The great hall emptied slowly, lieutenants filing out in tight knots of hushed conversation. Their boots echoed across the marble floor until only silence remained. Gabe stood at the head of the oak table, unmoving, his hands braced on the polished surface as though he could wrestle control back into the room through sheer will.
Lottie lingered in the shadows near the wall. She had no right to be here, and yet she couldn't bring herself to leave. The weight of what she had overheard pressed against her ribs, making it hard to breathe. This wasn't strategy—it was war, and war didn't leave room for innocence.
Marco was the last to remain, his expression sharp but tinged with unease. "You're holding back, Boss. I can see it. If you want to end Vitale, you can't keep playing defensive."
Gabe didn't lift his gaze. "You think I don't want his head on a spike?" His voice was low, lethal. "Every day I don't take the shot is another day I'm reminded what patience costs me. But Vitale wants me rushing. He wants me blind. I won't give him that."
Marco studied him for a beat, then exhaled heavily. "Fine. But the men are restless. They want blood."
"They'll have it," Gabe said, straightening. His eyes flicked briefly to Lottie, though he didn't acknowledge her presence aloud. "Soon enough."
Marco caught the look, smirked faintly, then muttered something about doubling the patrols before leaving them alone.
The silence that followed was thick. Lottie pushed away from the wall, her voice trembling despite her effort to keep it steady. "They talk about blood as if it's currency."
Gabe turned toward her, his face carved from shadow and restraint. "In this world, it is."
"And what am I, then?" she asked quietly. "Collateral?"
His jaw tightened. "No." He stepped closer, closing the distance until the air between them hummed with tension. "You're leverage. Which makes you more dangerous than any weapon I own."
She swallowed hard. "Dangerous to who?"
His gaze burned into her. "To me. To Vitale. To anyone who thinks they can use you to control me."
Her heart kicked violently against her ribs. She wanted to deny the charge in his words, the dangerous tether binding them tighter with every exchange. But before she could speak, a sharp knock rattled the double doors.
A guard burst in, chest heaving. "Boss—we've got movement. Perimeter cameras picked up three cars circling near the south gate. They're not ours."
Every muscle in Gabe's body coiled. "Lock it down," he ordered. "No one in or out until I say."
The guard nodded and vanished.
Lottie's pulse spiked. "They found us."
"They always knew where we were," Gabe said grimly. "This is him knocking on the door, reminding me the walls don't matter."
He strode across the hall, already pulling his phone from his pocket, issuing commands with clipped precision. The estate buzzed to life around them—boots pounding, radios crackling, the sharp clatter of weapons being readied.
Lottie followed him despite herself. "What happens if they breach the gate?"
Gabe glanced at her, dark eyes burning. "They won't."
It wasn't reassurance—it was a vow.
Minutes later, they stood in the security hub, a room lined with glowing monitors. Grainy footage flickered across the screens, showing the outer walls of the Cavelli estate. Three black cars idled just beyond the south gate, headlights cutting through the night like predator's eyes.
"They're just sitting there," one of the guards muttered. "Haven't moved for ten minutes."
Gabe's stare never left the screen. "They're waiting. Testing our response time."
"Or baiting us," Marco added from the corner.
Lottie's fingers curled into fists at her sides. The cars looked harmless at a distance, but the longer she watched, the more it felt like they were staring back.
Then, without warning, one of the car doors opened. A figure stepped out—tall, broad-shouldered, his face obscured by the hood of his jacket. He walked deliberately toward the gate, something dangling from his hand.
The guard zoomed the camera.
Lottie's breath caught. It wasn't a weapon. It was a photograph.
The hooded man stopped just shy of the gate and held it up against the iron bars. The camera's grainy quality distorted the image, but Lottie recognized it instantly.
It was her.
Her knees weakened. "Oh God…"
The man taped the photo to the gate with slow precision, then turned and climbed back into the car. All three vehicles pulled away into the night, leaving only the image fluttering in the cold wind.
"Bastards," Marco hissed.
Lottie's chest heaved. Her face stared back at her from the monitor, pale and terrified in the photograph, as if the camera had stolen more than her image—it had stolen her safety.
Gabe's hand shot out, gripping the back of her neck, forcing her to look away from the screen. "Don't give them what they want. They feed on fear."
Her voice cracked. "They're watching me. They're—"
"They've always been watching," Gabe cut in, his tone a dark growl. "You think Vitale doesn't know every move I make? Every breath I take? But him putting your picture on my gate…" His eyes blazed. "That was a declaration."
"A declaration of what?" she whispered.
"That you belong to me."
The words hung in the air, dangerous, heavy. Part claim, part curse.
Her pulse thundered in her ears. She wanted to recoil from the possessiveness in his voice, but something inside her burned at it too—an ember she didn't dare name.
Gabe turned to Marco. "Tear down every shadow within ten blocks. I want every man, every gun, every eye on Vitale's people. Make it known: anyone carrying his message doesn't live to deliver the next one."
Marco smirked grimly. "Now you're speaking my language."
The room broke into motion again, but Lottie stood frozen, Gabe's words echoing in her skull. That you belong to me.
She wasn't sure if it was a promise of protection—or the first chain tightening around her throat.
Hours later, when the estate finally stilled, Lottie lay awake in her room. The photograph haunted her—the way it clung to the gate like a warning, like a possession tag. She turned restlessly, unable to escape the weight of it.
A soft knock startled her. Before she could answer, the door cracked open. Gabe stood in the threshold, shadowed, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar.
"You're not sleeping," he said. It wasn't a question.
"Neither are you," she shot back.
His mouth curved faintly, though his eyes remained hard. "Walk with me."
She hesitated, then rose, tugging a robe over her nightgown. Barefoot, she followed him through the dim corridors, down a stairwell, and out into the cool night air.
The gardens stretched wide, moonlight silvering the roses. At the far end, the south gate loomed, now stripped bare of the photograph, though its memory lingered like a stain.
Gabe stopped before it, his profile etched sharp against the iron bars. "This is how he plays. Not with bullets. With reminders. He wants you afraid to breathe."
She crossed her arms, hugging herself. "It's working."
He turned to her then, his gaze burning. "Don't let it. Fear is his weapon, but it doesn't have to be yours."
Her throat tightened. "You speak like you've lived with it forever."
"I have," he said simply.
For a long moment, neither moved. The night wrapped around them, heavy with roses and shadows. Then Gabe stepped closer, so close she could feel the heat radiating from him.
"You asked me earlier what happens if I lose control," he murmured, his voice rough, intimate. "This is it. Vitale pushes, I push back. And in the middle…" His hand brushed her cheek, fleeting but electric. "You burn."
Her breath caught.
The distance between them crackled, thin as glass. She should have stepped back. She should have run. But instead, she stood rooted, her pulse wild, as the most dangerous man she had ever known leaned closer—not to claim her, not yet, but to remind her of the fire waiting if she dared stay.
And in the quiet of the night, with shadows pressing at the gate, Charlotte Rossi realized the truth:
There was no escape.
Not from Vitale.
Not from Gabe.
Not from the war that had already claimed her as its prize.