The next morning, I dressed in a sharp pair of trousers and a silk blouse; my armor. I skipped the living area and walked straight to the closed doors of his office. I didn't knock. I pushed them open and walked in.
Dante stood by the window, on the phone, his back to me. He was already in full CEO mode, wearing a perfectly tailored suit. His voice was low and commanding as he negotiated some deal in Italian. He turned as I entered, surprise flickering across his face, followed by a deep frown. He held up a finger, signaling for me to wait, but I had no intention of waiting.
I walked over to the large conference table that filled one side of the room and placed my laptop on it with a decisive click. He finished his call abruptly, his eyes narrowed on me.
"What do you think you're doing?" he asked, his voice cold.
"I'm joining the team," I said, my voice even and steady. I met his gaze without flinching. "You are investigating the man who tried to kill me twice. I am a final-year law student; I read and write in three languages, and my understanding of network security is, I assure you, better than your in-house tech's. I am no longer your patient; I refuse to be your prisoner. I am an asset. Use me."
He stared at me, his face an unreadable mask. I expected him to refuse me, to order me back to my room. I had a dozen counter-arguments ready. But he just watched me, a strange light flickering in his green eyes. It might have been respect.
"You would be a civilian in a private investigation," he countered, testing me. "There are no rules of evidence. No legal protections. It's dangerous."
"My life has been dangerous since the day your bodyguard showed up at my door," I shot back. "The illusion of safety is gone, Dante. All I have left is the fight. Let me in, or I swear I will find a way to investigate this on my own."
The challenge hung between us. He knew it wasn't an empty threat. My stubbornness matched his own. He walked slowly around his desk and stood opposite me at the conference table. The space between us crackled with a tense energy—not romantic, not hostile, but like two predators sizing each other up.
A long, silent moment passed.
"Fine," he said finally, the word clipped. He turned to his intercom. "Leo. Bring all the Valerius evidence to the conference room. All of it. Miss Rossi is joining the investigation."
The war room was officially open for business. Leo entered minutes later, carrying several heavy cases. He laid out laptops, cracked burner phones, and a series of encrypted hard drives recovered from the warehouse raid. The professional barrier I had demanded was now firmly in place. But as we stood on opposite sides of the table, the evidence of a dark conspiracy spread between us, I realized this was a new, far more dangerous kind of closeness.