Chapter 21
The penthouse is too quiet.
Too big. Too still.
I sit on the edge of the sofa with my phone in my hand and realize that parts of me aren't here at all. They're scattered—somewhere in that school auditorium, sitting beside him, clapping for a little girl who deserves every bit of joy the world can give her.
I should feel peace knowing they're safe.
Instead, it feels like someone's taken a piece of my heart and carried it out the door with them.
The phone pings.
For one breath, everything inside me lifts—
Dante.
But it's not.
Danny:
Glad you finally ran the story about the Morettis instead of the Mayor. He was pleased with me yesterday. Proud of us both.
My stomach turns. Proud?
I stare at the message until the words blur, then type fast, fingers shaking.
Me:
It wasn't me, Danny. The editor knows. The paper's pulling it today.
I hit send and push to my feet, needing to move, needing air. The halls feel longer without their voices filling them. I drift past the doors until I reach Sofia's room.
The bed's a mess of pink blankets and stuffed animals, a tiny kingdom left behind. Her rabbit has toppled off the pillow, so I set it back upright, smoothing its ears the way she does when she talks to it.
"Guard the castle," I whisper, half-smiling.
The phone vibrates again. My heart jumps.
This time it is him.
A picture fills the screen—Sofia onstage, tiny shoulders back, paper crown shining under the lights.
The sight punches the air from my chest.
God, she looks radiant.
And I'm not there.
I trace the edge of the photo with my thumb, swallowing the ache building in my throat. Never again, I think. I will never miss another one of her performances.
My fingers fly before I can stop them.
Me:
Tell her she looks just like the ladybug princess she is.
I press send, and for a second everything feels still again—until another message flashes across the top of the screen.
Danny:
Crazy, huh? That someone used your name to write that story. We need to talk. It's been too long since I've seen you. I'm worried about you, Isa.
I read it twice.
My brother never says he's worried.
Guilt curls through me. I've been hiding from them all for weeks, choosing a war that doesn't even belong to me.
Me:
Okay. I'll meet you at my apartment.
I hesitate, staring at the last message Dante sent—the picture, Sofia's smile—and something inside me twists.
But Danny needs me. And I owe him at least the truth.
The guard at the elevator straightened instantly when he saw me, his posture shifting from relaxed vigilance to sharp professional alert. It was a subtle thing, barely a movement, but after weeks in Dante's orbit, I saw the tension clearly.
"Ms. DeLaurentis—"
"Dante called," I said quickly, keeping my voice utterly calm and confident, though my pulse was a frantic bird against my ribs.
I made sure to use his name, using his authority as a shield.
"He said security at the school is perfect and that I should come watch Sofia's play.
He knows how much it means that I'm there. "
I didn't let my eyes leave his, projecting a confidence that was entirely manufactured. My brother needs me. Danny's worried. The urgency of his message was like a live wire under my skin.
The man hesitated, "We were told specifically to keep the floor secure, Ms. DeLaurentis."
"I'll meet them there," I countered, stepping closer so my words were firm, undeniable. "Someone needs to keep the house secure while the rest of you escort me. That's what he said. He trusts me to make the call, and he needs eyes on the perimeter. Is that clear?"
The tone of delegated authority was just enough to make him hesitate, then nod. He clearly weighed the risk of questioning Dante's implied orders against the risk of keeping me locked away. Dante's mood was a known variable; disobeying his presumed instructions was not.
He spoke rapidly into his radio, his voice a low, clipped murmur I couldn't distinguish, then gestured toward the elevator. "Two men will escort you, Ms. DeLaurentis. One ahead, one behind."
"Thank you," I said, managing a tight smile that felt more like a grimace.
The descent was agonizing. Every floor the elevator passed was a step closer to freedom—or to being caught. I felt the weight of the two men —silent, tailored muscles —surrounding me.
When the doors opened into the private garage, the cool, stale air hit me. The space was a massive, concrete tomb lined with luxury cars. My escort led me toward the sleek black SUV.
"I'll drive you—"
"That's all right," I interrupted quickly, cutting him off before he could reach the door handle.
I had already booked the car, timed to the minute.
"There's a car already waiting. Dante arranged for a driver with the required security clearance to avoid a full motorcade at the school. It's supposed to look discreet."
I spotted it instantly: the nondescript, dark-colored sedan idling discreetly near the far exit.
The head guard frowned, his professionalism warring with the instruction. "I don't recognize that vehicle, ma'am."
"It's new," I lied, stepping past him quickly, before he could raise the issue over the radio. I moved with a focused pace—not running, but not dawdling—and pulled open the rear door of the sedan myself.
I didn't look back. I didn't breathe.
I slid into the backseat. My heart was hammering so violently that I was afraid the Uber driver would hear it.
"Drive," I whispered to the driver, keeping my gaze locked on the guards standing beside Dante's SUV. They were still there, watching, trying to reconcile the conflicting orders.
The door closed with a muffled thunk. The car pulled away smoothly, blending immediately into the flow of evening traffic, and I finally allowed myself a long, shuddering breath. I didn't relax. I knew, with cold certainty, that Dante would know I was gone the second he checked his phone.
But by then, I'd be with Danny. And I was already committed.
The city blurs past the window, sunlight flickering between the buildings. For the first time since I came into Dante's world, I'm leaving it by choice.
I tell myself it's only a meeting.
That I'll see Danny, straighten out the mess, and come back before they even notice I'm gone.
But underneath the lie, a knot of unease won't let go.
Because if there's one thing I've learned in Dante Moretti's world, nothing that starts with good intentions ever ends that way.
The streets outside my building feel too quiet —the kind that hums beneath the surface, as if the city is holding its breath.
I climb the stairs instead of taking the elevator, the air heavy, my pulse quickening the higher I go.
By the time I reach my door, I'm already rehearsing what I'll say—how I'll convince Danny that I'm okay, that he doesn't need to worry, that everything's finally settling.
Except it isn't.
And maybe he'll hear that, even if I don't say it.
The lock clicks open.
He's standing in the middle of the living room, back to me.
He turns too fast when he hears the door.
"Danny?"
He crosses the space in three strides, pulling me into a hug so tight it steals the air from my lungs.
"God, Isa." His voice shakes against my hair. "I've been so worried about you."
I freeze for a second before forcing a breath. "I'm fine."
He leans back, hands still gripping my arms like he's afraid I'll disappear. His eyes are bloodshot, darting everywhere but my face. There's a twitch in his jaw I don't remember seeing before.
"You shouldn't have gone to him," he mutters. "You shouldn't have stayed there."
The words land cold.
I step back a little. "What are you talking about?"
"Dante Moretti." He spits the name like poison. "He's dangerous, Isa. Keeping you locked up in that house, away from everyone? You think that's protection?"
Something in me stills.
"Danny," I say slowly, carefully, "how do you know I've been with Dante?"
His mouth opens, closes. "You told me."
"No," I whisper. "I didn't."
His eyes flick away. His shoulders rise, fall. "You must've forgotten. You told me when you called me."
"I never told you."
For a long, horrible second, the air between us goes sharp.
He exhales hard through his nose and turns away, pacing toward the window.
"Danny," I try again, moving a little closer, "tell me what's going on. You're scaring me."
He doesn't answer.
The city glows faintly against the glass, his reflection a shadow carved from something I don't recognize.
When he finally turns, there's something broken in his face—regret, fear, something that looks too much like resignation.
"I'm sorry, Isa," he says softly.
Then he raises his hand.
For a heartbeat, I think he's reaching to touch my cheek, the way he did when we were kids.
But the sharp sting that blooms in my neck says otherwise.
"Danny—"
The word barely leaves my lips before the world tilts.
The room slides sideways, color draining from the edges of my vision.
I try to take a step, but my knees don't listen. My fingers slip uselessly against his arm as darkness rushes up to meet me.
The last thing I see is his face—my brother's face—blurred and trembling as he catches me before I hit the floor.
And then everything goes black.