Chapter 7
The problem with cages is that sometimes they look like luxury.
The penthouse is all glass and silence.
It’s the kind of place you could mistake for heaven—if not for the invisible bars around it.
And then there’s him.
He moves through this place like it breathes for him. Quiet. Sharp. Always watching.
Dante Moretti—Don of New York’s underworld, executioner of silence.
And now, apparently, my warden.
I’m sitting on one of his overpriced leather couches, arms folded tight, glaring at him across the room. He’s at the bar, pouring something into a cup like he didn’t kidnap me tonight.
I break the silence first. “You can’t keep me here.”
He doesn’t look up. “I can do whatever’s necessary to keep you alive.”
“That’s called kidnapping, not protection.”
“Words,” he says, calm, like he’s choosing not to hear the edge in my voice. “You twist them for a living. I live by them.”
“Try twisting this—give me my phone.”
“Not a chance.”
I lean back, exhaling hard through my nose. “You think cutting me off is going to keep me safe? I have people who will worry—family, coworkers—”
He finally glances up, eyes a cool gray storm. “You mean the same people who leaked your investigation?”
“That wasn’t my brother,” I snap.
“Didn’t say it was.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“The problem,” he says, setting the cup down, “is that the minute you touch that phone, someone else touches you. The mayor, his friends, the men who tried to kill you—take your pick. I’m not giving them another breadcrumb.”
My jaw locks. “You’re not giving me a choice.”
“That’s right.”
The silence stretches tight again. I can feel the pulse in my temple, still sore.
Finally, I push. “How would you feel if you couldn’t contact Sofia?”
That gets him. His shoulders tense, the slightest twitch in his jaw. I know I’ve hit the right nerve.
His gaze slides to me, dark and unreadable. For a second, I think he’s going to walk away—but he doesn’t. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out my phone.
“I’m giving you five minutes,” he says, crossing the room. “You’ll make your calls here. In front of me.”
I open my mouth to argue, but his tone cuts through the air. “Don’t mistake kindness for weakness, Bella.”
The name hits differently when he says it. Low. Rough. Personal.
He gestures toward the couch. “Sit.”
I sit mostly because I don’t have another option.
He hands me the phone. The lock screen lights up with a dozen missed calls—Danny, Dad, Casey, my editor. The sight of it almost makes me dizzy with relief.
I call my father first.
He answers on the second ring. “Isabella? Dio mio, where have you been? The news—Danny said there was a shooting—and now we can’t reach you.”
“I’m okay, Dad. I’m fine.”
“Fine?” His voice breaks. “You disappear and you’re fine?”
“I’m safe,” I say carefully, watching Dante from the corner of my eye. “I can’t say where, but I promise I’m safe.”
My father exhales shakily. “You sound tired.”
“I am.”
“Come home. Please.”
“I can’t,” I whisper.
He goes quiet. I can almost picture him rubbing his temples like he always does when I make him worry. “This story—this isn’t worth your life, figlia mia.”
“It’s the truth,” I say softly.
“Then let someone else tell it.”
I close my eyes. “I love you, Dad. Tell Danny I’ll call him next.”
When I hang up, Dante’s watching me—studying every breath.
“Next,” he says.
I call Danny.
He answers before the first ring finishes. “Isa! Where the hell are you?”
“I’m fine.”
“The hell you are! You vanish, your editor’s calling me, Dad’s losing his mind—”
“I can’t say where I am,” I interrupt.
“The fuck you can’t! Isa, listen to me—if someone’s forcing you—”
“No one’s forcing me.” The lie tastes bitter.
“Then come home.”
“I can’t,” I repeat.
He curses, long and loud. “At least tell me who you’re with.”
“I’m safe,” I say again, quieter now.
He exhales hard. “You’ve got to stop doing this. You can’t keep chasing stories that put you in a grave.”
“Danny—”
“I mean it, Isa. Whatever this is—it’s not worth it.”
The words twist something in me, but I don’t let him hear it. “I’ll call you soon, okay?”
He mutters something under his breath, and I hang up.
I set the phone on my lap and stare at the screen until it goes dark.
Dante watches me in silence.
“You didn’t tell him where you are,” he says finally.
“No.”
“Why?”
“So he wouldn’t worry.”
He frowns. “You think hiding the truth keeps people from worrying?”
“It does when the truth would terrify them.”
He studies me for a long moment, unreadable. Then his voice softens, barely above a whisper. “Are you afraid I’m going to hurt you?”
The question throws me. “Should I be?”
“No.” His gaze hardens, and there’s something raw there. “I would take my own life before I let that happen.”
I swallow, the lump in my throat heavy. “Well,” I say quietly, “there’s your answer.”
Neither of us moves. The silence between us feels alive.
He’s still standing too close. The space crackles with tension I can’t name.
Finally, he steps back and takes my phone. “You’ll get it again when I can make it safe.”
I don’t argue this time. My voice might shake if I do.
The next morning, the room is too quiet.
I wake up disoriented, the smell of coffee and expensive linen everywhere.
For a second, I forget where I am.
Then I see the skyline through the glass and remember everything.
I roll out of bed, stretching sore muscles, and tug one of his shirts—someone must’ve left it folded on the chair—over my tank top. The hem hits mid-thigh. It smells like cedar and sin.
The hall is empty when I pad out. The floor is cold under my bare feet, and I swear the air here carries secrets.
The kitchen gleams like no one ever cooks in it. I open a cabinet—rows of imported coffee beans, expensive liquor, not a single box of cereal. Typical.
A sound behind me makes me jump.
“Hi.”
I turn to find Sofia standing there, hair wild from sleep, clutching a stuffed rabbit.
“Oh. Hi.” I smile, softer now. “You startled me.”
She grins. “You look funny in Papà’s shirt.”
I glance down and laugh under my breath. “Yeah, I bet I do.”
“Are you his friend?” she asks again, the same question as last night.
I hesitate. “I’m… trying to be.”
She nods, as if that makes perfect sense. “Okay. Do you want pancakes? Nicole usually makes them, but she’s not here yet.”
“I can make pancakes,” I offer. “But only if you help.”
Sofia’s eyes light up. “Deal.”
We spend the next half hour making a disaster of his kitchen—flour everywhere, chocolate chips on the counter, laughter echoing through marble walls that probably haven’t heard joy in years.
When I flip a pancake too high and it lands on the floor, Sofia snorts so hard she nearly drops her spatula.
It’s… nice.
Too nice.
Somewhere in the middle of our chaos, I catch movement near the hall.
Dante stands there, half in shadow, watching us.
Not moving. Not saying a word.
His shirt sleeves are rolled up, the top buttons undone, and his tie hangs loose around his neck. There’s something unreadable in his expression as his gaze moves from Sofia’s flour-dusted hair to my bare legs, to the batter-smeared counter, and back again.
He doesn’t step in.
He just watches.
Sofia doesn’t notice him right away. She’s too busy concentrating on her pancake.
But I see the way his eyes soften when he looks at her—how that steel control melts just for her.
When Sofia finally spots him, she waves her spatula. “Papà! Bella made pancakes!”
“Did she?” His voice is low, smooth, but there’s something warm under it.
“Yes! But she dropped one on the floor.”
I glare at her, mock-offended. “Traitor.”
Sofia giggles, then runs off to grab plates.
He doesn’t move closer, but his eyes stay on me a moment longer than they should.
Something passes between us—unspoken, heavy, fragile.
The pen scratches across the paper, the sound small but steady.
I’ve filled three pages already—half sentences, fragments of thought, names circled and crossed out.
They can take my phone.
They can erase my files.
But they can’t take my voice.
Sofia had found the notebook for me this morning, grinning when she handed it over. “It’s for secrets,” she’d said proudly.
And now it’s my only weapon left.
The pages smell faintly of sugar and strawberry shampoo. Her handwriting covers the first few lines in wobbly letters:
For Bella. Don’t tell Papà. Sofia
It makes me smile, even when I don’t want to.
The room is too quiet otherwise. It’s late afternoon, sunlight slanting gold through the glass, the city a silent pulse far below. I sit cross-legged on the bed in one of the soft sweaters Nicole left for me, hair piled on top of my head, pen tapping against my chin.
My notes have turned messy, restless—like the thoughts in my head.
The mayor. The contracts. The Morettis.
Someone wanted me gone, but not dead.
Why?
I start scribbling faster.
The drive-by, the erased files, the text with his name—none of it fits together neatly. There’s something deeper underneath, something that doesn’t add up.
The pen digs into the paper when I write Dante Moretti for the first time.
He’s the link between all of it.
The one I should be most afraid of.
And yet…
I stop writing. My pulse betrays me, fluttering where it shouldn’t.
The door bursts open.
I flinch, pen streaking a line across the page.
Dante stands in the doorway, uninvited, unbothered, eyes sharp but distracted. His tie is loose, shirt sleeves rolled, hair a little disheveled like he’s been running his hands through it too often.
He looks—frazzled. Not furious. Not cold. Just… human.
“I have to go out,” he says, voice clipped. “There’s a situation I need to handle.”
I blink, thrown off by how abrupt it is. “Okay?”
“If you need anything, tell Nicole. She’ll get it for you.”
The way he says it—like it’s routine—makes me want to argue. To demand my phone, to tell him I’m not one of his soldiers to be handed orders. But there’s something in his eyes that stops me.
Worry.
Real, unguarded worry.
For a second, I forgot what I was angry about.
I set the notebook aside. “Where’s Sofia?”
“In the media room,” he says, distracted. “Watching a movie. Nicole’s with her.”
“Are you expecting trouble?”
He exhales, the sound heavy. “I’m always expecting trouble.”
He moves toward the door like he’s already half gone, but I don’t think about it—I move.
Before I can second-guess myself, I cross the room and stop in front of him. He freezes when I reach up.
His tie is uneven, twisted from where he must’ve yanked on it in frustration. My fingers brush the smooth silk as I straighten it, slow and careful, avoiding his gaze.
When I finally look up, he’s watching me.
No walls. No mask. Just quiet confusion, like he doesn’t understand why I’d touch him at all.
“There,” I whisper, smoothing the knot against his chest. “Now you look like you run the world again.”
Something flickers in his eyes—something that looks dangerously close to softness.
“Be careful,” I add quietly.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. For a moment, the world holds its breath with him.
Then he nods once, slow, the muscle in his jaw tightening. “Always.”
And without another word, he turns and leaves.
The door closes behind him, but his scent—cedar, smoke, and control—lingers.
I sit back on the bed, my hand still trembling from where it touched him.
He’s a man who’s built his life on fear and power.
But just for a second, when he looked at me like that—
He felt almost breakable.