Alessia awakens to the scent of lavender and old wood. Her body aches, but the sheets beneath her are silk, and the room is unlike anything she's known—ornate, quiet, hauntingly beautiful. A fire crackles in the hearth. She's not in a hospital. She's not even in the city.
A man sits in the corner, watching her with unreadable eyes.
Dante Valerio.
Tall, composed, dressed in black. He exudes danger without saying a word. His presence is magnetic, but his gaze is clinical—like he's assessing whether she's worth saving.
"You're lucky I found you," he says. "Or maybe unlucky. Depends on how you look at it."
Alessia tries to speak, but her voice is hoarse. He offers her water, then sits beside her.
"I know who you are, Alessia Moretti. And I know what they did to you."
She flinches at the mention of her name. The memories flood back—Luca, Bianca, the betrayal, the car.
"You're in my home now. I don't want anything from you. But I can offer you something no one else will: a chance to start over. A chance to become someone they'll never see coming."
Alessia doesn't trust him. She doesn't trust anyone. Her instinct is to obey, to nod, to accept kindness without question. But this isn't kindness. It's something colder. Sharper.
She studies him through lowered lashes.
Why would a man like Dante Valerio help a woman like her?
He's powerful. Calculated. The kind of man who doesn't do favors without a price. And yet… he hasn't asked for anything.
Not yet.
"Why are you helping me?" she asks, voice barely above a whisper.
Dante's expression doesn't change.
"Let's just say I have a personal interest in watching the Morettis burn."
"And I have a debt to pay—to your brother."
Alessia's breath catches.
Viktor.
The name hangs in the air like a ghost. Her brother, the only one who ever protected her. Missing for two years. Presumed dead by everyone but her.
"You knew him?" she asks.
Dante stands, his silhouette framed by firelight.
"I did. And if you want answers, you'll need to become someone worthy of them."
He leaves her with silence—and a storm brewing in her chest.