The moment he pulled the crystal shard from her shoulder, he discovered a distinctive tattoo that revealed her true, hidden identity. "She had no money, no power, and no idea who she was saving—until the little boy whispered “Papa,” and she realized she had just thrown herself between a crime lord and his only son.

The name Moretti hung in the bedroom like smoke after a gunshot.

Even from the periphery of New York society, working dead-end jobs and scrubbing floors, I had heard the whispers. The Moretti syndicate controlled the dockyards, the union kickbacks, and half the corrupt politicians in Manhattan. They were ruthless, ancient money—everything Dante Vance fought against, and everything he warred with in the shadows.

“They want a war?” Dante whispered, his voice dangerously quiet. He didn't raise his voice, yet the sheer venom in his tone made Marco take an involuntary half-step back. “Fine. Give them one. Burn their Brooklyn import warehouses to ash by midnight. Hit their financial accounts in the Cayman Islands until their banks scream. Leave nothing.”

“Understood, Boss,” Marco nodded crisply, turning on his heel to exit.

“Wait,” I called out, my voice cutting through the heavy tension of the room.

Marco stopped, looking back in surprise. Dante turned slowly, his dark eyebrows arched in silent interrogation.

“If the Morettis know I took the hit... if they know I’m here in this house... then staying hidden inside these walls isn't going to protect me,” I said, swinging my legs over the side of the silk-sheeted bed and standing up, despite my aching muscles. “And it’s certainly not going to protect Leo. You’re reacting like a warlord, Dante, but a war has collateral damage. And I’m standing right in the middle of it.”

Dante crossed the room in two long strides, grabbing my upper arms—careful not to touch my injured shoulder—and stopping me inches from his chest.

“You are not collateral damage, Elena,” he said fiercely, his dark eyes boring into mine. “You are the reason my son is alive to breathe today. You think I’m going to let some low-level Moretti foot soldier lay a finger on you? I built this empire with blood and iron precisely so I could protect the people who matter.”

“And how long can you protect me while I’m sitting in a gilded cage?” I challenged, holding my ground, refusing to shrink away from the apex predator towering above me. “You want me safe? Then stop treating me like porcelain. If the Morettis are hunting me, I need to know how to fight back. I need to know your world, not just hide from it.”

Dante stared at me for a long, agonizing moment. The silence between us stretched tight as a violin string. I saw a battle raging behind his obsidian eyes—the fierce, protective instinct of a father and a mob boss fighting against a growing, terrifying realization that the cynical, guarded woman standing before him was entirely unimpressed by his intimidation and completely fearless in her conviction.

A slow, fierce smile finally broke across Dante’s rugged face. It wasn't his cold, predatory smirk. It was genuine, sharp, and dangerously admiring.

“God help me,” Dante murmured, running a hand through his dark hair. “You really aren't like anyone else, Elena.”

“Is that a yes?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“That is a trial,” Dante corrected smoothly. He walked over to a heavy oak wardrobe in the corner of the room, unlocked it with a brass key from his pocket, and pulled out a sleek, matte-black Glock 19, along with a rugged tactical holster. He walked back and laid them gently on the nightstand beside the bed. “If you want to survive in my world, little bird, you need to learn how to clip wings before they clip yours. Tomorrow morning at 5:00 a.m., the shooting range in the basement opens. Marco will be waiting for you.”

I looked down at the firearm, then back up at Dante. My pulse hammered against my ribs, not with fear, but with a terrifying, electric thrill.