Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
DALLEN
By Monday morning, I’m convincing myself that the charity auction is a fever dream and my night in Stephen’s arms afterward as well—too much socializing, too much champagne, too much Stephen.
If I focus hard enough on my work, maybe I can shrink the memory of his hands on my body, the way he kneels in front of me in the hallway, the way I almost—almost—let myself forget who he is when I go back to his apartment.
Almost cave and give in to what he wants me to do.
Be owned by him?
Part of me wants to be kept, to be owned by him, but not in the way he wants.
I want love, companionship, trust, and loyalty.
I don't want to be told what I can and can't do, and I'll never settle for scraps.
I deserve so much more than that, and I don't care how much bad blood runs between him and the Romeros, that has nothing to do with me.
A knock sounds on my door, and I look up expecting to see my assistant. Instead, it’s my father. He steps through the doorway of my office, fills the frame like a storm cloud—broad-shouldered, imposing, wearing the expression he saves for briefing homicide detectives. My stomach drops.
“Dad?” I stand too quickly. “Is everything okay?”
“We need to talk,” he says.
That tone. My pulse stutters. I sit down, trying not to imagine the worst. “Is Mom okay?” I ask.
“She’s fine, this call isn’t about her.” He doesn’t sit, he plants his hands on the back of the chair opposite my desk, head lowered, gathering himself. This is bad. I brace myself for whatever it is he’s about to say.
“Dallen,” he says finally, lifting his gaze. “I’ve been made aware of something.”
The dread pools in my gut. “What?”
“Your clients. The Romeros.”
I blink—dear Lord, not him as well. I fight not to sigh, to tell him to leave, but something stops me. He is the Chief of Police. Maybe he knows something with truth behind its claims. “What about them?” I say, knowing I must tread carefully regarding client confidentiality.
His jaw flexes. “Do you know what they want with you? The true reason why they hired Redwood & Tully?”
“What do they want with me?” I repeat, shaking my head, “Dad, I’m their attorney. What else would they want than representation?”
He straightens, all business now. “We intercepted a conversation this morning. Wiretap on one of their associates. They’re not hiring your firm because they care about Matteo’s assets.
” He pauses. “They’re using the firm to get close to you because you’re getting close to someone they want to hurt. ”
A chill darts down my spine. “Why would—?”
He cuts me off. “They know you’re seeing Stephen Moretti, and if they weren’t sure before, they certainly are now after the charity event Saturday night.”
My legs shake, and I grip the edge of my desk.
“That’s—no. Dad, I barely know Stephen Moretti.
We haven’t even discussed if we’re exclusive.
” Although, after what Stephen said to me the other night, I’m pretty sure he’s already under the assumption we’re a couple and I’m exclusive.
His possessive nature toward me already should raise red flags, yet I know he wouldn’t hurt me.
That doesn’t mean he wouldn’t hurt others who threaten our relationship.
Are the Romeros up to no good? Am I a pawn in their game? Is Stephen correct?
My father’s fingers tighten on the back of the chair, his knuckles turning white.
“It doesn’t matter what you’ve discussed.
They think you’re connected to him, and intimately, all the better for them.
” He shakes his head, looking weary and concerned.
“These mobsters have one rule they enjoy enforcing most. An eye for an eye. They believe the Morettis killed one of their own, and you, being with Stephen…” His nostrils flare. “You’re a target of opportunity.”
My heart pounds so hard I feel it in my fingertips. “Dad, this doesn’t make sense. Why would they come after me over something that isn’t even proven, and isn’t even being investigated? If law enforcement thought the Morettis had killed a Romero, I would think that would be headline news.”
“Nothing the mafia does needs to make sense,” he snaps. “It doesn’t have to be logical. It just has to hurt.”
What my father says slowly sinks in. “Oh my God.”
His expression softens, taking on a tinge of fear. I’ve only seen my father look like that once: when my brother was killed.
“This is not a game, Dallen.” His voice breaks through my spiraling thoughts. “These people don’t care about your career, your future, your safety, or any of us. They see you as leverage. As punishment.”
A thick knot forms in my throat. “What do I do? I can’t just drop them as clients. My boss is so pleased to have picked them up. There will be questions that I’m not sure they’ll believe should I tell them, especially when some of the information is a father’s fear.”
“In either case, you’re going to talk to whomever you need to,” he says firmly. “To drop them as clients. Immediately.”
I nod, because what else can I do? “All right. Instead of the information you’ve come into, I’ll tell them today and inform the Romeros before the close of office.”
He exhales, the sound one of relief. “Good.” Another pause, and then—softer, but somehow heavier— “There’s something else.”
Of course there is.
I brace myself.
“I want you to stop seeing him.”
The words hit like a slap. “Dad—”
“I’m not negotiating on this.”
Anger flashes through me, sharp and defensive. “You can’t tell me who I can date.” It’s bad enough that he’s telling me who my clients can be, even though intelligence has alerted them that the Romeros are up to no good. Still, it irks. As a Taurus, I loathe being told what I can and can’t do.
“I can tell you who’s dangerous.” His jaw tightens. “Stephen’s father is a renowned killer. Ruthless. Sadistic. I put men in the ground because of him. And the Moretti wealth—” He gestures broadly. “It isn’t built on shipping, construction, and real estate. It’s built on blood.”
I shake my head. “That was decades ago. Everything I’ve read says the brothers are legitimate, everything’s above board.” I pause, softening my tone. “Dad, you can’t keep punishing children for the sins of their father. That’s not fair.”
“That’s what they want the world to think,” he says coldly. “But these men don’t change, Dallen. Violence is their language. Their inheritance. They are cut from the same cloth. Don’t be fooled, they’re not.”
I look away, throat tightening. I want to argue.
God, I want to scream that Stephen isn’t like that.
That he’s intense, yes—volatile, yes—but he’s also gentle with me.
Real. Honest in a way that others haven’t been.
Still, there’s a grain of truth to what my father says.
I saw it Saturday night when Stephen was near the Romeros.
An old hate, as cold as ice that will never be thawed. Not by either family.
“Dad, I hear you,” I say quietly. “I do. But I don’t know what you expect me to do.”
He pulls out the chair and sits. “I expect you to end it. Now. Today. Let him know it’s over, and then you walk away.” His eyes harden. “I’m not losing you to the same brutal world that killed Daniel. I won’t.”
I close my eyes, overwhelmed. I don’t respond—not yes, not no—and that seems to be enough for him.
He lets out a slow breath and reaches for my hand. “Drop the Romeros as clients. Cut ties with the Moretti boy. And stay alert. I mean it.”
I nod mutely.
He leaves then, satisfied he’s delivered some paternal decree that will fix everything, as if the world bends to his willpower.
When the door closes, the silence is suffocating.
I lean back into my chair fully, pressing my palms to my face. My thoughts are a snarled mess—fear, desire, resentment, confusion, the memory of Stephen burning through the haze.
I should end it. I know that. Just days ago, I was going to. But then the charity event happened. Stephen happened, and I let myself want—really want—something reckless and wild and utterly wrong.
He’s dangerous.
He’s intoxicating.
He’s everything I shouldn’t touch.
But when he’s with me, when he kisses me, when he looks at me like I’m the only person he’s ever wanted—I feel alive in a way I never have. And that scares me more than the Romeros.
I stare blankly at the case files scattered across my desk, unable to focus on a single word.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I should do. My phone buzzes.
I swear my heart stops when I see his name.
Looking forward to seeing you tonight.
I grip the phone so tightly my knuckles ache. And I realize—I’m nowhere near ready to let him go, no matter the danger that could lurk by dating a Moretti.