Aria's POV
My fake ID feels like it's burning through my purse.
I stand outside Constantino Tower, staring up at the glass building that cuts into the New York sky like a knife. Somewhere up there, on the top floor, lives the man whose family murdered my parents.
Dante Constantino.
My hands shake. I ball them into fists and shove them in my coat pockets.
"Get close. Get evidence. Get out," Uncle Marco's words echo in my head from this morning. "Don't let emotions mess up the mission."
Too late. I've been a mess since I was seven years old.
The memory hits me like it always does—sudden and sharp:
Mommy's hand covering my mouth. Her eyes wide and scared.
"Stay here, baby. Don't make a sound. No matter what you hear."
She shoves me into the bedroom closet. Through the crack in the door, I see Daddy run past with a gun.
"Sofia, get Aria and GO!" he shouts.
But Mommy doesn't run. She pulls out her own gun.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Screaming. More gunshots. Then terrible, terrible silence.
I press my hands over my mouth to keep from crying out. I taste blood where I've bitten my lip.
Hours later—or maybe minutes, I don't know—Uncle Marco finds me. I'm covered in my parents' blood, shaking and silent.
He lifts me up, holds me tight. "I've got you, little bird. I've got you."
At the funeral, he kneels beside me in his FBI suit, looking at the two closed coffins.
"The Constantino family did this," he whispers. "Someday, when you're ready, we'll make them pay. I promise."
I blink. I'm back in the present, fifteen years later. Twenty-two years old and finally ready to keep that promise.
I touch my mom's necklace hidden under my shirt—the only thing I have left of her. Then I walk through the revolving doors.
The lobby is huge and fancy. Marble floors so shiny I can see my reflection. I don't look at it. That girl—Rebecca Barrett, according to my fake papers—isn't really me. She's just a mask.
My real name is Aria Moretti.
And I'm here to destroy the Constantinos from the inside.
The security guard checks my ID. My heart hammers. But he just smiles and waves me through to the elevators.
"Top floor, miss. Mr. Constantino is expecting you."
The elevator doors close. I watch the numbers climb: 10... 20... 30... Each floor takes me higher into the monster's tower.
I spent six months getting this job. Perfect fake background. Fake college degree. Fake references. Uncle Marco made sure everything looked real. He trained me for this since I was twelve—how to lie, how to fight, how to be someone else.
The assistant position was posted online. "Live-in personal assistant for high-profile businessman. Must be discreet, available 24/7, excellent with organization and confidential matters."
I applied as Rebecca Barrett—quiet, smart, no family, no connections. Perfect.
And somehow, I got it.
50... 60... 70...
My reflection stares back at me from the shiny elevator walls. Dark eyes. Olive skin like my mom's. I'm wearing boring office clothes—gray pants, white shirt, my hair pulled back tight. I look harmless. Forgettable.
That's the point.
The elevator slows. Top floor. The penthouse.
This is it. Fifteen years of waiting. Of training. Of planning.
The doors slide open.
I step into a huge apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows show all of New York City spread out below. The furniture is expensive—leather couches, modern art on walls, everything black and white and cold.
And then I see him.
Dante Constantino stands by the window, talking on his phone. He's tall—really tall—with dark hair and a suit that probably costs more than a car. Even from behind, he looks dangerous. Like he could break someone with his bare hands.
My stomach twists with hate. And something else I don't want to think about.
He ends his call and turns around.
Our eyes meet.
Everything stops.
He has gray eyes. Light gray, like storm clouds. They look right through me, like he can see every secret I'm hiding.
My breath catches.
In all the photos Uncle Marco showed me, Dante looked cold. Scary. Like a killer.
But in person? He's worse. Because he's not just scary. He's... magnetic. The kind of person you can't look away from even when you want to.
"Miss Barrett." His voice is deep and smooth. "You're on time. I appreciate that."
He walks toward me. Each step makes my heart beat faster.
I force myself to smile. Professional. Polite. Harmless Rebecca Barrett.
"Mr. Constantino. Thank you so much for this opportunity."
I extend my hand for a handshake.
His fingers close around mine.
Electricity shoots up my arm. His hand is warm, strong, his grip firm but not crushing. We're standing close enough that I can smell his cologne—something expensive and woodsy.
For one second, I forget to breathe. Forget why I'm here. Forget everything except the feeling of his skin touching mine.
Then I remember.
This man's family killed your parents.
I pull my hand back fast. Too fast.
Dante's eyes narrow slightly, like he noticed. But he just gestures toward the windows.
"Welcome to your new home, Miss Barrett. Let me show you around."
Home. The word makes me want to laugh. Or scream.
This isn't my home. It's a prison. A trap. A place where I'll smile and serve tea and wait for my chance to tear his whole world apart.
Just like his family tore mine apart.
I follow him through the penthouse, barely listening as he explains where things are. My mind is racing, cataloging everything. Security cameras in corners. Locked doors I'll need to get into. His office—that's where the important files will be.
"Your bedroom," Dante says, opening a door.
The room is beautiful. Huge bed, private bathroom, a view of the city. Like a fancy hotel.
But I spot it immediately—tiny camera hidden in the smoke detector.
He's watching. Of course he is.
"It's perfect," I lie.
"Good." Dante checks his watch. "I have a meeting in an hour. Familiarize yourself with the schedule on the tablet. We'll discuss your duties over dinner tonight."
Dinner. With him. My enemy.
"Of course, Mr. Constantino."
"Dante," he corrects. "We'll be working closely together. No need for formality when we're alone."
Something about the way he says "alone" makes my skin prickle.
He leaves. I hear his office door close down the hall.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding and sit on the bed. My hands are shaking again.
I pull out my phone. Text Uncle Marco: I'm in.
His reply is instant: Remember the mission. Don't trust him. Don't feel sorry for him. He's a monster.
I delete the messages and hide my phone.
Monster. Right. That's what Dante is. I need to remember that.
I stand up and walk to the window. Somewhere down in this city, my parents are buried. Gone for fifteen years because of the man I just shook hands with.
The man whose touch I can still feel on my skin.
I hate that I felt anything at all.
Night is starting to fall. The city lights flicker on, one by one. I watch my reflection in the glass—a ghost of the girl I used to be.
"I'm here, Mom. Dad," I whisper. "I'm going to make them pay. I promise."
My phone buzzes.
Unknown number: I know who you are.
My blood turns to ice.
I stare at the message. Read it again. Again.
Someone knows. But who? How?
The phone buzzes again.
Come to my office. Now. We need to talk, Aria Moretti.
The world tilts.
That's my rea
l name.
And there's only one person in this penthouse who could have sent this message.
Dante.