The mirror was gone by dawn, but its impression lingered like smoke. Even after the shards had been swept away and the crimson scrawl scrubbed clean, Lottie swore she could still see her name bleeding faintly in the grain of the marble.
The estate moved like a body waking from trauma. Guards rotated in tighter patterns. Radios hissed with clipped reports. The front gates opened only long enough for deliveries before snapping shut again, metal groaning like a warning bell. No one spoke to her directly, not the housekeepers, not the soldiers, not even Marco unless Gabe was present.
She drifted through the halls like an intruder in her own skin, piecing together fragments of overheard conversations.
"…too clean of an entry."
"…knew the cameras' blind spot."
"…wasn't just intimidation—it was a message."
Every unfinished sentence scraped across her nerves like broken glass.
By the time she found her way into the atrium, Gabe was already there, sleeves rolled, hair mussed like he hadn't slept. Maps and photographs sprawled across the glass table, the whole estate rendered in angles and red marks. Marco stood beside him, his temple bandaged, his eyes bruised but sharp.
Lottie hovered at the threshold, uncertain if she was meant to be here.
"You think it was an inside hand," Marco said.
"I don't think," Gabe replied, not looking up. "I know."
The words sent a chill down her spine. "Inside?"
Both men turned toward her, surprise flashing and then cooling into something unreadable. Gabe's gaze settled on her, steady but hard, as if weighing how much truth she could hold without breaking.
"It was too precise," he said. "They knew where the guards rotated, how long the cameras went blind. That's not Vitale guessing—that's Vitale being fed."
Her throat tightened. "Then why me? Why not you?"
A silence stretched long enough for her pulse to thunder. Marco glanced at Gabe, but Gabe didn't look away from her.
"Because you're not his target," Gabe said at last. "You're mine."
Her lips parted. "What does that even mean?"
"He wants me to bleed," Gabe said flatly. "But first he wants me distracted. He wants me watching you instead of him."
The words should have soothed her, but they felt thin, like a veil tugged too tight across a deeper wound.
By midday, the walls of the estate pressed too close. She escaped to the conservatory, needing air. The glass dome arched high above, sunlight breaking through into fractured beams. Roses climbed the iron lattice, their scent heady and sweet, almost sickening in the heavy air.
She traced a finger along the curve of a crimson bloom, wishing she could fold herself into its petals and disappear.
"You shouldn't be alone."
His voice—low, smooth, inevitable.
She turned to see Gabe in the doorway, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled, the taut control in his body looking like it might snap.
"I'm not porcelain," she muttered.
"No," he said, stepping closer. "You're fire. And fire attracts shadows."
Her laugh came brittle, broken. "That's poetic. Does it help? Dressing it up with metaphors while men tape my face to your gates?"
He stopped only a foot from her, his presence filling the space until the roses felt like they were closing in. His gaze burned into hers. "Do you want the truth? You matter to me. That's why he chose you."
The air fractured. Her breath stilled. It was the first time he had said it out loud, without the mask of command or deflection.
Her chest tightened—terror and longing in equal measure.
But before she could push for more, Marco's voice rang sharp from the hall.
"Boss. We've got something."
They reconvened in the study. Marco set a slim folder on the desk, the leather worn, the corners frayed.
"This came from Palermo," he explained, glancing between them. "Old contact of mine dug it up. Says Vitale's fixation with the Rossi name didn't start last night. It goes back decades."
Lottie frowned, the sound of her family name jarring in this dark room. "The Rossi name?"
Marco hesitated, then slid a page free: a photograph of her father. Younger, sharper, not the soft man she remembered bent over his desk at night. This version of him wore a suit that looked more armor than fabric.
"What is this?" she whispered.
"Your father wasn't just a businessman, Lottie," Marco said carefully. "Before he married your mother and stepped into quiet life, he worked with Cavelli operations. Logistics. Ledgers. Records."
Her pulse stumbled. "Records?"
"Ledgers that could topple more than one family if they saw daylight." Marco's tone was grim. "If they still exist."
Her stomach lurched. Her father—gentle, distant, always with his ink-stained fingers and soft voice—suddenly felt like a stranger.
"You're saying this is about… papers?"
"No." Gabe's voice cut through, low and unyielding. "This is about legacy. Those records were insurance. Rossi blood is the only key anyone would trust. Vitale thinks your family still has what could bury him. He doesn't just want those ledgers gone—he wants the bloodline gone, so no one can ever rise and use them."
Her knees weakened. She gripped the back of a chair to stay upright.
"So he won't stop."
"No," Gabe said, meeting her gaze with lethal certainty. "Not until I make him."
That night, her room felt like a cage. She sat by the window, staring down at the grounds below. Guards paced in neat intervals, their flashlights slicing across the lawn. Beyond the walls, the city lights flickered, indifferent to her fear.
Her mind whirled with scraps of the past. Her father's late nights. The books he never let anyone touch. The quiet arguments her mother hushed with a single glance. She remembered asking once why their name seemed to make some men stiffen in respect and others sneer in contempt. Her father had only smiled, pressed a kiss to her forehead, and told her to study hard.
How much had been lies?
And then there was Gabe—his vow like fire, his presence like both salvation and prison. She wanted to hate him for what he wasn't telling her, but every time his hand brushed hers, every time his voice dropped low, her resolve fractured.
A sound tugged her from her thoughts. Not breaking glass this time, but the faint creak of footsteps outside her door.
Her chest seized. Slowly, she rose, crossing the rug in bare feet. She pressed her ear against the wood.
A whisper. Too soft to catch. Then silence.
Her pulse hammered. She turned the knob, easing the door open.
The corridor was empty.
But at the far end of the hall, something gleamed under the weak spill of moonlight: another mirror, tall, its surface tilted toward her.
Her stomach twisted.
She forced herself forward, each step heavier than the last. The mirror's surface caught her reflection—pale skin, wide eyes, a ghost version of herself.
But it wasn't her reflection that froze her blood.
Carved deep into the glass, jagged and merciless, were three words:
YOU ARE NEXT.
Her breath hitched, the sound tearing from her throat before she could choke it back. The words weren't paint this time. They were etched, carved with force, grooves catching the silver of the moon.
Her knees buckled, and she clutched the wall. Somewhere behind her, footsteps thundered.
"Lottie!" Gabe's voice, sharp, commanding.
He reached her in seconds, pulling her away from the mirror, his arm steel around her shoulders. His other hand already held his gun, eyes sweeping the hall.
Marco appeared seconds later, weapon drawn. His face blanched when he saw the glass.
Gabe's fury was silent, a storm contained by the barest thread. His jaw clenched so tightly she thought it might break.
"Check every room," he barked at Marco. "Every hallway, every crawlspace. No one breathes in this house without my knowing."
Marco nodded, already moving.
Gabe turned her toward him, his grip almost bruising. His eyes burned into hers, not with softness, but with something raw, something terrifying.
"He won't stop," Gabe said, voice shaking with a rage she had never heard from him before. "Not until he's ashes, or we are."
And in that moment, Charlotte Rossi realized the truth: Vitale's vendetta wasn't against the Cavellis. It wasn't even about territory or business.
It was about her.
She was no longer just bait.
She was the hunted.