Chapter 11
Iwake to sunlight spilling across my face and the faint clack of a keyboard.
It takes me a second to remember where I am—to piece together the quiet hum of the penthouse and the smell of espresso from somewhere nearby.
Then I see him.
Dante’s sitting on the couch across from me, jacket off, sleeves rolled to his forearms. His tie is forgotten, draped around his neck. He’s staring at something on his laptop, his brow furrowed, the muscles in his jaw tight.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him like this in daylight—unguarded, unarmored. Human.
He glances up when I shift under the blanket. “Morning, Bella.”
The way he says it—low and rough from lack of sleep—sends a flutter through my chest that I refuse to acknowledge.
“You didn’t go to bed?” I ask, sitting up.
“I don’t sleep much.”
“Because of work?”
He closes his laptop, the smallest smile ghosting across his lips. “Because of life.”
I study him for a second. “You look like hell.”
He smirks faintly. “You’re one to talk.”
We stare at each other a moment too long. Then I stand, pretending to straighten my sweater. “Coffee?”
He nods. “Nicole left a fresh pot.”
When I pass him to get to the kitchen, his hand brushes mine. Just an accident—but it feels like a spark anyway.
The rest of the morning passes in a blur of soft conversation and quiet glances neither of us admits to.
It’s almost comfortable. Too comfortable.
By afternoon, he’s back in his office when his phone rings. His whole body tenses. I watch him through the open doorway as he answers.
“Alessandro,” he says, voice suddenly colder.
He listens, jaw tight, eyes narrowing. Then, “I’m on my way.”
He grabs his jacket, shoving his phone in the pocket, and strides toward the door.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
His eyes meet mine. There’s something dark behind them. “Stay here. With Sofia. I’ll be back later.”
That tone—the one that doesn’t leave room for questions—should make me angry.
Instead, it makes my stomach twist in ways I don’t understand.
“Be careful,” I say before I can stop myself.
He pauses just long enough to give me that look—the one that feels like a touch even from across the room. “Always.”
And then he’s gone.
The door closes behind him, and the penthouse feels emptier than it should.
I hate the feeling that crawls up my spine as the elevator hums away.
Worry.
That’s what it is.
And I hate it.
I shouldn’t care what happens to a man like Dante Moretti.
But I do.
I spend the next few hours doing exactly what I promised him I wouldn’t—connecting with the outside world.
My phone feels like freedom when I turn it on.
First, I call my dad.
He nearly cries with relief when he hears my voice. “Isabella, thank God. Are you safe?”
“I am,” I say softly. “I’m with someone… trustworthy.”
“Who?”
“I can’t say.”
He sighs heavily. “Your mother would lose her mind if she knew what you were putting me through.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.” But I hear the smile in his voice. “Just… come home when you can, figlia mia.”
Next is Danny.
“Isa,” he snaps the second he answers. “Where the hell are you?”
“I told Dad—I’m safe.”
“Safe? You disappeared! Your car’s still at your place, your editor said some guy showed up asking questions—”
“Danny,” I cut in, trying to keep calm, “I’m fine. Really.”
He exhales hard. “Then come home.”
“I can’t. Not yet.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m still working on my story.”
Silence. Then, “You’re unbelievable.”
“It’s what I do.”
“What you do is get yourself killed for a headline!” His voice cracks. “Isa, please. Stop this before—”
“I can’t,” I whisper. “Not until I know the truth.”
He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like a prayer and hangs up.
I call my editor next. He’s calmer, but only barely.
“Where the hell have you been, Isa? I’ve been running damage control for two days.”
“I can’t tell you much yet, but I’ve got eyes on something big. The Moretti connection might not be what we thought.”
“Isa…” he warns, voice low. “You’re treading on dangerous ground. Just stay alive long enough to bring me something I can print.”
Then I call Casey—my best friend, my voice of reason, the one person who’s always seen through me.
She picks up on the first ring. “Holy hell, you’re alive!”
“Barely.”
“Where are you? And don’t say ‘can’t tell you.’”
I laugh under my breath. “Fine. Somewhere… high up. With a man who makes terrible coffee.”
Her voice sharpens instantly. “Oh my God. Isa, are you being held hostage by a mobster right now?”
I pause. “…Technically.”
“Technically?”
“He’s not what I thought he’d be, Leah. He’s—” I hesitate, searching for the right words. “He’s dangerous, yeah. But he’s also… complicated. Kind. He takes care of his daughter. And he—”
“Oh no.”
“Oh no, what?”
“You’re catching feelings for your mafia captor.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
I groan. “You’re insane.”
“No,” she says, laughing. “You are. I know that voice, Isa. That’s your I’m falling for the story voice.”
“It’s not the story.”
“Then who is it?”
I don’t answer.
Evening creeps in, and he still isn’t back.
Nicole puts Sofia to bed, leaving me with a quiet I don’t know what to do with.
I pace my room, unable to stop the worry gnawing at me. Every creak in the hallway makes my heart stutter.
Then—soft crying.
Sofia.
Before I even think, I’m out of my room and down the hall.
Her door’s cracked open. She’s curled in her bed, clutching her rabbit, tears streaking her cheeks.
“Hey,” I whisper, kneeling beside her. “Bad dream?”
She nods, sniffling. “Papà wasn’t here. And everything was dark.”
I brush her hair back gently. “He’ll be home soon.”
She blinks up at me as I crawl into bed beside her. “Are you staying with us forever?”
The question steals my breath. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I love you here,” she says. “Papà smiles more now. He doesn’t yell as much. I think he’s happier since you came.”
Her honesty breaks something soft inside me.
Then her voice drops to a whisper. “My mama died when I was little. But I know Papà needs a queen to help him carry his crown. And I’m just the princess. That’s not my job.”
My throat tightens. I take her tiny hand in mine. “Oh, sweetheart… maybe you’re right. But even if I’m not your Papà’s queen, I’ll still help him any way I can. And I’ll always be your friend, okay? Always.”
She sniffles, nodding. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
She leans into me, curling against my side, her hand gripping my sweater. I press a kiss to the top of her head, whispering, “Sleep, Sofia.”
Her breathing evens out after a few minutes, small and steady.
And that’s when I feel it.
A shadow in the doorway.
I look up—and there he is.
Dante.
He’s standing there in the half-light, shirt undone, eyes unreadable, watching us.
I don’t move. Neither does he.
Because somehow, in this quiet little room, something just shifted—and we both know it.