The newsroom was buzzing, but Ariella moved through it like a ghost.
Her thoughts weren't on deadlines or breaking news. They were on him—the man in the shadows, the threat in silk.
Dante Moretti.
His name alone felt like gunpowder on her tongue.
She pulled out her notebook. A dozen scribbled leads, half-legible notes, and one undeniable truth stared back at her: This story could ruin her—or make her.
> "I'm not scared of you," she had said.
But part of her was lying. Not to him. To herself.
She opened her laptop and tapped into the encrypted folder she wasn't supposed to have access to. Stolen documents. Transfers. Warehouse permits.
Then something new.
Surveillance photo.
And her stomach flipped.
It was her.
Taken from across the street. At her apartment. Timestamped—last night.
Her blood ran cold.
---
> "He's watching me."
---
Elsewhere, the Moretti estate buzzed with quiet tension. Bodyguards. Deals. Clean suits. Hidden blood.
But Dante sat in the library, unmoving, staring at his phone.
She hadn't backed off. If anything, she was digging deeper. And if she kept going… his family would silence her without his permission.
That was the rule. No loose ends.
But Ariella Cruz wasn't a loose end.
She was a fire he couldn't put out.
He stood, adjusting the cufflinks of his black shirt. "Get the car."
Luca raised an eyebrow. "Where to?"
"She wants answers," Dante said, his voice low. "I'll give her one."
---
> Back at her apartment, Ariella paced.
Then—a knock.
Three slow, deliberate taps.
She grabbed her pepper spray and opened the door halfway.
He stood there, hands in his coat pockets, like he owned the world.
"I told you to stay away," Dante said calmly.
"And you showed up at my home again?"
He stepped in. She didn't move fast enough to stop him.
"Relax. If I wanted to hurt you, you'd already be bleeding."
She rolled her eyes. "Comforting."
He stepped closer. "You don't know when to quit. You keep digging. What do you think you're going to find?"
"I already found you," she said. "And I don't think you're as heartless as you pretend to be."
That got to him. Just a flicker. Barely.
Dante leaned in, breath close to her lips. "You think I'm playing? That this is a game?"
"No," she whispered. "But I think you're tired of pretending you're a monster."
A beat passed. He didn't move. Neither did she.
Their faces were inches apart.
She hated how her body reacted—every nerve alive. His presence was magnetic. Consuming.
He hated that she saw through him.
But he couldn't stop looking at her.
Then suddenly—a crash.
The window shattered.
Dante pulled her down instinctively, covering her body with his.
Gunshot.
Another.
Her ears rang. Glass rained down. The room spun.
When she opened her eyes, he was on top of her, one hand on her head, the other reaching for the gun at his waist.
"Stay down," he growled.
---
To be continued...