The room in the North Wing was a masterpiece of cold, gothic opulence. High vaulted ceilings were lost in shadows, and the walls were lined with dark velvet that seemed to swallow the very light of the morning. To anyone else, it was a royal suite. To Elena Lombardi, it was a gilded coffin.
She stood by the window, staring at the sprawling estate of the Moretti family. Below, armed men with hounds patrolled the perimeter. This wasn't just a home; it was a sovereign state of violence.
A heavy click echoed. The door opened, and Dante Moretti walked in.
He had changed. He now wore a charcoal-grey vest over a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and etched with the history of his wars. He didn't knock. He owned the air she breathed; why would he crave her permission?
"The dress fits," Dante remarked, his voice a low vibration that seemed to hum in the floorboards. He leaned against the doorframe, his grey eyes tracing the curve of the black silk he had chosen for her. "Black suits you, Elena. It matches the wreckage of your life."
Elena turned, her jaw set in a line of defiance that had been carved through years of being a Don's daughter. "You sent a servant to tell me I'm a liability. If I'm such a burden, why not just throw me to the Valenti wolves?"
Dante walked toward her, his movements slow and deliberate, like a predator who knew the prey had nowhere to run. He stopped when only a breath of air separated them. The scent of him—expensive tobacco, rain, and something dangerously masculine—clouded her senses.
"Because the wolves are messy," Dante whispered, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His fingers were cold, sending a shiver down her spine that she hated. "I prefer my assets controlled. Organized. And right now, you are the most chaotic asset in Italy."
"I am not an asset," she hissed, stepping back. "I am the daughter of Lorenzo Lombardi."
"You are the daughter of a dead man," Dante corrected her sharply. "And in this city, a name without a pulse is just a target. You have exactly twenty-four hours to tell me the location of the 'Black Swan' files. If you don't, I'll stop being your protector and start being the monster everyone says I am."
He turned his back on her, walking toward a small table where a bottle of vintage Scotch sat. He poured a glass, the amber liquid catching the dim light.
"Tonight, the Commission meets," he continued, not looking at her. "Your father's seat is vacant. Valenti will try to take it. He'll claim you're dead or in hiding. If I show up with you by my side, it's a declaration of war. If I show up without you, I'm just a man watching a funeral."
Elena felt the weight of his words. "Then take me with you. Let them see I'm alive."
Dante laughed, a dry, hollow sound. He turned, his eyes piercing through her. "You want to walk into a room full of men who want to r*pe or kill you just to prove a point? You're either incredibly brave or remarkably stupid, Piccola."
He walked back to her, grabbing her chin with a sudden, firm grip. He forced her to look up at him. "Look at me. Really look at me."
Elena gasped at the intensity in his gaze. Up close, his face was a map of hidden scars and absolute authority.
"I don't do 'partnerships'," Dante growled, his voice dropping an octave. "I lead. You follow. I speak. You listen. In this castle, you are my shadow. You eat when I'm hungry, you sleep when I'm tired, and you breathe because I allow it. Is that clear?"
The silence in the room was deafening. Elena could hear her own heart thudding against her ribs like a trapped bird. She saw the darkness in him—the void that made him the King of the North. But she also saw the heavy crown he wore.
"I will give you the files," Elena said, her voice shaking but her eyes steady. "But only when I see Valenti's world burn. I want him to lose everything, just like I did."
Dante's thumb traced her lower lip, a gesture that was half-threat, half-caress. A dark spark ignited in his eyes—a recognition of the fire inside her.
"Careful, Elena," he murmured, leaning closer until his lips almost brushed hers. "If you play with the Devil, you don't just watch the world burn. You burn with it."
He released her abruptly and walked toward the door. "Nero will be outside your door. He hasn't been fed today. I'd suggest you stay inside."
As the door slammed shut and the lock turned, Elena realized she wasn't just afraid of the men who killed her father. She was afraid of the man who was going to help her avenge him. Because the price of Dante Moretti's protection might be her very soul.
The silence in the Moretti castle was far more suffocating than the gunfire of the night before. Elena could not stay still. The darkness in her room seemed to whisper, reminding her of her father's blood pooling on the marble floor.
Nero, the massive Doberman, was supposed to be guarding her door. However, Elena noticed something: her door hadn't been properly bolted from the outside—a rare lapse in Dante's meticulous oversight, or perhaps a deliberate test. With her heart hammering against her ribs, she slipped out into the hallway.
The castle was a labyrinth of cold stone and buried secrets. She avoided the main corridors, following a strange pull toward the South Wing—an area Dante had strictly forbidden her from entering. Unlike the rest of the fortress, which was modern and masculine, the South Wing felt... ancient. Dusty. And deathly quiet.
Elena reached a heavy wooden door that stood slightly ajar. Faint candlelight crawled through the crack. She peered inside.
It wasn't an office or an armory. It was a hidden, private chapel.
There, Dante Moretti was not holding a pistol or a glass of whiskey. He was kneeling before a small, modest altar. His black shirt, usually pristine, was disheveled, and his broad shoulders were hunched in a posture of profound tension.
On the altar sat more than just a crucifix. There was an old silver picture frame and a pair of tiny baby shoes, yellowed by time.
"I'm sorry," Dante's voice broke the silence. It wasn't the voice of a cold demon; it was the voice of a man hollowed out by grief. "I still haven't found them. But I swear, blood will be paid with blood."
Elena held her breath. This ruthless man, the butcher of the North, possessed a ritual of sorrow so deep it felt holy. But as she tried to step back, the ancient floorboard beneath her foot gave a sharp groan.
Creek.
In a split second, the atmosphere in the room shifted from mourning to murder. Dante stood with lightning speed. Before Elena could turn to run, a powerful hand slammed into the stone wall beside her head, and another gripped her throat, pinning her back.
"What the hell are you doing here?!" Dante growled. His eyes were no longer a calm, steady gray; they were burning with a feral, raw rage. His face was inches from hers, his breath ragged.
"I... I was just..." Elena struggled to breathe. Dante's grip wasn't choking her, but the sheer force of his presence was paralyzing.
Dante glanced toward the altar, then back to Elena with a look that could kill. "You saw it, didn't you? You walked into the one place you were never meant to tread."
"Who were they, Dante?" Elena whispered, finding the courage to meet his gaze. "Who do you weep for every night in here?"
Dante went still. His jaw tightened until the veins in his neck pulsed. He released her abruptly, pulling his hand away as if touching her burned him.
"Do not ever mistake my grief for weakness, Elena Lombardi," Dante spoke in a voice so low it was almost a demonic whisper. "My family did not just die. They were erased by cowards who used your father's name as a shield."
Elena was stunned. "You mean... you believe my father killed them?"
Dante stepped closer again, not touching her this time, but his aura swallowed her whole. "That is the only reason you are still breathing. Because I want you alive to see the moment I find the truth. If it turns out Lorenzo Lombardi was the shadow behind their deaths... I will personally ensure you die a way that makes your father's end look like a mercy."
Dante reached onto the altar and picked up a necklace—it was identical to Elena's, but the lion symbol was split down the middle. "Now, get back to your room before I lose my grip on the little restraint I have left."
Elena fled the room, but the image of Dante kneeling in that chapel haunted her. She realized then that she wasn't just trapped with a mafia boss. She was trapped with a man driven by a vengeance far darker than her own.