The warehouse safehouse reeks of rust and gunpowder, a world away from the polished luxury of a penthouse. The ledger page is eating a hole inside my head; I see Matteo’s jagged signature like a traitor’s confession. The man who comforted me when I wept over my parents’ graves was tied to the Morettis? The cartel? My stomach rolls but I push the betrayal down, stuff it behind the steel wall that I’ve kept around my heart. My name? I’m Isabella Rossi, and I refuse to be broken by a man or anyone else—vampires, sorcerers, it doesn’t matter, powerful men have always broken me and I’m not going to let that happen again—not to me, no, not to the last member of the Rossi family. HEAT LEVEL: This one is steamy, safe, with dual POV, and a happy ending.
Dante's thick shoulders are hunched over the map table, his gray eyes skim the paths I've plotted. His face is in shadow then, from the one overhead bulb, and the scar on his brow is visible, along with the hard line of his jaw. He is a predator where he belongs; but there is exhaustion in his stance now, a chink in his armor I am beginning to perceive. Marco’s outside, “handling” the cartel scouts we hogtied, and there’s a tension between Dante and me, thick with the fight we’ve just been in, and the secrets we’re both holding.
“You’re quiet,” Dante says, without looking up. His tone is low and nearly a growl and it’s almost like he’s pushing me. “That ledger hit a nerve.”
I curl my hands into fists, my nails biting into the flesh of my palms. “Don’t act like you give a damn about my nerves, Moretti. You planted that bomb to screw with me.”
He sits up and his eyes bore into mine, hard and fierce. “I sidelined it because you have to know. "Your uncle's name on that page, that means he's not the saint you think. And if he’s been in bed with the cartel, then we’re both fucked.”
I take a step closer, the wet air clinging my sweater to my skin. “If you knew about Matteo, why didn’t you tell me earlier? Or is this just another playing with me to have me on a leash?”
His eyes smoulder and he steps into my personal space, dominating me. “You think I would be playing games when my head’s on the block with the cartel? I discovered that page tonight, just as you did. “But I are on with the stubborn bastard so I don’t think talking to Lorenzo would … But I know what it means—someone in your family sold you out long before Luca did.”
The words land like a punch, and I hate how they mirror my own fears. Matteo and his father’s lectures about being careful, his promises to make something of the Rossi name — it was all too much, too perfect, too desperate to control me. But a traitor? I sigh and shake my head, pushing that thought away. “You’re wrong. Matteo raised me. He wouldn’t—”
“Wouldn’t what?” Then Dante is butting in, cutting up her voice. “Betray you? Like Luca did? The same way half the families in this city would if it meant power?” He snatches the ledger page off the table and raises it. “This isn’t sentiment, Isabella. It’s evidence.”
I seize the page, our fingers barely skimming and a jolt I don't want to feel shoot through me. “Evidence of what? A deal? A mistake? You don’t know Matteo. You don’t know my family.”
“And you don’t even know mine,” he snaps, his voice low and threatening. “You think I wanted this war? You thought I wanted to inherit a bloody legacy?” His scarless eye twitches, and just for a moment I can see it — what he hides in that pale eye, what his crown has cost him that he never chose.
I start to open my mouth to tell him — but a loud crack breaks the air — a gunshot, and it’s nearby. Dante reaches for his gun, his body moving to cover mine on some sort of basic, instinctual level. “Get down,” he hisses, yanking me down behind the table. My heart is racing, adrenaline washing through my system. Another shot, then shouts — Marco’s voice, ordering people around.
“Cartel?” I whisper, my hand meeting a knife on the table, the weight of it known, solid.
Dante nods, his eyes roving the room. They’re quicker than I expected. Marco’s got the perimeter but we’ve got to go.”
I clench the knife, training comes forward. “I’m not hiding. Let me fight.”
He shoots me a look — part mad and something else, admiration, maybe. “You’re unreasonable,” he mutters, but there is no heat behind it. “Fine. Stay close.”
We slip through through a side door, the warehouse’s labyrinth of crates and darkness our shield. Outside the night is alive with chaos — gunfire, the screech of tires, men shouting in Spanish and Italian. Marco’s pinned up by the entrance, going back and forth with three cartel thugs. Their black S.U.V.s fill the alley, red cartel insignia shining in the streetlights. My blood runs cold. The Salazars don’t strike as much as they obliterate.
Dante glides, ghostlike, silently, deadly, dropping one thug with a single shot to the knee. I accompany, with a knife at the ready, and my ears pricked. A second thug sees us, raises his gun, but I’m quicker. I stomp the knife in his shoulder.133 I try again.)I roll over, sitting on top of him.134 I fling the knife, nailing him in the shoulder. He shrieks and drops his weapon; Dante dispatches him with a bullet to the head. Our eyes meet, and it’s a silent acknowledgment — we’re a team, whether I like it or not.
Marco is waving us toward him, blood smearing his face from a graze. “They shot our shipment,” he growls. “Knew our route. Someone’s talking.”
The words land like a blade. Someone’s talking. Matteo’s signature flits into my mind, but I push it away. Not now. “How many?” “Who is this?” I say, in a steady voice despite the madness.
“Six, seven at most,” Marco mutters as he reloads. “We can take ’em, but we need to get to the car.”
Dante nods, his fingers skimming my back as he urges me on. The touch is fleeting but searing, underscoring the perilous attraction between us. We run for the SUV, and bullets ricochet off metal crates. I take cover behind a pile, panting, scan, see a cartel thug moving in on Marco. Unthinking, I leap, and tackle him to the ground. I swing my fists, reeling with anger—for Luca, for Matteo, and for all the betrayals that have taken me to this place. He’s gone limp and I zip-tie his wrists, my hands shaking but steady.
Dante hoists me to my feet, his grip unrelenting. “Reckless,” he says, but his eyes are alight, as if he’s seeing me again. “Let’s go.”
We make it to the SUV, Marco providing cover as Dante climbs into the driver’s seat. The engine revs, and we tear away, the warehouse burning in our wake. My heart’s pounding, knife-weightless but memory-heavy in my hand. I was fighting for Dante, for his man, and it feels like a betrayal of my own blood. But the ledger — Matteo’s name — just won’t go away.
“You okay?” Dante says, looking at me in the rearview mirror. His voice is warm, almost human.
I nod my head, swiping sweat from my forehead. “Just let me know where we’re going.”
“Another safehouse,” he says. “We need to regroup, organize the hit on their shipment. You’re still in?”
I look into his eyes sobering up. “I’m in. But if Matteo’s involved — I want the truth. All of it.”
He meets my gaze, something unspoken passing between us. “You’ll get it. But it’s going to hurt.”
The S.U.V. races through the city, a brilliant blur of light and shadow. My thoughts spin — Matteo, Luca, the cartel, Dante. They all are pieces of a puzzle and I make half of it, a Rossi in a Moretti’s world. However, I’m no longer just a pawn. I’m a player, and before some prick—family, cartel, or Dante—exercises my will, I’ll burn this city to the ground.
