After that night on the terrace, everything changed.
Dante didn't summon me to his suite—we weren't that reckless. But there were stolen moments everywhere. His hand at my lower back when passing in hallways. His fingers brushing mine when I served his coffee. The way his eyes followed me through rooms, dark and wanting.
The entire household noticed. I saw it in Mrs. Chen's knowing looks, in Sophie's romantic sighs, in the way the other staff gave us space.
We were playing with fire, and everyone knew it.
A week after the dinner party, Dante left for a business trip to Chicago. Three days, he said. Just meetings.
The estate felt empty without him.
I used the time to gather more evidence—photographing documents in his study, recording conversations between his lieutenants, building my case. The FBI contact I'd established was pleased with my progress.
"Another month," Agent Morrison told me over our burner phone. "Then we move. We'll have enough to bring down the entire operation."
"And Dante?" I asked, hating the tremor in my voice.
"He'll be arrested with the others. Tried for racketeering, money laundering, conspiracy to commit murder. He's looking at twenty to life, minimum."
I ended the call feeling sick.
This was what I wanted. What I'd planned. Dante in prison, the Morelli empire destroyed, justice for my family.
So why did it feel like I was the one being sentenced?
---
Dante returned on a Thursday night, earlier than expected. I was in the library, cataloging books, when I heard his voice in the hallway.
My heart leapt traitorously.
He appeared in the doorway, still in his travel clothes, looking exhausted and somehow more dangerous for it.
"Elena."
Just my name, but the way he said it made my pulse race.
"Mr. Morelli. I didn't expect you back until tomorrow."
"The meetings finished early." He stepped into the library, closing the door behind him. "And I couldn't stay away."
The admission hung in the air between us.
"That's not wise," I managed.
"Nothing about you is wise." He crossed the room in three strides. "You're a distraction I can't afford. A weakness in my armor. Every tactical instinct I have says to stay away from you."
"Then why don't you?"
"Because tactical instincts don't account for this." He pulled me against him, and I went willingly, helplessly. "Whatever this is between us."
"Dante, we can't—"
"I know. Staff and employer. Inappropriate. Dangerous." His hands framed my face. "Tell me to stop, Elena. Tell me you don't feel this too, and I'll walk away. I'll transfer you to another property, set you up somewhere safe, and we'll never see each other again."
It was an out. A clean escape from this spiral we were caught in.
I should have taken it.
"I can't," I whispered instead. "I can't tell you that."
Something fierce and possessive flared in his eyes. "Then we're both lost."
He kissed me like a man starving, and I kissed him back like absolution I didn't deserve.
We ended up on the leather couch, tangled together, his jacket on the floor, my careful bun unraveling. His mouth on my neck, my fingers in his hair, both of us desperate and reckless.
"We should stop," he breathed against my collarbone.
"We should."
Neither of us did.
His hands slid under my shirt, warm against my ribs, and I arched into his touch. Every nerve ending was on fire, every coherent thought dissolving into pure sensation.
"Elena," he groaned. "If we don't stop now—"
A knock at the door shattered the moment.
We sprang apart, both disheveled, breathing hard. Dante ran a hand through his hair, composing himself with impressive speed.
"What?" he called out, his voice steady despite everything.
"Sir, there's a call from Marcello. He says it's urgent."
Dante closed his eyes briefly, frustration clear on his face. "I'll be right there."
When the footsteps retreated, he looked at me—really looked at me, taking in my kiss-swollen lips, my flushed cheeks, my wrinkled uniform.
"We need to talk," he said quietly. "About this. About us. Tomorrow night, after the household is asleep, come to my suite."
"Dante—"
"Please, Elena. We can't keep doing this in stolen moments. I need—" He stopped, something vulnerable crossing his features. "I need to know what this is. What you want. What's possible."
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
He pressed one more kiss to my forehead—tender, almost reverent—and left.
I sat in the library long after he'd gone, my heart racing, my mind spinning.
Tomorrow night, I'd go to his suite. We'd cross a line we could never uncross. And my mission, my revenge, my entire reason for being here would become impossibly complicated.
Because I was falling for Dante Morelli.
And there was no coming back from that.