CELESTE POV
The poison was meant for me, but I fed it to Victor instead.
Not the whole syringe—that would've been too clear. Just three drops in his whiskey at the Five Families meeting while he was busy bragging about Dante's weakness. He never saw it coming. None of them did.
That was three months ago.
Victor survived—barely. Spent six weeks in the hospital, another six healing. Everyone thought it was a heart attack. Stress from running Dante's business while the boss was "distracted."
Only three people knew the truth: me, Dante, and Ghost.
And we'd used those three months perfectly.
"Phase one complete," I mumbled to my burner phone at 2 AM, hiding in the bathroom while Dante slept. "He trusts me. Phase two in progress. He's starting to need me."
The voice on the other end crackled. "And phase three?"
I stared at my reflection in the mirror. I looked different now. Healthier, despite the disease eating me from inside. Dante had gotten me into an experimental treatment study. My six months had stretched to nine, maybe twelve.
More time to destroy him.
More time to fall for him.
"Phase three is ready," I lied. "I just need the opening."
"Make it soon. We're running out of time."
The line went dead.
I splashed water on my face, trying to wash away the guilt. It didn't work. It never worked anymore.
Three months ago, my plan was simple: get close, learn his secrets, burn his world down. But somewhere between the poison and now, everything had gotten complex.
Because Dante had started asking my opinion in business talks. Started addressing me as his partner, not his property. Started looking at me like I was a person instead of a thing he owned.
And worst of all—I'd started looking back.
"Can't sleep?" Dante's voice came from the doorway.
I jumped, putting the phone behind my back. "Just needed water."
He leaned against the frame, naked, watching me with those storm-gray eyes that saw too much. "You've been having dreams again. Third time this week."
"I'm fine."
"You're not." He walked closer. "Talk to me, Celeste. What's going on in that brilliant, frightening head of yours?"
Everything. Nothing. I'm planning your ruin while falling in love with you. I'm dying while learning how to live. I'm the weapon that doesn't want to fire anymore. "Just stress," I said. "Victor coming back to work tomorrow. It makes me nervous."
Dante's jaw tightened. "He won't touch you. I've made that clear."
"He tried to poison me."
"And you returned the favor. I'd say you're even." He reached out, tucking hair behind my ear. "Besides, I'm watching him now. We all are. One wrong move, and he's done."
I should've felt successful. Victor was the real villain—the one who destroyed my family. Dante was just the fool who signed the papers. Getting Dante to suspect his best friend, to fracture their friendship, was exactly what I wanted.
So why did I feel sick about it?
"Dante?" I asked quietly. "If you found out someone had been lying to you for months—someone you trusted—what would you do?"
His hand froze. "Depends. Why were they lying?"
"Survival. Revenge. Maybe both."
He studied my face for a long moment. "I'd want to know if the lies ever became truth. If somewhere along the way, the act became real."
My heart stopped. "And if they couldn't tell the difference anymore?"
"Then I'd say they're people. Just like the rest of us." He pulled me closer, and I let him because I was weak. Because his arms felt like safety even though he was the risk. "Celeste, whatever you're afraid of, whatever secret you're carrying—it's not going to change how I feel."
"How do you feel?"
"Dangerously close to something I swore I'd never feel again." He kissed my face. "Come back to bed. Tomorrow's going to be hell with Victor back, and I need you rested."
I followed him to bed. Let him hold me while he fell asleep. Counted his heartbeats against my skin and hated myself for every single one.
At dawn, I snuck back to the bathroom and made another call. "I can't do this anymore. I'm pulling out."
"You're backing out? After everything we've set up?"
"He's not the enemy. Victor is. Dante's just—" I choked on the words. "He's just a man who made mistakes. Like all of us." "A man who signed your father's death sentence."
"A man who's trying to make it right. Who got me into treatment. Who looks at me like I matter." Tears burned my eyes. "I can't destroy someone who's trying to save me."
"Then you've failed. Everything we planned, everything we sacrificed—wasted because you grew feelings."
"I'm dying. I'm allowed to have feelings."
"You're a weapon. Weapons don't get to choose."
The line went dead again.
I stared at my phone, shaking. Then I did what I should've done three months ago: I threw it in the toilet and flushed.
No more calls. No more plans. No more payback.
I was picking Dante. Choosing whatever time I had left. Choosing to be human instead of a tool.
It felt like freedom.
It felt like treason.
It felt like the biggest mistake of my life.
When I came out, Dante was awake, sitting on the edge of the bed. He held up a small recording device, and my blood turned to ice.
"How long?" he asked, voice dead. "How long have you been recording our conversations?"
I looked around the room. Saw the tiny cameras I'd hidden, the microphones in the vents, the listening devices in his office. All the proof I'd been gathering for three months.
All found in one night.
"Dante, I can explain—" "Ghost found them during his sweep this morning. Every single one." He stood up, and the man I'd been falling for vanished. In his place stood the crime king. Cold. Ruthless. Betrayed. "So I'll ask one more time: how long have you been spying on me?"
Before I could answer, his phone rang. He answered without breaking eye contact.
"What? When?" His face went white. "I'm on my way."
He hung up and looked at me with something worse than anger. Disappointment. "Isabella's been stolen. They found a note at the scene." He threw a picture at my feet. "It's addressed to you. From someone named Marcus Armitage."
I picked up the photo with shaking hands. Read the words written in my dead brother's handwriting.
"Trade the flash drive for the sister. Come alone. And Celeste—bring Dante's head, or Isabella loses hers."
My brother. My dead brother who I'd buried five years ago.
Alive. And working with whoever wanted us both killed.
I looked up at Dante, surrounded by my uncovered lies, holding proof of my betrayal.
"I can explain everything," I whispered.
"You'd better," he said, loading his gun. "Because right now, you're the only chance I have to save my sister's life. And if she dies because of you—" His voice cracked. "If she dies, everything you've done to me will feel like mercy compared to what comes next."