Chapter 2: "If you want the truth, you play by my rules"
Elena's POV
Finally, he turns around.
Those gray eyes lock onto me in the dim light. Predator watching prey.
"You think you can bargain with me?" His voice is flat. Dead calm.
I force myself to breathe. "I only have one condition."
"Let's hear it."
"Call off the engagement."
For a second, he just stares. Then he laughs—sharp, cold, like broken glass scraping concrete.
"Miss Hart, you think this is some kind of negotiation?" He's walking back toward me, each step deliberate. "Your family proposed this marriage. Now you want out?"
"Think of it as buying your time." I dig my nails into my palms to keep my hands from shaking. "Give me three months. I'll help you find who really killed your father. In exchange, after three months, if I want to leave, you let me go."
He stops right in front of me. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
"What makes you think you can figure it out?"
"Because I know who it is." I hold his gaze. "I just need proof."
Something flickers in his expression. Doubt, maybe. Or hope—the kind that's been beaten down so many times it barely knows how to exist anymore.
He wants the truth. Needs it. It's the only thing keeping him alive.
"Three months," he says finally. "But I've got conditions."
"What conditions?"
"You stay at the Russo estate. Under my watch."
I nod. "Deal."
He studies me for another long moment, like he's trying to see through my skull into my brain.
Then he turns and heads for the door.
"Tonight I'm watching." His hand settles on the doorknob. "If Vincent really is just a pawn, then you better pray everything else you're saying is true too."
The door opens. He walks out.
I'm left alone in the wine cellar, my back still pressed against the barrel.
My legs feel like water.
First step: done.
But the night's not over yet.
By the time I make it back to the ballroom, it's almost eleven.
The party's still going. People drinking, dancing, laughing. Like nothing happened. Like I didn't just negotiate my life with a man who's got nothing to lose.
I find a corner and stay there, eyes tracking Dante across the room.
He's talking to some family members. Face blank. Nobody would know what's going on in his head just by looking at him.
11:15.
Dante leaves the ballroom.
I follow, keeping my distance. My heels are too loud on the marble floor, so I take them off and carry them.
He's heading toward the back of the estate—the direction of his private office.
Last time, he met Vincent in the storage room at midnight. That's when he pulled the trigger. That's when everything started spiraling.
But did he change the plan?
I hide behind a column, watching him disappear into his office.
Then I wait.
Midnight bells ring somewhere in the house.
Then—
Gunfire.
It's coming from outside. Not just one shot. Multiple rounds, rapid fire.
I run toward the sound. Dante bursts out of his office, gun already in his hand.
"Stay inside!" he shouts at me.
I don't listen. I'm right behind him.
Outside, it's chaos. Russo security fighting three guys in black. Muzzle flashes lighting up the dark. The sharp crack of gunshots echoing off the stone walls.
I duck behind the doorframe, watching Dante take command. His movements are precise. No wasted motion. Like he was born for this.
The firefight lasts maybe five minutes.
The attackers go down. All three wounded, disarmed, bleeding on the gravel.
Dante grabs one by the collar, presses his gun to the guy's forehead. "Who sent you?"
The man spits blood. "Mr. M. He said... tonight was the best shot..."
Mr. M.
Moretti's code name.
Dante's trigger finger freezes.
He looks at me. His expression is complicated. Calculating.
He's starting to believe me.
The next morning, someone's pounding on my door.
"Elena! Open up!"
Marco's voice. Pissed.
I open the door. My cousin storms in, face red.
"Have you lost your mind?" He slams the door shut, voice dropping to an angry whisper. "Last night, refusing the engagement—how am I supposed to explain that to the family? Grandfather's called me fifteen times—"
"Marco." I grab his hand. "Mom and Dad's accident wasn't an accident. The Moretti family had them killed."
His face drains of color. "You have proof?"
"Not yet. But I will."
"Elena—"
"One more thing." I hesitate, then decide to risk it. "If anyone from the FBI approaches you, don't agree to anything. Come to me first."
Marco goes still. "FBI? Why would the FBI come after me?"
I can't tell him about the past life. Can't explain that they threatened him, turned him into an informant, that Dante killed him by mistake thinking he was a traitor.
"Just in case," I say. "Trust me on this. Please."
He searches my face. "You're different. Since last night. Something changed."
I don't answer.
Because he's right. I am different.
I died once. That changes a person.
He leaves without another word. But I can see it in his eyes—he's worried. He doesn't understand what's happening to me.
Neither do I, really. I just know I have three months to fix everything that went wrong.
That evening, someone comes to get me. Dante wants me in his study.
First time I've been in this room. Dark wood everywhere. Oil paintings on the walls. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves packed tight. A massive window overlooking the grounds.
Dante's standing there with his back to me, silhouetted against the glass.
"Close the door."
I do.
He turns around. There's a small box on the desk. Navy blue velvet.
"Come here."
I walk over. My heart's beating too fast.
He opens the box.
The ring.
White gold and diamonds. Simple design but expensive as hell. Engraving on the inside: Blood before all.
The Russo family motto.
I wore this ring for three years in my past life. Took it off once because I was scared. When Dante found out, he got even colder. Never showed me any warmth again after that.
After I died, he left it on my headstone.
"If we're playing this game," Dante says, expression blank, "we're doing it right. Put it on."
I stare at the ring. My chest aches.
Then I take a breath and hold out my hand.
"Fine. But you have to promise me something too. For these three months, you follow my lead."
His eyebrow goes up.
He takes the ring, catches my hand in his. His fingertips brush over my knuckles. Cool touch, careful.
"Miss Hart," he says, voice low, "are you giving me orders?"
I meet his eyes.
"If you want to find out who really killed your father, yeah. You follow my rules. Otherwise, in three months I walk, and you're still stumbling around in the dark."
Dante stares at me. Doesn't blink.
Then he smiles—a real smile, the first one I've seen. There's something sharp in it. Interest, maybe.
"Interesting."
He slides the ring onto my finger.
Perfect fit.
