POV: Lily Ashford
Day one: I map the estate like it's a military operation.
The peacock suite is on the third floor, east wing. There are twelve rooms on this floor, all locked except mine. The hallway connects to a main staircase that spirals down to the first floor—grand entrance, formal dining room, library, kitchen, what looks like an office.
The guards let me walk. They just watch. Always watching.
Day two: I test the locks.
The garden door on the first floor has the oldest mechanism. The kitchen window latch is loose. The library has a door to what might be the outside, but it's alarmed—I can see the sensor when I trace my fingers near the frame.
Every possible exit is trapped or guarded.
Day three: I see him.
Dante stands at a second-floor window, staring out at the grounds. He's changed into casual clothes—a black sweater, expensive jeans—but he still looks like a predator. He doesn't move, doesn't acknowledge me, but I feel the moment his eyes find me in the garden below.
I don't run. Don't hide.
I meet his gaze directly.
He watches me for what feels like an hour. Just watches. Like he's reading me. Like I'm a book written in a language only he understands.
Then he turns away.
That night, Sofia appears at my door.
"Mr. Morelli wants to see you in his office," she says. No warning. No preparation. Just the fact delivered like a death sentence.
My stomach drops.
"Now?" I ask.
"Yes, dear. Now."
The office is on the second floor, at the end of a long hallway. My heart is hammering so hard I'm convinced everyone can hear it. The guards don't stop me. Sofia walks with me to the door, squeezes my arm gently, and leaves.
I'm alone.
I push the door open.
The office is massive—dark wood, walls of books, a fireplace that's currently dead. Behind an enormous desk sits Dante, bathed in the glow of a laptop screen. He's typing, focused, completely ignoring me.
Making me wait.
A power play.
Classic intimidation.
I've seen my father use this move a thousand times with bill collectors and loan sharks.
So I decide to stop playing.
I close the door behind me and lean against it, arms crossed, waiting.
One minute passes. Two. Three.
Finally, Dante's fingers stop moving. Slowly—so slowly it feels intentional—his dark eyes rise from the screen to meet mine.
"Sit," he says. One word. A command wrapped in velvet.
I don't move.
"I prefer to stand."
His eyebrow rises a fraction of an inch. The only reaction. It's somehow more terrifying than if he'd shouted.
"That wasn't a request, Lily."
"Then make me," I say.
The silence that follows is absolute.
Dante saves his work with deliberate keystrokes, closes his laptop, and slowly stands. He's not in a hurry. That's the scariest part. He moves around the desk with the grace of something predatory—a wolf that knows the rabbit can't escape.
He's easily six-foot-three. I'm five-foot-four.
The math is not in my favor.
He stops inches from me, and I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Up close, I can see they're not completely black—there are depths there, terrible beautiful depths.
"You're very brave," he says quietly, "or very stupid."
"I'm done being scared," I reply. "You can hurt me. You can kill me. But I won't be afraid of you. I've already lost everything—my family, my freedom, my future. What else can you take?"
Something shifts in his expression. Not softness. Never softness. But recognition.
"My parents were executed in front of me when I was eight years old," Dante says suddenly. "Shot in the head because my father tried to steal from the wrong person."
I don't know what to say to that.
"I understand betrayal, Lily," he continues. "I understand rage. I understand why you're not crying right now even though your entire world exploded three days ago."
He steps back, moving toward his desk, and I realize I've been holding my breath.
"Your parents owed money," Dante continues, opening a folder. "Significant money. Not the twenty thousand Vincent told you about."
He spreads papers across the desk. Financial records. Drug transaction logs. Dates stretching back years.
"Sixty thousand dollars," Dante says. "That's what Nathan and Carol Ashford accumulated in debt to my organization. Sixty. Thousand."
My knees go weak.
"Vincent is a small man with a thief's mentality," Dante explains. "He saw an opportunity. He told your parents the debt was twenty thousand. He told me he collected twenty thousand. The difference—forty thousand—he kept for himself."
He looks up at me.
"So you're not just betrayed by your parents," he says. "You're embezzled by a low-level dealer trying to pocket the difference."
It's too much. Too many betrayals stacked on top of each other. I can feel something cracking inside my chest.
"Why are you telling me this?" I ask.
"Because you should understand what happened to you. You should know the truth." Dante leans back in his chair, studying me. "And because I think you deserve to have a say in what happens next."
"What do you mean?"
"Vincent stole from me," Dante says. "He lied. He was unnecessarily cruel to you because he enjoyed it. Under normal circumstances, this would be a straightforward situation. He would disappear. Permanently."
I swallow hard.
"But," Dante continues, "you're the one he hurt most directly. You're the one who was sold. So I'm giving you a choice."
"A choice?" I don't understand.
"What do you want to happen to Vincent?"
The question is so unexpected I stumble backward. "What?"
"He stole from me. He betrayed you. Decide his fate, and I'll make it happen."
This is a test. I know it immediately. He wants to see what I'm made of. Whether I'm capable of the violence required to survive in his world.
If I ask him to kill Vincent, I become complicit. I become a monster too.
If I show mercy, I look weak.
There's no right answer.
Only the answer that reveals who I really am.
I think about Vincent's cruel smile. About him telling me my parents sold me for drug money like it was a joke. About him laughing while I fell apart.
I think about the girl I was before—the one who believed in redemption, who thought everyone deserved second chances, who wanted to fix broken people.
That girl is dead.
"I don't want him killed," I say carefully. "But I want him to suffer. I want him to lose everything the way he made me lose everything. I want him to feel powerless."
Dante's smile is slow and dark.
"Done," he says.
And suddenly I realize I've just given an order. I've just decided to destroy someone's life. I've just become something I never thought I'd be.
"There's one more thing," Dante says, and his voice has changed. It's lower. Deeper. Loaded with something I can't quite name.
"What?"
"You asked what I want from you." He stands, and the distance between us shrinks. "I didn't know when I bought you. I thought you'd be broken. Useful. Easy to control."
He steps closer.
"You're not easy to control, Lily."
My breath catches.
"And I find I don't want you to be."
He reaches out and touches my hair—just touches it, like he's testing something. His hand slides down to my cheek, and his thumb brushes my skin.
"The question now becomes," he whispers, "what am I going to do with you?"
And before I can answer, before I can even process what's happening, there's a knock on the door.
"Sir," a voice calls from outside. "We have a situation. Antonio Bianchi's men were spotted surveilling the north perimeter."
Dante's hand drops. The predator becomes the businessman again in an instant.
"Stay here," he commands, and it's not a request this time. It's a promise.
He walks toward the door, and I realize with absolute clarity:
I'm not just trapped here anymore.
I'm important.
And that might be far more dangerous than anything else he could do to me.