Dante's POV
"Your driver is dead, Mr. Moretti. I'm very sorry for your loss."
I stare at the doctor who just delivered the news and feel absolutely nothing. Marcus drove for me for fifteen years, and I should probably care that he's gone. But I learned a long time ago that caring about people is dangerous. Caring makes you weak.
My father cared too much about my mother, and it got them both killed.
"Send flowers to his family," I tell my assistant without looking away from my phone. "The usual amount."
The doctor looks uncomfortable. "Sir, would you like a moment—"
"No. I have a meeting in twenty minutes."
He leaves, probably thinking I'm a heartless bastard. He's right.
But even as I'm reading emails about stock prices and merger deals, my mind keeps drifting back to her.
The girl with blood on her hands and tears in her eyes.
Elena Russo.
She knelt on dirty concrete holding Marcus's hand like he was someone important, someone worth saving. She whispered comfort to a dying old man she'd never met before. And when I asked why, she said something that hasn't left my head:
"Because nobody should die alone."
I've never met anyone who actually believes that. In my world, people die alone all the time. It's the natural order of things.
But she believed it. I could see it in those honey-colored eyes—she genuinely cared.
Which makes her absolutely perfect.
My grandfather is waiting in his study when I get home. Giovanni Moretti sits behind his massive desk like a king on a throne, even though the cancer is eating him from the inside. The doctors gave him six months. Maybe less.
"The driver?" he asks.
"Dead."
"Shame. He was loyal." Grandfather lights a cigar even though his doctors forbid it. "We have more important matters. Did you find a wife yet?"
And there it is. The demand that's been hanging over my head for three months.
My grandfather built our empire from nothing—businesses, real estate, connections that reach into every powerful family in New York. But the old families don't trust us because we're "new money" with rumored mafia ties. They're waiting for him to die so they can tear everything apart.
Unless I produce an heir.
"An heir legitimizes our bloodline," Grandfather says for the hundredth time. "Marry someone acceptable, get her pregnant, secure the future. You have six months, Dante. After that, I'll be dead and the vultures will circle."
"I'm aware."
"Then why aren't you engaged?" His eyes narrow. "Vivienne Ashford is perfect—good family, good connections."
"Vivienne is a snake who's already slept with half of Manhattan."
"So? You're not marrying her for love. You need a womb that can produce a Moretti heir. Marry her, get her pregnant, then do whatever you want. Just give me a grandson before I die."
The word "grandson" hangs in the air like a command. Like my entire purpose in life is to be a breeding stallion for the family legacy.
My father tried to escape this life. He fell in love with my mother—really, stupidly in love. It made him careless. And when the Castellano family came for revenge over a business deal, my father couldn't think strategically because he was too busy protecting the woman he loved.
They both died. I was twelve.
Grandfather found me crying over their bodies and slapped me hard across the face.
"Emotions make you weak," he said. "Love kills. Remember that."
I remembered.
And now, at thirty-three, I'm the perfect weapon he created—cold, calculating, and completely empty inside.
"I'll find someone," I tell him.
"You have two months. Then I'm choosing for you."
Back in my penthouse, I pour expensive whiskey and stare at the city lights. My phone sits on the table, Elena's volunteer file already pulled up by my assistant.
Elena Russo, 22. Literature major at a community college. Works two part-time jobs. Lives in a tiny apartment in a bad neighborhood. No father listed. Mother died two years ago from cancer, leaving massive medical debt.
She's drowning in student loans and grief and desperation.
Perfect.
I learned from my father's mistake. Love is the problem—so I'll find someone who can never threaten me emotionally. Someone so far beneath my world that she'll always know her place. Someone grateful for whatever scraps I throw her.
Elena is ideal: no powerful family to complicate a divorce, no connections to rival empires, no leverage. Just a kind, naive girl who probably still believes in fairy tales.
I'll court her for a few weeks—flowers, romantic dinners, pretty lies. She'll fall in love because girls like her always do. Then I'll marry her, get her pregnant, and file for divorce the second my heir is born.
Clean. Simple. No emotions involved.
My grandfather will get his heir. I'll secure the empire. And Elena?
She'll get a payoff that clears her debts and changes her life. She should be grateful.
The plan is perfect. Logical. Safe.
So why do I keep seeing her face? Those honey eyes full of genuine care for a stranger?
I shake it off. Sentimentality is weakness.
Elena Russo is a means to an end. Nothing more.
Three days later, I send the flowers.
Two dozen roses with a dinner invitation that's really a command. My assistant arranged everything—the restaurant is exclusive, the kind of place where reservations take months. Elena will be overwhelmed, dazzled by a world she could never afford.
My phone buzzes with her response: "Okay."
One word. So trusting. So easy.
A small voice in my head—one that sounds disturbingly like my dead father—whispers that this is wrong. That I'm about to destroy an innocent girl for my own convenience.
I silence that voice with another glass of whiskey.
In my world, innocence is just another word for weakness. And weak things get eaten alive.
Better she gets eaten by me than someone worse.
The car I sent reports back: "Miss Russo has been picked up. She's wearing a simple dress. Looks nervous."
Of course she's nervous. She's a lamb walking into a lion's den.
I should feel guilty.
I don't.
I'm adjusting my tie in the restaurant's private room when my phone rings. It's Luca, my cousin and the closest thing I have to a conscience.
"Heard you're meeting someone tonight," he says. "Anyone I know?"
"No one important."
"Dante." His voice goes serious. "Whatever you're planning, think about it first. I know Grandfather is pressuring you, but—"
"But nothing. This is business, Luca. Stay out of it."
I hang up before he can argue.
Five minutes later, the hostess tells me Elena has arrived.
I stand, smooth my jacket, and prepare to play the role of a charming suitor.
But when Elena walks through the door in her cheap dress with hope shining in her eyes, something unexpected twists in my chest.
She looks at me like I'm her hero.
Like I'm going to save her.
And for the first time in twenty years, I feel something dangerously close to guilt.
Then I remember my father's corpse and my grandfather's command, and the feeling dies.
Elena Russo is standing in front of me, smiling nervously, completely unaware that I'm about to ruin her entire life.
"Hi," she says softly. "Thank you for inviting me."
I smile—the charming, fake smile I've perfected over years of business deals.
"The pleasure is mine, Elena. Shall we?"
As I pull out her chair, I make a silent promise: I'll do whatever it takes to win her trust.
And then I'll destroy her.