The dawn didn't break; it bled. A pale, sickly light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the master suite, turning the dark cedar furniture into jagged silhouettes.
Elena woke up with her heart hammering against her ribs. For a split second, she didn't know where she was. Then, the scent of cedarwood and expensive gin hit her, and the memory of the Savoy alleyway rushed back like a cold wave. She was still in the midnight blue gown. The silk was twisted around her legs, damp and wrinkled—a ruined skin for a ruined life.
She turned her head slowly. The other side of the massive bed was empty, the sheets barely disturbed. Dante was gone.
Elena sat up, her muscles screaming in protest. Her neck ached from the tension of sleeping like a soldier in a trench. She looked toward the glass-walled balcony. A figure was standing there, a dark shadow against the gray mist of the cliffs.
Dante was stripped to the waist, despite the biting morning chill. He was doing pull-ups from a steel bar fixed to the balcony frame. His muscles bunched and rippled under his skin, a map of raw power. Every time he pulled himself up, Elena saw the scars on his back more clearly. They weren't just lines; they were stories of a survival she had never been forced to endure.
He dropped to the floor, his breathing steady, his skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. He didn't turn around.
"You're awake," he said. It wasn't a question.
"I didn't think you actually stayed," Elena whispered. Her voice was raspy, stripped raw by the emotions of the night before.
Dante turned then. He grabbed a white towel and wiped his face, his obsidian eyes scanning her with an intensity that made her want to pull the duvet over her head. "I told you. I don't feel like being a target while I sleep. And right now, you're the biggest target in the city."
He walked back into the room, the scent of cold air clinging to him. He stopped at the foot of the bed, looking down at her. Elena felt small—not just because of his size, but because of the way he looked at her. It wasn't hatred. It was... calculation.
"Maria left clothes in the dressing room. Change," he commanded. "We have a guest arriving in an hour. You will be at the breakfast table. You will look like a Vance, and you will act like a Moretti."
"Who is it?"
"Someone who thinks your father owed him more than just money," Dante said, his voice dropping an octave. "Stay sharp, Elena. If you slip up, I can't guarantee your brother's safety today. The hospital is... vulnerable."
Elena felt a cold chill that had nothing to do with the air-conditioning. She scrambled out of bed, her feet hitting the cold marble. She hurried to the dressing room, her fingers fumbling with the silk ties of her gown.
The "guest" arrived at 8:00 AM sharp.
His name was Marcus Thorne—a man whose face looked like it had been carved out of old leather. He was a high-level predator in the city's grey market, the kind of man her father used to deal with in secret. Now, he was sitting at Dante's breakfast table, stabbing a piece of blood-red grapefruit with a silver fork.
Elena sat across from him, wearing a simple, high-collared charcoal dress. Her hands were folded in her lap, her fingers twisting together until they were white.
"She looks just like him," Thorne said, his voice a gravelly rasp. He didn't look at Elena; he looked at Dante, who was calmly sipping black coffee. "The same arrogant tilt of the chin. Tell me, Moretti, is she worth the trouble? The Vanes are still screaming about what you did to Julian last night."
"Julian is a child playing with fire," Dante said, his voice smooth as silk. "I merely took away his matches."
"And the money?" Thorne leaned forward, the scent of his heavy cologne filling the space. "We all know Vance didn't just go bankrupt. Ten million is a lot for a girl, even one with her pedigree. Unless... you know where the rest of it is."
Elena felt Dante's gaze on her. She looked up, her pulse thrumming in her throat. "There is no more money," she said. Her voice shook, but she forced herself to meet Thorne's eyes. "My father died in a cell. We lost the house, the firm, everything. If there was money, do you think I would have let them put me on that stage?"
Thorne laughed—a dry, hacking sound. "Maybe. Or maybe you're just a better actress than your mother was."
Dante set his cup down with a sharp clack against the saucer. The sound cut through the room like a gunshot.
"That's enough, Thorne," Dante said. He didn't raise his voice, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. "Elena is under my protection. Any questions about her family's debt come through me. And I've already told you—the debt is settled."
"Is it?" Thorne stood up, his eyes narrowing. He finally looked at Elena, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. "Be careful, little bird. Cages have bars for a reason. Sometimes they keep people out... and sometimes they keep the monster in."
As Thorne was escorted out, the silence in the dining room became deafening. Elena looked at Dante, her mind spinning.
"Why did he say that?" she asked. "About the money? Dante, what did my father do?"
Dante didn't answer. He stood up and walked toward the window, staring out at the gray sea. His back was a wall of muscle and scars.
"Your father was a desperate man, Elena," Dante said after a long silence. "And desperate men do things that their daughters can't even imagine. He didn't just embezzle. He laundered. For people like Thorne."
Elena felt the world tilting. The "Pearl of Boston" was built on blood and laundry. She stood up, her legs feeling like lead. She walked over to him, stopping a few feet away.
"And you?" she whispered. "Why are you really doing this? Is it just to watch me realize my whole life was a lie? Or is it because you're one of them now?"
Dante turned around so fast she didn't have time to flinch. He grabbed her by the shoulders, his grip tight, almost painful. He pulled her close, his face inches from hers. She could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the raw, unbridled intensity.
"I am exactly what your father made me," he hissed. "He took a boy who believed in loyalty and turned him into a man who only believes in leverage. You want to know the truth? Thorne is right. I didn't just buy you to save you. I bought you because you are the only person who can unlock the accounts your father left behind."
Elena's breath hitched. "I told you... I don't know anything!"
"Then you'd better start remembering," Dante said, his voice dropping to a whisper that was more terrifying than a scream. "Because Thorne won't be the last one to come knocking. And the next time, I might not feel so generous."
He let her go, and the sudden loss of his heat made her shiver. He walked toward the door, but paused, his hand on the handle.
"There's a gala for the Foundation tonight. You'll be there. Wear something that says you're not afraid. Even if you're dying inside."
He left, and Elena was alone in the vast room. She looked down at her hands. They were still shaking. She realized then that the "ransom" wasn't just about money or her life. It was about a secret buried so deep that it had already claimed Dante's soul—and now, it was coming for hers.