They tortured me right in front of everyone, laughing as my blood dripped onto the cold concrete, never suspecting that the mere whisper of a single name held the power to reduce their entire empire to ashes.

The lake house was not a home; it was a compound. Hidden behind twenty-foot stone walls and ancient oak trees, the lakeside estate stood like a sentinel against the dark waters of Lake Michigan.

Dr. Rossi, the Moretti family’s private surgeon, was already waiting in the master suite on the second floor. For the next hour, the room was a blur of antiseptic sting, sterile needles, and muted agony. Dante never left the room. He stood near the balcony doors, watching every stitch Rossi placed along my hairline and every bandage wrapped around my ribs.

"Three fractured ribs, severe contusions, a dislocated left shoulder that we popped back into place, and mild dehydration," Dr. Rossi announced, stripping off his latex gloves. "She was lucky, Dante. Another hour hanging by those chains, and the nerve damage would have been permanent."

"She wasn't lucky," Dante replied cold-bloodedly. "I was fast."

Once Rossi packed his medical kit and bowed his way out, the room settled into an oppressive silence. The only sound was the wind howling against the reinforced windowpanes and the crackle of the fireplace across from the king-sized bed.

I was propped up on silk pillows, dressed in one of Dante’s oversized black cashmere sweaters. It drowned my frame, but it felt warm, and it carried his scent.

Dante walked slowly toward the bed. He had removed his blood-splattered coat and tie, unbuttoning the collar of his white dress shirt. The rolled-up sleeves exposed the intricate black tattoos crawling up his forearms—Latin verses, family crests, and on his left wrist, a simple script reading: *Sofia*.

He sat on the edge of the mattress, the bed dipping under his weight.

"You look terrible," he murmured, his lips curving into the faintest hint of a smirk, though his eyes remained deadly serious.

"Thanks," I mumbled, offering a weak scowl. "You should see the other guy. Oh wait, you shot him."

Dante reached out, his fingertips hovering a millimeter above the bandage on my cheek before gently grazing my skin. "Where is the drive, Sofia?"

The air in the room grew thin.

"I didn't keep it at my apartment," I confessed. "I knew they were watching me after I started digging into the shell accounts. It’s in a safety deposit box at the downtown branch of Continental Trust. Key is hidden inside the bottom of the potted ficus on my balcony."

Dante nodded slowly. "Good. You’re smarter than half my capos."

"Dante, you don't understand," I pressed, wincing as the movement pulled against my taped ribs. "Ivanov didn't figure this out on his own. Someone tipped him off. The morning I prepared the transfer to the FBI, my boss told me to stay late for an impromptu audit. That was the setup. They knew the federal contact I was reaching out to."

Dante’s eyes narrowed into slits of obsidian ice. "Who was the federal agent?"

"Agent Miller. White-collar crime division."

Dante stood up abruptly, pulling an encrypted satellite phone from his pocket. "Miller is dirty. He's been on Viktor Ivanov's payroll for three years."

My stomach dropped into a bottomless pit. "I was delivering myself straight into their slaughterhouse."