## A Web Novel by Jessica
### PROLOGUE: THREE YEARS AGO
The Morelli estate burned behind me, orange flames licking the night sky like the devil's own tongue. My hands shook—not from fear, but from the weight of what I'd just done. Blood, still warm, stained the edges of my sleeves.
Two bodies. Two bullets. One debt paid.
I should have felt triumphant. Victorious. But all I felt was empty, like I'd carved out my own heart along with theirs.
I didn't know then that I'd missed one. The son, away on business in Chicago. I didn't know that three years later, he'd purchase me like cattle, and I'd have to look into eyes that held his father's same cold steel.
I didn't know I'd fall for those eyes.
But that night, running through the woods with sirens wailing in the distance, all I knew was that Antonio and Giulia Morelli would never hurt anyone again.
I made sure of that .
## CHAPTER ONE: THE AUCTION
**PRESENT DAY**
The basement of the Corsetti estate smelled like expensive cigars and cheaper desperation. I stood on the platform in a black dress they'd given me—"to show the merchandise," Marco had sneered—under lights bright enough to burn.
This was rock bottom. And I'd dived here willingly.
"Lot number seventeen," the auctioneer announced, his voice bored. This wasn't his first human trafficking auction, and it wouldn't be his last. In the Cosa Nostra's world, people were commodities. I'd learned that the hard way. "Female, twenty-four, educated, no visible defects. Starting bid: ten thousand."
I kept my eyes on the floor, counting the scuffs on the marble. Anything to avoid looking at the men gathered in the shadows, their faces obscured by cigar smoke and dim lighting. Monsters, every one of them. Just like the Morellis had been.
Just like I'd become.
"Fifteen thousand," a voice called from the left.
"Twenty," another countered.
My stomach twisted. I'd orchestrated this—sold myself to Marco Corsetti's organization to get close to the remaining Morelli operations. Intelligence suggested Dante Morelli, the son, did business with the Corsettis. That he might even show up tonight.
I hadn't expected to feel so much like prey.
"Thirty thousand." This voice was different. Deeper. It cut through the smoke and chatter like a blade through silk.
The room went quiet.
I looked up before I could stop myself, and my breath caught.
He stood at the back of the room, partially shadowed, but the light caught his profile. Sharp jaw, dark hair pushed back carelessly, a suit that probably cost more than most people's cars. But it was his eyes that held me—dark, intense, and fixed on me with an expression I couldn't read.
Dante Morelli. It had to be.
The man whose parents I'd killed was staring at me like I was something he wanted to own.
"Thirty thousand," the auctioneer repeated, excitement creeping into his voice. "Do I hear thirty-five?"
Silence.
"Forty thousand," Dante said, not looking away from me. Not even blinking.
My heart hammered against my ribs. This wasn't the plan. The plan was to be bought by someone in his organization, work my way into his household, find proof of the crimes his family had committed. Not this. Not being owned by him directly.
"Fifty thousand." His voice was final, a door slamming shut.
The auctioneer's gavel cracked like a gunshot. "Sold! To Mr. Morelli."
I'd wanted to get close to him. Careful what you wish for, whispered a voice in my head.
As men moved to process the transaction, Dante walked toward the platform. Each step was measured, predatory. When he reached me, he was close enough that I could smell his cologne—something dark and expensive, cedar and smoke.
"Look at me," he said quietly.
I raised my eyes to his. Up close, he was devastating. Not classically handsome—his nose had been broken at least once, and a thin scar cut through his left eyebrow—but magnetic in a way that made my pulse skip.
"What's your name?"
I'd prepared for this. New identity, new life. Bury Catalina Russo, the girl whose family was destroyed by the Morellis. Become someone else.
"Elena," I said, my voice steady despite everything. "Elena Voss."
"Elena," he repeated, testing it. His gaze traveled over my face, studying me like I was a puzzle he intended to solve. "Why would someone like you end up here?"
Someone like me. What did he see? A desperate woman? A victim? If only he knew.
"Debt," I said. It wasn't entirely a lie. I owed his family a debt. Just not the kind he thought.
"To whom?"
"Does it matter? It's paid now." By you, I didn't add.
Something flickered in his expression—amusement, maybe. "You have spirit. Good. I have no use for broken things." He stepped back, gesturing to one of his men. "Marco, bring the car around. We're leaving."
Just like that. I belonged to him.
As he turned away, already pulling out his phone to make some call, I stood there in my white dress under the burning lights, and wondered if I'd just made the biggest mistake of my life.
Or the best tactical move I'd ever make.
Either way, there was no going back now.
---
## CHAPTER TWO: THE MORELLI ESTATE
The drive to Dante's estate took forty-five minutes through winding coastal roads. I sat in the back of a black Mercedes, Dante beside me, his attention on his phone while I stared out the window at darkness punctuated by streetlights.
He hadn't spoken since we left the auction. Hadn't touched me. Hadn't even looked at me.
I should have been relieved. Instead, I found myself hyperaware of him—the way his fingers moved across his phone screen, the subtle shift of expensive fabric when he crossed his legs, the controlled way he breathed.
This was the son of my enemies. I needed to remember that.
"You're quiet," he said suddenly, not looking up from his screen.
"Should I be talking?"
Now he did look at me, one dark eyebrow raised. "Most people in your situation are either crying or begging by now. You're doing neither."
"Would either change anything?"
"No."
"Then why waste the energy?"
The corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. He returned to his phone, but I caught the faintest hint of interest in his expression.
Good. Interested was better than indifferent. Indifferent men didn't keep you close.
The estate appeared like something out of a Gothic novel—all stone and iron gates, perched on cliffs overlooking the Pacific. My hands clenched in my lap.
I'd been here before. Three years ago, in darkness, with a gun and nothing left to lose.
The layout had changed. New security gates, cameras everywhere, floodlights that turned night into day. Dante had fortified his inheritance.
But I still recognized the west wing windows, the servant's entrance, the garden path I'd used to escape while the mansion burned.
"Home," Dante said dryly, catching my expression. "Or it will be, for you."
The car stopped at the main entrance. A woman in her fifties stood waiting, perfectly postured in a black dress—the head housekeeper, I guessed.
Dante got out first, buttoning his suit jacket with practiced ease. He didn't wait for the driver to open my door, doing it himself and offering his hand.
I stared at it for a moment. The hand of Antonio Morelli's son.
I took it.
His palm was warm, his grip firm as he helped me out. For just a second, we stood close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
"Mrs. Chen will show you to your quarters and explain your duties," he said. "You'll start tomorrow."
"And tonight?"
"Tonight, you rest. You look exhausted." He released my hand and started toward the entrance, then paused. "Elena?"
"Yes?"
"Don't try to run. The gates are locked, the grounds are patrolled, and there's nowhere to go that I won't find you." He said it matter-of-factly, like he was commenting on the weather. "Understood?"
I nodded.
He disappeared into the house, leaving me with Mrs. Chen, who looked me over with the practiced eye of someone who'd seen plenty of girls in my position.
"This way," she said crisply.
The interior was different too—remodeled, modernized, though some original features remained. The grand staircase where Giulia Morelli had fallen. The hallway where Antonio had tried to run.
I followed Mrs. Chen up the stairs, my bare feet silent on marble floors that had once run red.
"You'll have a room in the staff wing," Mrs. Chen explained. "Breakfast is at six, and you'll receive your assignments then. Mr. Morelli has specific expectations. Meet them, and you'll find him fair. Disappoint him..." She let the sentence hang.
My room was small but clean—a single bed, a dresser, a window that overlooked the gardens. Simple. Functional.
A prison dressed up as accommodation.
Mrs. Chen left me with a uniform—black dress, white apron, the classic maid outfit that was probably meant to be demeaning—and instructions to be ready by six a.m.
When the door closed, I was finally alone.
I walked to the window and looked out at the gardens, at the hedge maze I'd run through three years ago with blood on my hands and murder in my heart.
"I'm back," I whispered to the ghosts I'd made. "And this time, I'm finishing what I started."
But even as I said it, my hand rose to my chest, where my heart still raced from the moment Dante had taken my hand.
This was going to be more complicated than I'd planned.
---
## CHAPTER THREE: FIRST MORNING
The alarm I'd set on the cheap phone Mrs. Chen provided went off at five-thirty. I'd barely slept—too many memories, too much adrenaline, too many thoughts of dark eyes and dangerous hands.
I dressed in the uniform they'd left. The black dress fit perfectly, which somehow made it worse. They'd measured me at the auction, I realized. Catalogued every inch like inventory.
By five-fifty, I was standing in the kitchen, where Mrs. Chen was already coordinating the morning staff—three other girls, all younger than me, all keeping their eyes down.
"Elena," Mrs. Chen said sharply. "You'll handle Mr. Morelli's breakfast and private quarters. Follow me."
The other girls shot me looks I couldn't quite interpret. Pity? Envy? Fear?
Mrs. Chen led me through the mansion's main floor, pointing out rooms as we went. "Dining room. Study. Library—off limits unless specifically requested. Mr. Morelli's office—never enter without permission. Are you listening?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Mr. Morelli breakfasts at seven precisely. Black coffee, two eggs over easy, wheat toast. The coffee is prepared with beans from the canister marked 'private' in the kitchen. Never use the regular supply."
Control freak, I noted. Useful information.
We climbed the stairs to the second floor. My pulse quickened as we approached the master suite.
"You'll clean his quarters daily after he leaves for his office," Mrs. Chen continued. "Change the linens twice weekly. Never touch his desk, his computer, or the locked cabinet in his closet. Never answer his phone. Never—"
"—enter without knocking. I understand."
Mrs. Chen's eyes narrowed. "You're very composed for someone in your position."
I met her gaze steadily. "I've learned that panic doesn't change circumstances. Only actions do."
For a moment, something almost like respect flickered across her face. Then it was gone, replaced by professional coldness.
"The breakfast tray is ready. Knock twice, wait for acknowledgment, enter, place it on the table by the window, and leave. Do not speak unless spoken to."
She left me alone in the hallway, holding a silver tray with Dante Morelli's breakfast.
I stared at the double doors to his suite.
Behind those doors was the son of the people I'd killed. The man who now owned me. The man whose dark eyes had made my pulse race last night in ways that had nothing to do with fear.
This was what I'd wanted. Access. Proximity.
So why did my hands shake as I raised them to knock?
Two sharp raps. Professional. Controlled.
"Come in." His voice was rough with sleep, and something about that intimacy made my stomach flip.
I opened the door.
The master suite was enormous—all dark wood and leather, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean. And there, standing by those windows in nothing but black pajama pants, was Dante Morelli.
My breath caught.
He was all lean muscle and controlled power, his back to me as he looked out at the sunrise. Dark hair still mussed from sleep. The light caught scars I couldn't see clearly from the doorway—evidence of a violent life.
"On the table," he said without turning around.
I crossed the room, hyperaware of every step, and set the tray down with barely a sound.
"Elena." My name stopped me halfway to the door. "Come here."
Every instinct screamed danger. But I turned and walked to where he stood by the window.
Up close, in the morning light, he was even more devastating. A thin scar ran along his ribs—knife wound, I'd guess. Another across his collarbone. His body was a map of violence survived.
"Look at me," he said quietly.
I raised my eyes to his face. He was studying me again, that same intense focus from last night, but now there was something else in his expression. Curiosity, maybe.
"You're not afraid of me," he observed.
"Should I be?"
"Most people are."
"I'm not most people."
His eyes darkened with something I couldn't name. For a long moment, we stood there, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his skin, could smell coffee and sleep and expensive cologne.
"No," he said finally. "I'm beginning to see that you're not."
He stepped back, breaking the tension like a snapped wire. "That's all. You can go."
I should have left immediately. Should have been grateful for the dismissal.
Instead, I heard myself say, "The scar on your ribs. Knife or broken glass?"
He froze, genuinely surprised. "Excuse me?"
"The scar. It's too clean for glass, too jagged for a professional blade. I'd guess a kitchen knife, wielded by someone desperate rather than trained."
Silence stretched between us. I'd overstepped. Revealed too much knowledge, too much observation.
But instead of anger, I saw fascination flicker across his features.
"A kitchen knife," he confirmed slowly. "Five years ago. A rival family's son, high on cocaine and rage." He tilted his head. "How did you know?"
"I pay attention to details. It's kept me alive."
"Alive from what, Elena Voss?" He stepped closer again, invading my space deliberately. "What exactly is a woman like you running from?"
Everything. Nothing. You.
"Does it matter?" I asked, echoing my words from last night. "I'm here now."
"Yes," he said softly, his gaze dropping to my mouth for just a fraction of a second. "You are."
The air between us felt electric, dangerous. I needed to leave before I did something stupid.
"Will that be all, Mr. Morelli?"
"For now." But his eyes held a promise—or a threat. "We'll speak again, Elena. I find you... interesting."
I left his suite with my heart pounding and my mind racing.
Interesting was dangerous.
Interesting meant attention.
And attention from Dante Morelli could either give me the access I needed to destroy him...
...or destroy me first.
---
## CHAPTER FOUR: PATTERNS AND PIECES
Three weeks passed in a careful dance of service and surveillance.
I learned Dante's patterns. He woke at six, ran five miles on the beach regardless of weather, returned for breakfast at seven. He worked in his study until noon, took calls on the terrace in the afternoon, entertained business associates—criminals, I reminded myself—in the evenings.
He was methodical, controlled, and utterly devoted to the empire his father had built.
The empire built on blood and suffering. On families like mine.
I learned other things too. Things I didn't want to notice.
The way he was unfailingly polite to the staff, never raising his voice even when something went wrong. How he'd anonymously paid for Mrs. Chen's daughter's college tuition. That he kept a worn photo of a young woman on his desk—his sister, I'd discovered, killed in a rival family attack when Dante was nineteen.
He wasn't supposed to be human. He was supposed to be a monster.
It would be easier if he were just a monster.
"You're staring again," came a voice behind me.
I turned to find Sophie, one of the other maids, grinning at me. She was nineteen, bought to pay her brother's gambling debts, and had decided to cope with captivity through relentless optimism.
"I'm not staring. I'm observing."
"You're staring at him like he's water and you're dying of thirst." Sophie leaned against the doorway. "Trust me, every girl here has done it. Those eyes. That body. That whole dangerous-crime-boss thing he has going on."
"He's our employer," I said flatly.
"He's sex on legs and you know it." Sophie lowered her voice. "Word of advice? Don't fall for him. I've seen three girls try in the two years I've been here. It never ends well."
"I'm not falling for anyone."
But even as I said it, I thought of this morning—how Dante had caught me struggling with a heavy box of books for his library, how he'd simply taken it from me without a word, his fingers brushing mine. How that brief touch had sent electricity up my arm.
How he'd looked at me afterward, something unreadable in his dark eyes.
"Sure you're not," Sophie said, unconvinced. "Just be careful, Elena. Mr. Morelli might be better than most of these monsters, but he's still one of them. And they don't love. They own."
She left me with those words echoing in my head.
I spent the afternoon cleaning Dante's study while he was out meeting with his accountant. This was what I'd been waiting for—unsupervised access to his private space.
I worked quickly, photographing documents with the tiny camera I'd hidden in my uniform. Financial records. Names of associates. Meeting schedules.
Evidence. That's what I needed. Proof of crimes to bring to the FBI, to finally dismantle the organization that had destroyed my family.
I was photographing a ledger when I heard footsteps in the hallway.
My heart stopped. He wasn't supposed to be back for another hour.
I shoved the camera into my pocket and grabbed the duster, pretending to clean his bookshelf just as the door opened.
Dante walked in, stopping short when he saw me.
"Elena. I didn't realize you'd be in here."
"I can come back later, Mr. Morelli."
"No, it's fine. I just need to grab something." He crossed to his desk, and I forced myself to breathe normally, to not think about the camera in my pocket or the fact that I'd been photographing his private documents thirty seconds ago.
He opened a drawer, pulled out a file, then paused.
"Elena, come here for a moment."
Every nerve in my body went on high alert. Did he know? Had I left something out of place?
I walked to his desk, keeping my expression neutral.
He was holding a piece of paper—a menu. "I'm hosting a dinner party Friday night. Eight guests. I need you to coordinate with Mrs. Chen on the preparations."
Just work. Just normal work.
"Of course. Any dietary restrictions I should know about?"
"Marcello doesn't eat shellfish. Otherwise, use your judgment." He set the menu down, but didn't dismiss me. Instead, he leaned against his desk, studying me with that intensity that always made my pulse race. "You've been here three weeks."
"Yes, sir."
"And in that time, you haven't asked for a single day off, haven't requested to contact anyone outside these walls, haven't caused any trouble whatsoever."
I said nothing, unsure where this was going.
"Why?" he asked bluntly. "Most people in your situation are desperate to leave, or at least to maintain contact with their old lives. You seem content to simply... exist here."
Because I have nowhere else to go. Because everyone I loved is dead. Because I'm here to destroy you and I can't do that from a distance.
"Perhaps I'm making the best of my circumstances," I said carefully.
"Or perhaps you have no old life to return to." His eyes were too knowing, seeing too much. "Tell me something true, Elena. Just one thing."
My throat tightened. "What do you want to know?"
"Why you're really here."
The question hung in the air between us, heavy with implications.
I could lie. Should lie. Keep my cover intact.
But something about the way he looked at me—like he genuinely wanted to know, like I was more than just a servant or a possession—made me want to give him something real.
"I'm here because I have nothing left to lose," I said quietly. It was true, even if not in the way he'd interpret it. "Everything that mattered to me is gone. This... this is just survival now."
Sympathy flickered across his features, quickly masked. "I understand that feeling more than you know."
He pushed off from the desk, moving closer. Too close. I could smell his cologne again, see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes.
"We're alike in some ways, you and I," he said softly. "Both trying to survive in a world that's tried to break us."
If only he knew how true that was. How his family had been the ones trying to break mine.
"Mr. Morelli—"
"Dante," he corrected. "When we're alone, call me Dante."
That felt dangerous. Intimate. A line being crossed.
"That wouldn't be appropriate."
"Very little about you is appropriate, Elena Voss." His voice dropped lower. "You're too educated to be a maid. Too observant. Too... everything."
He raised his hand slowly, giving me time to step back, to refuse.
I didn't move.
His fingers touched my chin, tilting my face up to his. My breath caught.
"I find myself thinking about you," he admitted, his thumb brushing along my jaw. "More than I should. More than is wise."
"Then stop," I whispered, even as my body betrayed me, leaning infinitesimally closer.
"I wish I could." His eyes darkened with want, with something raw and honest that made my heart stutter. "Tell me to stop, Elena. Tell me you don't feel this too."
I should have said exactly that. Should have pulled away, remembered who he was, what I was here to do.
But I was drowning in his gaze, in the heat of his hand against my skin, in the terrible truth that I did feel it—this magnetic pull between us that made no sense and every sense at once.
"I—" I started.
A knock at the door shattered the moment.
Dante stepped back immediately, his expression shuttering into professional coldness. "Come in."
Mrs. Chen entered with a message about a phone call. By the time she left, the moment was gone, replaced by careful distance.
"You should finish your work," Dante said, his voice controlled again. "And Elena? Friday's dinner is important. Don't disappoint me."
I nodded and fled, my emotions in chaos.
In my room that night, I stared at the photos on my camera. Evidence against the Morelli organization. Against Dante.
Against the man whose touch had made me forget, just for a moment, why I hated him.
I was in trouble.
Because somewhere between planning his destruction and serving his breakfast, I'd started to see Dante Morelli as more than the son of my enemies.
I'd started to see him as a man.
A dangerous, damaged, devastatingly attractive man who looked at me like I mattered.
And that was more dangerous than any gun I'd ever held.
**TO BE CONTINUED...**