Chapter 13
When I wake, the first thing I see is him.
He’s sitting against the wall across from my bedroom, half in shadow, his head tipped back against the doorframe. His shirt’s wrinkled, his hair still damp, and for a heartbeat I think he’s dead asleep—until his eyes open.
“You were watching me,” I whisper.
He doesn’t deny it. Just looks at me the way he always does—like he’s memorizing the proof I’m still breathing.
“Go back to sleep, Bella,” he says quietly.
“You are on the floor,” I murmur.
He stands, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Didn’t trust myself to be closer.” But he steps up to the edge of my bed anyway.
Something in my chest twists at that.
Before I can say anything, Sofia’s voice calls from the kitchen. “Papà! Bella! Breakfast!”
Dante sighs. “Saved by the princess.”
He reaches out like he might touch my cheek, then thinks better of it. “Come eat.”
The kitchen smells like pancakes and espresso. Sofia is already at the table, proudly stabbing strawberries onto a fork. Nicole moves around the stove, smiling when she sees me.
It’s warm. Familiar.
Almost domestic.
Dante pours coffee and slides a mug toward me. Our fingers brush, and something unspoken passes between us again—something soft and dangerous.
I open my mouth to tease him about actually sleeping, but the elevator dings.
And everything changes.
The doors slam open, and Alessandro storms in—furious, wild-eyed, a crumpled newspaper clutched in his fist.
“What the hell is this?” he roars, slamming it down on the counter.
The sound makes Sofia jump. The mug slips from my hand and shatters on the tile.
Dante’s already moving, stepping between us. “Watch your tone, Alessandro.”
“I can’t,” Alessandro snaps, eyes locked on me. “You want to protect her? Protect your fucking family? Maybe don’t invite a snake into your home!”
My stomach drops. “What are you talking about?”
He grabs the paper and shoves it toward Dante. “Read it.”
Dante’s eyes flick down, scanning the front page. I watch the change happen—the calm draining from his face, the muscle in his jaw starting to tick.
Then his hand tightens on the edge of the paper until it crumples in his grip.
The headline screams from the page:
THE MORETTI EMPIRE: INSIDE NEW YORK’S BLOODLINE OF CORRUPTION
By: Isabella DeLaurentis
My heart stops.
“No—no, that’s not—” I stammer, reaching for it. “I didn’t write that!”
“The hell you didn’t!” Alessandro snarls. “It’s your byline, your sources, your fucking notes, Isabella!”
My hands are shaking. “I didn’t—someone must’ve hacked—”
“Enough!”
Dante’s voice is a whip crack. Sofia flinches, clutching her stuffed rabbit. Nicole steps forward, but Dante lifts a hand.
He turns on me.
Eyes dark.
Voice low and dangerous.
“You used your phone.”
My stomach twists. “What—”
“Don’t lie to me,” he snaps. “You called your father, your brother, your friend. And your fucking editor.”
“Dante, I didn’t send him anything—”
“Then how the fuck did he get it?” His voice rises, the control slipping. “How did he get my name? My family’s? My daughter’s?”
“Maybe he had an old file—”
“Stop.” His eyes flash, all the softness gone. “You put a target on my back. On my men’s. On my daughter’s.”
The words pierce something in my heart. I would never hurt that little girl.
“Dante, please—”
“You think this is a game? That you can write your little story and walk away?” He takes a step closer, and I feel the tremor of fury in him. “You just made my daughter a headline, Isabella!”
Tears burn behind my eyes, but I force the words out anyway. “I didn’t do this! I swear to you—I didn’t.”
He slams the paper down on the table, every word venomous. “They printed details no one could know without you. Business deals. Names. Deaths. You tell me how that happened.”
“I don’t know!” My voice cracks. “I didn’t write that story. Someone used my name.”
He stares at me for a long, brutal second, his expression unreadable. Then he shakes his head slowly, as if he doesn’t know whether to break something or walk away.
“You don’t understand what you’ve done,” he says finally, voice low, trembling with restrained rage. “You didn’t just expose me. You exposed her.”
He gestures toward Sofia—tiny, confused, watching us both like she can feel the storm she can’t see.
“I didn’t—”
“But you did,” he says, each word clipped. “And now every enemy I’ve ever made knows exactly where to find us.”
The silence that follows feels like punishment.
Finally, he turns away, jaw clenched so tight I can hear it grind.
“Nicole,” he says, voice low. “Take Sofia to her room.”
“Papà?” Sofia’s voice trembles.
“Now, Principessa.”
Nicole moves fast, ushering the girl out, murmuring soft reassurances that sound like lies.
When they’re gone, Dante looks back at me.
The man standing in front of me isn’t the one who made me coffee this morning.
He’s the Don.
Every inch of him is sharp and lethal again.
And the way he looks at me—like he’s torn between killing me and pulling me into his arms—breaks me more than the accusation itself.
“I trusted you,” he says quietly. “I shouldn’t have.”
“Dante—”
He cuts me off. “Don’t. I can’t even look at you right now.”
And then he walks away.
The door slams behind him, the sound echoing through the house like gunfire.