GIULIANA POV
The penthouse felt like a cage made of glass and steel.
Beautiful. Expensive. Suffocating.
We arrived in Milan just after dawn. The drive from Sicily took hours. Dante didn't speak the entire time. Just drove while I stared out bulletproof windows and tried to process everything happening.
I'd agreed to this.
Agreed to let a man I barely knew control my life.
Agreed to trade freedom for safety.
Agreed to walk into a prison with better lighting.
The penthouse was in the heart of Milan. Top floor of a building that probably cost more than entire countries.
Dante unlocked the door and stepped aside.
I walked into a space that looked more like a museum than a home.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Minimalist furniture in blacks and grays. Security cameras in every corner. Red lights blinking.
No photos. No personal items. Nothing that suggested an actual human being lived here.
Just a fortress pretending to be an apartment.
"Your rooms are down the hall," Dante said.
His voice was professional. Distant.
Like he hadn't spent the entire drive from Sicily looking at me when he thought I wasn't watching.
I followed him through the penthouse. Every step echoed. Every surface gleamed.
Everything felt cold.
He opened a door to a suite bigger than my entire London apartment.
Bedroom. Bathroom. Sitting area.
All decorated in the same impersonal style.
"You'll stay here," he said.
Not a question.
"And if I want to leave?" I asked.
"You don't leave without security detail. Preferably me."
"What if I want privacy?"
He gestured to the windows. "Bulletproof glass. Security system monitors all entry points. You're safe here."
"That's not what I asked."
His eyes met mine. Dark. Unreadable.
"Privacy is a luxury you can't afford right now."
The words landed like a slap.
I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him he didn't own me.
But he was right.
Someone had killed my father. Marco was positioning against me. Isabella wanted me dead.
Privacy was a luxury I couldn't afford.
"Fine," I said. "What are the other rules?"
Dante leaned against the doorframe. Casual.
Like we were discussing the weather.
"No phone calls without my knowledge. The family's communications are monitored. Anything you say could be used against you."
"Anything else?"
"No accessing the family's business operations without my approval. You need to understand the players before you make moves."
"I'm the don. I should have access to everything."
"You're the don who's been gone six years. You don't know who's loyal and who's waiting to betray you." He moved closer. "I'm trying to keep you alive, Giuliana. That means controlling the variables."
"I'm not a variable. I'm a person."
"You're both."
The honesty surprised me.
Most men would have lied. Would have pretended this was about respect or tradition.
Dante just admitted it.
He was controlling me. For my safety.
I just didn't know if I could trust his definition of safety.
"How long do these rules last?" I asked.
"Until the threats are eliminated."
"And who decides when that happens?"
"I do."
Of course.
I turned toward the window. Looked out at Milan spreading beneath us.
"I spent six years in London being free," I said quietly. "Now I'm right back where I started. Trapped."
"You were never free in London."
I spun around. "What?"
Dante's expression didn't change.
"You thought you were free. You weren't."
"I lived alone. I made my own choices."
"Under my protection. From my shadows."
Ice flooded my chest.
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying you've never been as alone as you thought you were."
My heart started racing.
"Dante..."
"Get some rest," he said, cutting me off. "We have meetings tomorrow. You need to be sharp."
Then he walked out.
Leaving me standing there with questions I couldn't answer.
I tried to sleep.
I really did.
But every time I closed my eyes, I heard Dante's words.
You were never free in London.
You've never been as alone as you thought.
What did that mean?
At midnight, I gave up.
Got up and started exploring.
The penthouse was massive. Living room. Kitchen. Gym. Library.
The library surprised me.
Shelves filled with books. Philosophy. History. Literature.
The same authors I'd studied at Cambridge.
I pulled one out. Kant.
Inside the cover were notes. Arguments. Reflections written in pencil.
Dante's handwriting.
The enforcer read philosophy.
The man who killed for a living thought about ethics.
I kept exploring.
His office was at the end of the hall. Door closed but not locked.
I shouldn't have opened it.
I knew that.
But my hand was already on the handle.
The office was as minimal as everything else. Desk. Computer. Filing cabinets.
One photo on the desk.
My father. Younger. Smiling. Arm around a teenage boy.
Dante.
Maybe fourteen. Skinny. Scared-looking.
Nothing like the man he'd become.
I set the photo down and turned to the computer.
It was on. Screen locked.
I shouldn't.
I absolutely shouldn't.
But I was already sitting in his chair. Already moving the mouse.
The screen came to life. Password protected.
I tried obvious things. Vittorio's birthday. The family name.
Nothing worked.
Then, on impulse, I tried my birthday.
The screen unlocked.
My chest tightened.
Why would my birthday be his password?
The desktop was organized. Folders labeled with names.
Family members. Business operations. Security protocols.
And one folder labeled: G.
My initial.
My hands shook when I clicked it.
The folder opened.
Hundreds of files. Maybe thousands.
Photos. Videos. Documents.
All of me.
I clicked the first photo.
Me in London. Outside the British Museum. Three years ago.
I'd been alone that day.
Except I hadn't.
Someone had photographed me from across the street.
Dante.
I clicked another file.
Video footage. Me in a park. Reading. Feeding pigeons.
I looked happy. Free.
Completely unaware I was being watched.
Another file. Me at a café with Thomas. The man I'd dated briefly.
A note attached: Eliminated. Corporate spy working for Zhao. Approached subject to gather intelligence.
Eliminated.
Dante had killed my boyfriend.
I clicked through more files. More photos. More videos.
Subject attended lecture on Nietzsche. Purchased three books.
Subject met with university professor. Conversation monitored. No threats detected.
Subject walked home alone after dark. Additional surveillance assigned.
Ten years of documentation.
Ten years of watching.
Ten years of my life recorded and analyzed by a man I'd just met.
Except he'd never just met me.
He knew everything.
Every moment I thought I was invisible, he was watching.
Every choice I thought was mine, he was influencing.
Every freedom I had, he was creating.
Tears blurred my vision.
This was violation.
This was obsession.
This was something I didn't have words for.
I heard footsteps.
My heart stopped.
Dante.
I clicked out of the folder. Stood up. Tried to look casual.
Failed.
The door opened.
Dante stood there in sweatpants and a t-shirt. Hair wet.
His eyes went to the computer. To me. To the guilt on my face.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asked.
Too calm.
"I was exploring," I said.
"Find anything interesting?"
He knew.
He knew I'd found the files.
And he wasn't apologizing.
"You've been watching me," I said. "For ten years."
"Yes."
"You documented everything. Every moment. Every person."
"Yes."
"You killed people who got close to me."
"Yes."
No hesitation. No shame.
Just honesty.
Brutal. Complete. Terrifying.
"Why?" My voice cracked.
Dante stepped inside. Closed the door.
Locked it.
"Because from the moment I saw you at that family dinner when you were sixteen, you became the only thing in my life that mattered more than survival."
"That's not love. That's obsession."
"I know."
"That's not protection. That's control."
"I know."
"Then why are you telling me this?"
He moved closer.
Close enough that I could feel heat radiating off him.
"Because you asked to understand. Because you found the files. Because hiding it from you now would be pointless."
My hands were shaking.
"This is insane."
"Yes."
"You're insane."
"Probably."
"I should leave. I should run."
"You could try."
The way he said it. Like a dare.
"What do you want from me?" I whispered.
Dante reached up. Cupped my face.
His palm was warm. Rough. Scarred.
"I want you to understand that you've never been alone. I want you to understand that the man protecting you is the most dangerous thing in your world."
"And if I can't accept that?"
His thumb brushed my cheek. Gentle. Devastating.
"Then I'll teach you."
Before I could respond, his phone buzzed.
He pulled it out. Read the message.
His entire body went rigid.
"What?" I asked.
"Marco just called an emergency family council meeting. Tomorrow morning. He's challenging your authority."
"Already?"
"He's moving faster than I expected." Dante's jaw tightened. "He knows you're vulnerable. He's trying to force you out before you consolidate power."
"Can he do that?"
"If enough family members support him, yes."
My heart raced.
"What do I do?"
Dante looked at me.
Really looked at me.
"You fight," he said. "You show them you're not weak. You show them you're Vittorio's daughter. You show them you're a don."
"I don't know how."
"Then it's a good thing I'm going to teach you."
He turned toward the door.
"Dante."
He stopped.
"The files," I said. "All those years watching me. Was any of it real? Did you ever see me? Or was I just a project?"
His expression shifted.
Something raw flickering across his face.
"Every second I watched you," he said quietly, "you were the most real thing in my life."
Then he walked out.
Leaving me alone.
Surrounded by evidence of his obsession.
And wondering if the most dangerous thing about Dante Russo wasn't his violence.
It was how much I wanted to believe him.