The south gate lingered in Lottie's dreams. Not the iron bars or the roses curling along the stone, but the photograph taped there, her own face staring back at her in a reflection she hadn't chosen. Each time she closed her eyes, she saw it fluttering in the night air, a silent brand declaring her as spoils of a war she wanted no part of.
By morning, the estate felt different. Heavier. The guards doubled, their boots echoing in pairs wherever she went. The windows, once merely decorative, became points of vulnerability. And every reflective surface—from the gleam of marble to the polished glass of the French doors—reminded her that someone, somewhere, was always watching.
At breakfast, she found Gabe already seated at the head of the long table, untouched coffee steaming in front of him. His phone lay facedown beside the cup, as if he'd forced himself to disconnect for the briefest moment.
"Eat," he said when she entered, gesturing to the spread.
Her appetite had abandoned her the moment the photograph hit the gate, but she sat anyway. A guard lingered in the corner of the dining hall, a presence so obvious it made the air suffocating.
"You don't trust your own walls anymore," she murmured, tearing a croissant into tiny pieces.
Gabe's gaze lifted to hers, dark and unreadable. "The walls are just stone. What matters is the people inside them."
"And you think one of them is feeding Vitale information."
It wasn't a question, but his jaw tightened in answer.
"Who?" she pressed.
"If I knew," he said, voice even, "they'd already be gone."
The silence stretched, brittle and sharp. She realized then that this wasn't only a fortress; it was a cage, and the bars weren't just for her—they were for everyone inside, trapped under suspicion.
⸻
By midday, she found herself restless, pacing the length of the library with a book in hand that she never turned a single page of. The floor-to-ceiling windows cast fractured light across the carpet, and for a moment she thought she saw movement in the glass—someone just beyond the hedges.
Her pulse jumped. She darted forward, pressing her palms to the cold pane. Nothing. Only roses swaying in the wind.
"You're jumpy."
She spun. Gabe leaned against the doorway, sleeves rolled, tie discarded, his posture deceptively casual.
"Wouldn't you be?" she snapped. "My face was taped to your gate last night like some… some trophy."
His gaze sharpened. "That's exactly what he wants—for you to flinch at shadows."
She exhaled, trembling. "And you don't?"
The corner of his mouth ticked, humorless. "I see shadows for what they are: warnings. You just have to learn which ones hide knives."
He crossed the room, and for the first time she noticed faint lines under his eyes, the strain etched deep into the man who carried an empire on his shoulders. He stopped inches from her, so close the glass cooled at her back.
"Don't mistake this," he said softly, dangerously. "Vitale doesn't own you. He doesn't even see you. All he sees is me—and how far he can push before I break."
Her throat tightened. "And what if you do break?"
Something flickered in his gaze—pain, rage, maybe both. But instead of answering, he lifted a hand and pressed it against the glass beside her head, blocking out the light. "Then the whole city burns with me."
Her heart hammered, both terrified and drawn. She wanted to shove him away, to break the spell he seemed to weave every time he stood too close. But her body betrayed her, rooted in place by the heat of his presence.
⸻
That night, the estate stirred with unease. Marco returned from a scouting run with news that churned like poison in the air.
"They're not just circling," Marco told Gabe in the study, spreading photographs across the desk. "Vitale's people are embedding. We spotted lookouts near the east wall, blending in with the neighborhood. He's setting up a nest around us."
Gabe's eyes narrowed as he sifted through the grainy images. Men loitering on corners, cars idling too long, cameras angled subtly toward the estate. A slow tightening of a noose.
"He wants us paranoid," Marco added. "Afraid to step outside."
"It's working," Lottie muttered before she could stop herself.
Both men looked at her. Marco's expression softened briefly, but Gabe's gaze was fire and steel.
"Fear keeps you alive," Gabe said again, echoing his words from the night of the café. "But panic kills. Remember that."
Lottie bristled. "Easy for you to say when you're the one carrying the gun."
Gabe stepped around the desk, his presence towering. "Don't think for a second I'm not carrying more than that. Every man who dies out there, every name carved into stone—it's on me. You want to trade places?"
Her breath caught, shame twisting in her stomach. She looked away, unable to answer.
"Exactly," he said, softer now, almost regretful.
Marco cleared his throat, breaking the heavy silence. "There's something else." He slid a final photo across the desk.
Lottie froze. It was the same photograph from the gate—her face—but this one was smeared with crimson across the eyes.
Her knees weakened. "Where—where did you find this?"
"Taped to a lamppost two blocks from here," Marco replied grimly.
The room turned cold. Lottie felt every hair rise on her arms, the certainty sinking into her bones: Vitale wasn't just watching from a distance anymore. He was breathing down their necks.
Gabe's hand curled around the edge of the desk until the wood groaned. "Enough." His voice was low, lethal. "He wants to play shadows? I'll drag him into the light."
Marco nodded. "What's the move?"
Gabe didn't answer immediately. He turned instead to Lottie, his gaze locking hers. "Stay inside. No gardens. No walks. Not until I clear this."
She wanted to argue, to spit fury at being caged again. But the photograph silenced her tongue. Her own mutilated image was proof enough: she wasn't just in the crosshairs. She was the crosshairs.
⸻
Sleep didn't come easily. When she finally drifted into a fitful doze, it shattered at the sound of glass breaking somewhere in the house.
Her heart leapt into her throat. She slipped from bed, bare feet silent against the rug, and crept toward the door. The corridor outside was dim, shadows twisting. Another crash echoed—a window, maybe. Shouts followed, muffled but urgent.
Her chest tightened. Were they under attack?
A hand caught her wrist. She gasped, turning—only to find Gabe, dressed in black, gun already in hand.
"Stay behind me," he whispered.
Before she could speak, he pulled her into motion, guiding her down the hall with terrifying calm. Guards rushed past them, weapons drawn. The air was thick with the metallic tang of adrenaline, every sound magnified.
They reached the stairwell just as Marco appeared, blood smeared across his temple.
"Small breach," Marco panted. "Two men inside, taken out. But they left something behind."
"What?" Gabe demanded.
Marco's jaw clenched. "A mirror. Propped against the wall in the east corridor. And written across it in red paint…" He hesitated, then added, "Her name."
Lottie's stomach dropped.
Her name. Written in blood-red letters.
The world tilted. She barely registered Gabe's arm wrapping around her shoulders, pulling her against him as the house buzzed with sirens and boots.
"Enough," he growled again, more to himself than anyone else. "Vitale wants a war in shadows? He'll get one in fire."
And in that moment, pressed against the heartbeat of the most dangerous man she had ever known, Charlotte Rossi realized something chilling.
Vitale wasn't just after Gabe's empire. He was after her soul.
And Gabe—the man who had sworn to keep her safe—might be the only one ruthless enough to fight for it.