The next three days passed in a blur of preparation. Mrs. Chen barked orders, the kitchen staff worked overtime, and I coordinated everything while trying not to think about the way Dante's fingers had felt on my chin, the heat in his eyes when he'd told me to call him by his first name.
Friday arrived too quickly.
By six p.m., the estate gleamed. Crystal chandeliers sparkled, fresh flowers adorned every surface, and the dining room table was set for nine with china that probably cost more than most people's cars.
I wore the formal service uniform—a black dress slightly more elegant than my daily one, my hair pulled back in a sleek bun. Professional. Invisible.
Except Dante's eyes found me the moment I entered the dining room to do a final check, and there was nothing professional about the way he looked at me.
"Elena." He crossed the room, adjusting his cufflinks. In a three-piece suit, he was devastating. "Everything looks perfect."
"Mrs. Chen deserves the credit."
"We both know that's not true." He stood close, too close for propriety. "You've been coordinating all of this. I've been watching."
My pulse quickened. "You've been watching?"
"I'm always watching you." His voice dropped. "I can't seem to help myself."
Before I could respond, the doorbell chimed. His guests were arriving.
Dante's expression shuttered, the vulnerable man disappearing behind the cold mask of a crime boss. "Showtime," he murmured, and walked away.
---
The dinner party was a masterclass in civilized criminality. Eight men—no women except me and the serving staff—all dressed in expensive suits, all reeking of money and danger.
I recognized some from the photos I'd been cataloging. Marcello Dante, arms dealer. Viktor Kozlov, human trafficker. James Chen, money launderer.
Monsters, every one.
And Dante sat at the head of the table, playing the perfect host, discussing business deals that would destroy lives while eating filet mignon.
This was the world he lived in. The world I'd sworn to destroy.
So why did my heart ache watching him navigate it with such obvious distaste hidden beneath perfect manners?
"More wine," Marcello demanded, snapping his fingers at me.
I moved to refill his glass, and his hand shot out, gripping my wrist. "What's your name, beautiful?"
"Elena, sir."
"Elena." He leered. "How much did Dante pay for you?"
My skin crawled, but I kept my expression neutral. "I wouldn't know, sir."
"Fifty thousand," Dante said coldly from the head of the table. "And she's worth every penny. Let her go, Marcello."
There was steel in his voice. A warning.
Marcello released me with a laugh. "Protective of your toys, I see."
"She's not a toy." The temperature in the room dropped. "She's under my protection. Remember that."
The conversation moved on, but I felt Dante's eyes on me for the rest of the meal.
---
After dinner, the men retired to Dante's study for cigars and business. I was clearing the dining room when Sophie appeared, her face pale.
"Elena, Viktor Kozlov cornered me in the hallway. He—" Her voice shook. "He said he wants to make an offer on me. To Dante. To buy me."
Rage, white-hot and immediate, flooded through me. "Where is he now?"
"Still in the study, but—"
I didn't wait. I shouldn't have done what I did next. Should have stayed invisible, played my role.
But I'd spent three years watching monsters like Kozlov destroy innocent lives. I was done being silent.
I walked straight to Dante's study and knocked once before entering.
All conversation stopped. Eight pairs of eyes turned to me.
"Mr. Morelli," I said calmly. "May I speak with you privately?"
Dante's eyebrows rose, but he stood. "Gentlemen, excuse me for a moment."
He followed me into the hallway, closing the door behind him. "Elena, what—"
"Viktor Kozlov just propositioned Sophie. He wants to buy her from you." I met his eyes steadily. "I need to know—are you going to sell her?"
Silence stretched between us.
"You interrupted a business meeting to ask me that?" His voice was unreadable.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because she's nineteen years old and terrified, and if you're the man I think you are, you won't let that monster touch her." I took a breath. "But if you're your father's son, you'll make the deal and I'll know exactly who you really are."
It was a test. A line in the sand.
Dante stared at me for a long moment, something shifting in his expression. Then he turned and walked back into the study.
I heard his voice, cold and final: "Viktor, the answer is no. None of my staff are for sale. If you ask again, you're no longer welcome in my home."
Kozlov's protests. Dante's unmoved response. The meeting ending abruptly.
When the guests filed out twenty minutes later, Kozlov shot me a look of pure hatred. I didn't flinch.
---
After the last guest left, I found Dante on the terrace, loosening his tie, staring out at the ocean.
"You cost me a lucrative partnership tonight," he said without turning around.
"I know."
"Viktor won't forget the insult."
"I know that too."
He turned then, studying me in the moonlight. "You have no sense of self-preservation, do you?"
"I have plenty. I just don't think some things should be tolerated, regardless of the cost."
"Even when the cost might be your own safety? Viktor isn't the forgiving type."
"Neither am I."
A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. "No. I'm learning that about you." He moved closer, his jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up. "You challenged me in front of my associates. Questioned my character. Forced my hand."
"Are you angry?"
"I should be." He reached out, his fingers grazing my cheek. "But I'm not. Because you were right. I'm not my father. And I won't become him, not even for profit."
The way he looked at me made my breath catch. Like I was the only real thing in a world of pretense.
"Thank you," I whispered. "For Sophie."
"Don't thank me for basic decency." His thumb traced my jawline. "But Elena? Don't ever put yourself in danger like that again. If Viktor had reacted differently—"
"You would have protected me."
"How do you know?"
"Because that's who you are."
His eyes darkened with something intense, hungry. "You see me too clearly. It's dangerous."
"For whom?"
"Both of us."
He leaned in, his breath warm against my lips, and I forgot how to breathe. Forgot everything except the magnetic pull between us.
"We shouldn't," I whispered, even as my body swayed toward his.
"I know."
"It's a terrible idea."
"The worst."
"Dante—"
He kissed me.
Not like before—not gentle or questioning. This was claiming, devouring, weeks of tension exploding between us. His hands cupped my face, angled me exactly where he wanted me, and I melted into him.
I kissed him back like I was drowning, like he was oxygen, like nothing else existed but this moment and this man and this impossible, dangerous connection.
When we finally broke apart, both breathing hard, his forehead rested against mine.
"This is madness," he breathed.
"Complete madness."
"I can't stop thinking about you."
"I know. I can't either."
"Elena—" He pulled back, his eyes searching mine. "I need you to understand something. I'm not a good man. I've done things, terrible things—"
"I know what you are."
"Do you? Do you really?" His voice was raw. "I've killed people. Hurt people. I'm the head of a criminal organization. There's blood on my hands that will never wash clean."
"I know," I repeated. And I did. Better than he realized.
"Then why are you looking at me like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like I'm worth saving."
My heart cracked. "Because maybe you are."
He kissed me again, softer this time, reverent. "You're going to destroy me, Elena Voss."
*I already did*, I thought. *Three years ago, I destroyed your whole family.*
But I didn't say it. Instead, I lost myself in his kiss and pretended, just for a moment, that we could have this. That love could bloom in poisoned soil.
That redemption was possible for both of us.