The café incident lingered long after the convoy returned to the Cavelli estate. Shadows stretched longer across the grounds, the air thicker, as if danger itself had seeped into the stone walls.
Lottie couldn't shake the memory—the gleam of the knife, the stranger's watchful eyes, the calm way Gabe's hand found his gun. She replayed it over and over, each frame edged sharper with fear. She had known Richard Vitale's threats were real, but seeing a man inches away from lunging at her had carved the truth into her bones.
That night, sleep wouldn't come. She lay in the guest room, staring at the ceiling, listening to the distant hum of the estate's security systems and the faintest echo of men's voices somewhere below. Gabe never slept—not really. He prowled his kingdom like a caged predator, waiting for the next move.
Finally, the restlessness consumed her. She slipped from bed, padding barefoot into the dimly lit hall. The marble floor was cold, grounding her as she followed the muted glow of light spilling from beneath the study door.
She hesitated, then pushed it open.
Gabe sat behind his desk, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up, forearms taut with tension as he reviewed documents scattered before him. A glass of whiskey sat untouched at his elbow, ice melted into pale amber. His head lifted the moment she entered, dark eyes locking onto hers.
"You should be sleeping," he said, voice low, steady.
"I couldn't," she admitted, stepping inside. "Not after today."
He leaned back in his chair, studying her. For once, there was no mask of indifference—just raw weariness etched in the set of his jaw.
"Fear keeps you alive," he said finally. "But if you let it control you, it'll break you."
She crossed the room slowly, her pulse quickening with every step. "And what about you, Gabe? You don't seem afraid of anything."
The corner of his mouth curved—half-smile, half-grimace. "That's the trick. Fear isn't something I get the luxury of showing."
Silence settled between them, thick and unspoken. She realized then how much of him remained hidden—beneath the ruthlessness, the power, the shadows he carried.
Her gaze flicked to the files on his desk. "More business?"
"Vitale," he said simply. He tapped a page with one long finger. "He's testing boundaries. The café was a message—he can reach us, even in daylight. He wants me to feel exposed. Vulnerable."
"And me," she whispered.
His gaze sharpened, dangerous. "Especially you."
Her breath caught, but she forced herself to hold his stare. "Then why take me out there at all? If you knew it was dangerous—"
"Because hiding you makes you a pawn. Showing you makes you a queen."
The words landed heavy, intimate. She didn't know if it was reassurance or a promise of war.
Before she could reply, the door swung open. Marco stepped in without ceremony, holding a phone to his ear. His usually sharp expression was grave.
"We've got a problem," he said, lowering the phone. "Vitale's men hit one of our warehouses. Firearms shipment, gone. Three of our men dead."
Gabe's entire frame stilled, then coiled with lethal precision. "When?"
"An hour ago. They left a message scrawled on the wall—your name, Boss. In blood."
Lottie's stomach turned, bile rising.
Gabe stood, pushing back his chair with controlled fury. "He's baiting me. And he thinks he's winning."
Marco glanced at Lottie, then back to Gabe. "What do you want me to do with her?"
"I'm standing right here," she snapped, anger sparking through her fear.
Marco raised his brows. "Noted."
But Gabe ignored the outburst, his eyes locked on hers. "You don't leave this estate. Not until I say otherwise. Understand?"
She bristled. "I'm not a child you can lock in a tower."
His voice dropped, steel in every word. "You're the only leverage I can't afford to lose. You stay here, or you don't survive this war."
The finality in his tone left no room for argument. He turned to Marco, already issuing orders. "Mobilize double security. Every entrance, every exit. And find out who leaked the warehouse route. Someone's feeding him information."
Marco nodded, already dialing. "On it."
The study became a whirlwind of movement, commands exchanged, papers shuffled, strategies rewritten. Lottie stood frozen, caught between fury and helplessness. She had wanted to be strong, but the truth clawed at her: she was trapped in a game where every move threatened to destroy her.
And yet, as Gabe moved through the chaos, issuing orders like a general on the battlefield, she couldn't tear her eyes away. There was power in him—terrifying, magnetic, consuming. And somewhere deep inside, she feared she wanted that power to consume her too.
The following day was suffocating. Guards shadowed her every step, their presence a reminder of how fragile her safety had become. She tried reading, tried distracting herself, but her thoughts kept circling back to Gabe—his words, his eyes, the unyielding way he had gripped her chin in the office the night before.
By afternoon, she wandered into the gardens, craving air. The roses were in bloom, their crimson petals too vivid against the backdrop of looming stone walls. She ran her fingers along the velvety edges, imagining what life might have been if she hadn't been dragged into this world of blood and power.
"You shouldn't be out here alone."
She turned to see Gabe approaching, suit jacket discarded, shirt sleeves rolled up again. Even casual, he looked untouchable, dangerous.
"I have guards watching," she said softly.
"They're not me," he replied.
She frowned. "Do you ever stop?"
"Stopping gets you killed."
There was no humor in his tone, no softness. And yet, the way his gaze lingered on her felt almost tender. Almost.
He stepped closer, the air tightening between them. "You think I do this because I like control. But the truth is, every second you breathe, every moment you stand here, depends on me keeping control."
Her chest rose and fell rapidly. "And what happens if you lose it?"
For the first time, she saw something flicker in his eyes—doubt, pain, the ghost of vulnerability. He reached out, his hand brushing hers briefly before he pulled back.
"Then we both pay the price," he said quietly.
The weight of it settled deep inside her. For the first time, she realized that beneath all the steel and violence, Gabe was still a man carrying the burden of an empire built on blood.
And if he fell, she would fall with him.
Later that night, the estate bristled with unease. Word spread that Vitale was planning something bigger. Gabe held a meeting in the great hall, his lieutenants gathered around the long oak table, voices sharp with tension.
Lottie lingered at the edge, unseen but listening.
"We strike back tonight," one man urged. "Hit his clubs, his cash flow. Show him we won't sit back."
"No," Gabe said firmly. "That's what he wants. He wants us reactive, reckless."
"Then what?" another demanded.
"We wait," Gabe replied, voice like ice. "We watch. We bleed him slowly."
It was terrifying, hearing how calculated he could be. No anger, no rash threats—just the cold promise of inevitable ruin.
But when his eyes flicked briefly toward where she stood in the shadows, she felt it: she wasn't just an outsider in this war. She was part of it now, whether she wanted to be or not.
And there would be no turning back.