Valenport never truly slept.
Even at dawn, when the city pretended to rest, danger lingered in alley shadows and behind tinted windows. It was a city built on deals whispered in darkness and blood washed away by morning rain.
And at the very center of it stood Dante Moretti.
He ruled from the top floor of the Moretti Tower—a glass-and-steel monument that pierced the skyline like a blade aimed at the heavens. From there, Dante watched the city as though it were a chessboard, every move calculated, every sacrifice intentional.
Men feared him not because he raised his voice, but because he never had to.
A single look from him could end careers. A nod could end lives.
At thirty-two, Dante Moretti had everything—wealth, power, influence that extended far beyond Valenport. Politicians shook his hand while pretending they didn't know his name. Law enforcement turned blind eyes. Rival families bowed or vanished.
Yet none of it brought him peace.
His world was efficient, ruthless, and empty.
Which was why, when Elena Russo walked into his office that morning, he barely noticed her at first.
She was just another replacement.
The last secretary had lasted three weeks before breaking down in tears after witnessing something she wasn't meant to see. Before her, another had fainted during a meeting with the Romano syndicate. Dante had long stopped caring.
"Mr. Moretti," his assistant announced nervously, "your new secretary has arrived."
Dante didn't look up from the document he was signing.
"Send her in," he said coldly.
The door opened quietly.
Elena stepped inside.
She wore a simple navy dress, modest but professional. Her hair was neatly pulled back, her posture straight but not stiff. She didn't fidget. She didn't scan the room like prey sensing danger.
She walked in as though she belonged there.
That alone made Dante pause.
"Good morning, Mr. Moretti," she said, her voice calm, steady. "My name is Elena Russo. I'll be your secretary."
He finally lifted his gaze.
Dark eyes met brown ones.
For half a second—just half—something unfamiliar stirred in his chest.
Annoyance.
Not at her, but at the reaction.
Most people avoided eye contact with him. Elena didn't. She wasn't defiant, just… unafraid.
"You're late," Dante said flatly.
Elena glanced at her watch. "No, sir. I arrived ten minutes early. I waited outside as instructed."
She didn't apologize unnecessarily.
Another mark against expectation.
Dante leaned back in his chair, studying her like a problem he hadn't planned for.
"You know who I am," he said.
"Yes."
"You know what I do."
"I know what I need to know to do my job."
Careful answer. Smart.
"And if you see something you shouldn't?"
"I won't," Elena replied evenly. "And if I do, it stays with me."
Something in her tone told him she meant it.
Dante signed the document, slid it aside, and stood. He was tall, broad-shouldered, a presence that filled space without effort. Most people shrank when he moved.
Elena didn't.
"You'll last a month at best," he said. "If you survive that, we'll talk."
"I'm not here to survive," Elena replied softly. "I'm here to work."
Silence fell between them.
Then, unexpectedly, Dante laughed—short, sharp, humorless.
"Good," he said. "You start now."
By noon, Dante realized something was wrong.
Elena was efficient. Too efficient.
She reorganized his chaotic schedule within hours, intercepted unnecessary calls, filtered meetings without asking foolish questions. She memorized names, codes, preferences. She moved through the office like she'd always been there.
And more disturbing than her competence was her composure.
When armed men walked past her desk, she didn't flinch. When voices rose behind closed doors, she didn't eavesdrop. When Dante slammed his fist on the table during a call, she didn't tremble.
She only calmly slid a new document toward him and said, "Your next meeting has been moved up by fifteen minutes."
Dante didn't like surprises.
Yet somehow, Elena Russo was becoming one.
By evening, when the city outside darkened and the office floors emptied, Elena remained at her desk.
"You can leave," Dante said, noticing the time.
"I'd like to finish organizing the archives," she replied. "Tomorrow will be smoother."
He narrowed his eyes. "That wasn't a request."
"No," she said gently. "It was permission."
Something twisted inside him.
No one spoke to him like that.
He should have fired her.
Instead, he turned back to his work.
Hours later, when Dante finally rose to leave, he found Elena still there—quietly typing, focused, untouched by fatigue.
"Why?" he asked suddenly.
She looked up. "Why what, sir?"
"Why this job?" His voice was low. "You could work anywhere."
Elena hesitated—just a second too long.
"Because," she said carefully, "sometimes the most dangerous places teach you who you really are."
Dante studied her face, searching for fear, ambition, greed.
He found none.
As he walked past her, something unsettling crossed his mind.
Elena Russo didn't know it yet—but stepping into his world would cost her everything.
And Dante Moretti, the man who owned the night, would be the one to break her heart.