping a knife in one hand like it was a toy.
"Morning, sunshine," he said without looking up. "Or afternoon. Hard to tell when you're on lockdown."
She opened the fridge, scanning shelves of neatly arranged food. "Do you ever stop with the commentary?"
"Nope. It's how I cope. Bullets, blood, betrayal—throw in a few one-liners, and it almost feels like a sitcom."
She shut the fridge and arched a brow. "A sitcom? Really?"
"Hey, don't knock it." He smirked. "We've got all the ingredients. Brooding antihero." He ticked a finger toward the ceiling, where Gabe was likely pacing his office. "Fiery heroine." He pointed at her. "And me, the charming sidekick who steals every scene."
Despite herself, Lottie laughed—a sharp, unexpected sound that startled her as much as him. It felt good, if only for a second.
The kitchen door swung open then, and Gabe stepped inside. His gaze flicked between them, lingering on her laugh, before settling on Marco with enough weight to silence a city.
Marco coughed into his fist. "Right. Time to go… do literally anything else." He slipped out, leaving a trail of amusement in his wake.
Gabe turned his attention to Lottie. "You shouldn't be alone."
She crossed her arms. "I wasn't."
"Marco doesn't count."
"Why not? Because he makes me laugh?"
The words came out sharper than she intended, but Gabe didn't flinch. He stepped closer, close enough that the air shifted, charged.
"Because he won't be the one taking bullets for you," he said quietly.
Her heart stumbled. She hated how those words landed, heavy and unshakable, burrowing deep into places she didn't want touched.
She turned away, busying herself with a glass of water she didn't need. "You talk like I'm your responsibility. Not your equal. Not your… anything else."
Behind her, his voice was low, rough. "That's because you're not anything else."
But the silence that followed felt like a lie.
That night, Gabe called a meeting in the study. Marco was there, along with two lieutenants Lottie had seen around the estate but never spoken to. She hovered near the door, unwilling but unable to leave.
Richard's letter sat on the desk, its words still burning into her mind.
"We strike first," one lieutenant said. "Send a message that Vitale doesn't control this city."
"Too risky," the other countered. "He wants us to move. We wait, force him into the open."
Gabe listened, silent, his gaze fixed on the flames in the fireplace. Finally, he spoke. "Vitale won't stop until he has leverage. Which means his eyes stay on her."
The room went quiet.
Lottie's stomach dropped.
Marco broke the silence with a sigh. "Well, nothing says fun like painting a target on the girl you're trying to protect."
"No one touches her," Gabe said, his tone final. "Not Vitale. Not anyone. She stays with me. Always."
The weight of his words filled the room, thick and suffocating. Lottie's pulse raced.
She was trapped. Protected, yes. But also claimed, in ways that scared her more than Vitale's threats.
And the worst part?
A part of her didn't want to fight it anymore.