The numbers didn't lie. They never did.
Isla Rivera adjusted her glasses and leaned closer to her computer screen, her dark eyes scanning the spreadsheet for the third time. The coffee in her ceramic mug had gone cold an hour ago, but she barely noticed. When she was in the zone, the rest of the world faded away—just her and the patterns hidden in columns of data.
"Still here, Isla?"
She glanced up to find her colleague, David, shrugging into his coat. The office behind him was empty, desks abandoned, computers dark. She checked the time on her screen: 8:47 PM.
"Just finishing up," she said, forcing a smile. "Have a good night."
David hesitated at her cubicle entrance. "You know, there's more to life than balance sheets. When's the last time you went on a date?"
"When's the last time you minded your own business?" She softened the words with another smile, but David got the message. He raised his hands in surrender and headed for the elevators.
The moment he was gone, Isla's smile vanished. She turned back to her screen, her pulse quickening as she pulled up the file she'd been analyzing all week.
Vitale Imports & Exports.
On the surface, it looked legitimate. A family-owned business specializing in Italian wines, olive oils, and luxury goods. The kind of company that had been operating for generations, deeply rooted in tradition and Old World charm.
But Isla had been a forensic accountant for six years, and she knew what money laundering looked like.
The pattern was subtle—whoever had set this up was good. Payments flowing through shell companies in the Cayman Islands, invoices that matched just closely enough to seem real, but with discrepancies that made her instincts scream. Shipments that were over-invoiced. Inventory that didn't quite match the sales records.
Someone was moving dirty money through Vitale Imports, and they were doing it with surgical precision.
Isla sat back in her chair, her mind racing. She should report this. Call her supervisor, hand over her findings, let someone else deal with it. That was protocol.
But something stopped her.
Maybe it was the foster kid in her, the girl who'd learned early that the system didn't always protect people. Maybe it was the part of her that had built her entire career on uncovering the truth, no matter how ugly it was.
Or maybe it was the fact that she'd spent the last three days at Vitale headquarters, walking through their pristine offices, and she'd felt… watched.
She shook her head, dismissing the paranoia. She was being ridiculous. Still, she made copies of everything—the spreadsheets, the invoices, the offshore account numbers. She encrypted the files and uploaded them to her secure cloud storage.
Just in case.
Her phone buzzed, and she jumped. A text from Sofie, her best friend:
Girl, you better not still be at work. I'm ordering Thai food and you're coming over. Non-negotiable.
Isla smiled, her tension easing slightly. Sofie always knew when she needed to be pulled out of her own head.
Be there in 30, she typed back.
She shut down her computer, grabbed her bag, and headed for the parking garage. The building was eerily quiet at this hour, her heels echoing against the polished floors. The parking garage was even worse—dark and cavernous, with only a few scattered cars remaining.
Her silver Honda Civic was parked in her usual spot on the third level. She was halfway there when she heard it.
Footsteps.
Not hers. Heavier. Following the same rhythm.
Isla's heart kicked into overdrive. She quickened her pace, her hand diving into her bag for her keys. The footsteps behind her matched her speed.
Don't run. Running makes you prey.
She could see her car now, just twenty feet away. Fifteen. Ten.
A black SUV with tinted windows pulled out from a parking spot ahead, blocking her path. Isla froze, her keys clutched so tightly they bit into her palm.
The footsteps behind her stopped.
The SUV's back door opened.
"Ms. Rivera." The voice was deep, calm, and utterly terrifying in its politeness. "Please get in the vehicle."
Isla spun around. The man behind her was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a dark suit that screamed expensive. His expression was blank, professional. A soldier following orders.
"I—I don't know who you think I am, but—"
"We know exactly who you are," the man said. "And we know what you found in those files. Now, you can get in the vehicle willingly, or Marco here will assist you. Your choice."
A second man—Marco, apparently—emerged from the shadows on her left. Same suit. Same blank expression. Same implicit threat.
Isla's mind raced through her options. Scream? No one was around to hear. Run? They'd catch her in seconds. Fight? She was five-foot-four and a hundred and twenty pounds. These men were trained professionals.
"If you're going to kill me," she said, proud that her voice only shook a little, "at least tell me why."
The first man almost smiled. "No one's killing you, Ms. Rivera. Someone wants to talk to you. That's all."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then you become a problem." He gestured to the SUV. "Please. Don't make this difficult."
Isla looked at her car, so close and yet impossibly far. She thought of Sofie, waiting for her with Thai food. She thought of her small apartment, her carefully organized life, her plans for the future.
She thought of the files she'd just uploaded to the cloud.
"Fine," she said, lifting her chin. "I'll go."
She walked to the SUV on shaking legs, acutely aware of the two men flanking her. The interior was dark leather and tinted windows. The moment she was inside, Marco slid in beside her, and the first man took the front passenger seat.
The driver pulled out of the garage without a word.
"Where are we going?" Isla asked.
No one answered.
She tried again. "Who wants to talk to me?"
Marco glanced at her, and for just a second, she saw something that might have been sympathy in his eyes. "You'll find out soon enough."
They drove for what felt like hours but was probably only forty minutes. Isla tried to memorize the route, but after the first few turns, she lost track. They were heading into the city, toward the waterfront where luxury high-rises overlooked the harbor.
Finally, the SUV pulled into an underground garage beneath one of the most expensive buildings in the city. They took a private elevator that required a keycard. No buttons. No floor numbers.
Just up.
When the doors opened, Isla stepped into a penthouse that looked like it belonged in an architecture magazine. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased the glittering city below. Modern furniture in shades of gray and black. Art that was probably worth more than she'd make in a lifetime.
And sitting in a leather chair by the windows, his back to her, was a man.
"Leave us," he said without turning around.
His voice was different from the soldiers'—cultured, controlled, with an edge that made her skin prickle. The two men who'd brought her here disappeared into the elevator without a word.
Isla was alone with a stranger in a penthouse high above the city, and every instinct she had screamed that she was in danger.
The man stood, and turned to face her.
Isla's breath caught.
He was tall—at least six-foot-three—with the kind of build that spoke of disciplined training rather than vanity. Dark hair, slightly longer on top, with a few silver threads at his temples despite the fact that he couldn't be older than his early thirties. Sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and eyes so dark they were almost black.
He was beautiful in the way a blade was beautiful: elegant, dangerous, and designed to cut.
He studied her with the same intensity she'd been studying him, his gaze sweeping from her sensible heels to her conservative blouse to her dark hair pulled back in its usual bun. She felt exposed, analyzed, catalogued.
"Ms. Rivera," he said finally. "Thank you for coming."
"I didn't have much choice," she replied, proud that her voice was steady.
The corner of his mouth twitched. "No. I suppose you didn't." He gestured to the chair across from him. "Please. Sit."
"I'd rather stand."
"I'm sure you would. Sit anyway."
It wasn't a request.
Isla sat, her back rigid, her hands folded in her lap to hide their trembling. The man settled back into his own chair with the easy grace of someone who was always in control.
"Do you know who I am?" he asked.
"Should I?"
"Most people in this city know my name. Or at least, they know enough to be afraid of it."
"I'm not most people."
That almost-smile again. "No. I'm beginning to see that." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his dark eyes locked on hers. "My name is Dante Vitale."
The name hit her like a physical blow. Vitale. As in Vitale Imports & Exports. As in the company she'd been auditing. As in the money laundering operation she'd just uncovered.
Oh God.
"I see you recognize the name," Dante said softly. "Good. That will make this conversation easier."
"I don't know what you think I—"
"You've been auditing my company for the past week," he interrupted. "You're very good at your job, Ms. Rivera. Too good. You found discrepancies in the accounts. Patterns that most auditors would miss. You've identified shell companies, traced offshore payments, and documented everything with meticulous precision."
Isla's heart was pounding so hard she was sure he could hear it. "I was doing my job."
"I know. And normally, I would admire that. But you've stumbled onto something… complicated."
"Money laundering," Isla said, because what was the point of pretending? "You're using your import business to launder money."
Dante's expression didn't change. "Among other things."
"So what now? You kill me to keep me quiet?"
"If I wanted you dead, Ms. Rivera, you'd already be dead." He said it so matter-of-factly that ice flooded her veins. "No, I brought you here because I need your help."
Of all the things she'd expected him to say, that wasn't one of them. "My help?"
"Someone is stealing from me. A great deal of money—approximately fifty million dollars over the past two years. Whoever it is, they're smart. They've hidden their tracks well. But not well enough to fool someone with your particular skills."
Isla stared at him. "You want me to find who's stealing from your criminal empire?"
"Yes."
"And if I refuse?"
Dante's eyes went cold. "Then you become a liability. And I don't keep liabilities, Ms. Rivera. I eliminate them."
The threat hung in the air between them, sharp and undeniable.
"So my choices are work for you or die?" Isla demanded, anger finally breaking through her fear. "That's not much of a choice."
"No," Dante agreed. "But it's the only one you have."
He stood, moving to the bar in the corner and pouring himself two fingers of amber liquid. He didn't offer her any. When he turned back, his expression had shifted into something almost thoughtful.
"You have twenty-four hours to think about it," he said. "Marco will show you to the guest room. You'll stay here tonight, where I can ensure your… cooperation. Tomorrow, you'll give me your answer."
"And if my answer is no?"
Dante took a slow sip of his drink, his dark eyes never leaving hers. "Then I suggest you make peace with whatever god you believe in."
He crossed the room and opened a door she hadn't noticed before. Marco appeared as if summoned, his expression as blank as ever.
"Show Ms. Rivera to her room," Dante said. "Make sure she has everything she needs. She's my guest."
Guest. What a polite word for prisoner.
Marco gestured for her to follow. Isla stood on shaking legs, but before she could move, Dante spoke again.
"Ms. Rivera?"
She looked back at him.
"I should mention," he said softly, "that I know about the files you uploaded to the cloud tonight. The encrypted copies of my financial records. Don't think of using them as leverage. If anything happens to me, if you go to the police, if you so much as breathe a word of this to anyone… people you care about will suffer. Starting with Sofia Chen."
Isla's blood turned to ice. "You wouldn't—"
"I would." His voice was gentle, almost kind, which made it infinitely more terrifying. "I protect what's mine, Ms. Rivera. And I destroy anything that threatens it. Remember that when you're making your decision."
He turned back to the windows, dismissing her.
Marco led her down a hallway to a bedroom that was larger than her entire apartment. Luxurious bed, attached bathroom, walk-in closet. A gilded cage.
"I'm sorry," Marco said quietly once they were alone. "For what it's worth."
Then he left, locking the door behind him.
Isla stood in the center of the room, her mind reeling. Less than an hour ago, she'd been at her desk, worried about nothing more than finishing an audit. Now she was a prisoner of a man who could have her killed with a word.
A man whose dark eyes had looked at her like he could see straight into her soul.
A man who was undeniably, devastatingly attractive—and absolutely terrifying.
She moved to the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at the city lights below. Somewhere down there, Sofie was waiting for her, probably worried sick by now.
Isla pulled out her phone, but there was no signal. Of course there wasn't.
She was trapped in a penthouse with a mobster who wanted to use her skills for his criminal empire. Her choices were simple: help him, or die.
But as she stood there in the darkness, looking out at the city that suddenly felt very far away, one thought kept circling through her mind.
Dante Vitale was dangerous. Ruthless. A criminal who dealt in violence and fear.
So why, when he'd looked at her with those impossibly dark eyes, had she felt something other than terror?
Why had she felt alive?