Chapter 2
Walking into Dante's penthouse the next morning felt like stepping into a puzzle I wasn't sure I wanted to solve.
The apartment was nothing like what I'd expected from a mafia prince. The weapons mounted on the walls were all defensive—shields, protective gear, stuff you'd use to survive, not to hunt. And the books scattered across his coffee table? Post-Conflict Reconstruction, Victim Psychology and Recovery, Ethical Leadership in Crisis...
What kind of mob boss reads about helping victims?
I ran my fingers along the spines, trying to make sense of it. These weren't the books of someone who hurt people for a living. They were the books of someone trying to fix things.
"Interesting reading material," I muttered under my breath.
"I believe in being well-informed," Dante's voice came from behind me, making me jump.
How does he move so quietly?
"Just admiring your... diverse interests," I said, turning to face him. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit that probably cost more than my car, but there was something almost casual about the way he wore it. Like armor he was comfortable in.
"Your desk is over there," he said, pointing to a sleek glass workspace near the floor-to-ceiling windows. "I need you to organize my files, schedule meetings. Think you can handle that?"
"I can handle a lot of things."
Something flickered in his amber eyes. "I'm counting on it."
As he headed toward his home office, I started going through the papers on his desk, looking for anything that might give me insight into Romano family operations. Most of it was legitimate business—investment portfolios, acquisition reports, charity foundation documents.
Charity foundations?
That's when I saw it—a photograph that had slipped between the pages of a quarterly report. My hands shook as I pulled it free.
A man in a police uniform, shaking hands with an older Italian man in an expensive suit. Both of them were smiling like old friends.
The cop was younger, maybe in his thirties, with kind eyes and my father's crooked smile.
Dad.
My vision blurred for a second. If the Romano family had killed my father, why was there a photo of him looking so... happy? So trusting? The older man had to be Lorenzo Romano—Dante's father. They weren't posing like enemies forced into a truce. They looked like genuine allies.
What the hell is going on?
"Find something interesting?" Dante's voice was right behind me, and I spun around, clutching the photo.
"I... sorry, it just fell out when I was organizing." I held it up, watching his face carefully. "Friend of the family?"
His expression went completely neutral, but I caught the flash of pain in his eyes before he could hide it.
"My father knew a lot of people," he said quietly, taking the photo from my hands. Our fingers brushed, and I felt that same electric jolt from last night. "Some better than others."
"He looks like a good man," I said carefully. "Your father, I mean."
"He was." The words came out rough, like they hurt to say. "Until someone decided he wasn't worth keeping alive."
Someone. Not a rival family. Not gang warfare. Someone specific.
Before I could process that revelation, Dante's phone rang. He glanced at the screen and his jaw tightened.
"I need to take this. Make yourself at home." He disappeared into his office, and I heard him speaking in rapid Italian.
I spent the next hour trying to reconcile everything I thought I knew with what I was seeing. Morrison had painted the Romano family as ruthless killers who'd murdered my father in cold blood. But everything in this apartment suggested someone who cared about justice, about healing, about making things right.
Maybe Morrison got it wrong. Maybe—
"Are you hungry?" Dante emerged from his office, having traded his suit jacket for a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up. The casual look was somehow more dangerous than the formal one.
"A little."
"Can you cook Italian?"
The question felt loaded, like a test. "A little," I lied. I'd actually spent two years undercover in Little Italy and could make a mean osso buco, but admitting that would blow my cover story.
"Good. Make dinner for us tonight."
"What if I refuse?"
He stepped closer, and I caught a hint of his cologne—something expensive and masculine that made my pulse quicken. "Then you'll learn what happens when you disappoint me."