ISABELLA POV
The front door opens at sunrise, and I hear laughter.
Female laughter. Young, bright, completely out of place in this penthouse at six in the morning.
I'm in the kitchen making coffee when Marco stumbles through the entrance with a woman attached to his arm. She's blonde, maybe twenty-three, wearing a tight dress and heels that click against the marble floor. Her lipstick is smudged. Her eyes are glassy.
Marco sees me and doesn't even flinch.
"Isabella." He says my name like I'm the housekeeper, not his wife. "This is Amanda. She's staying for a few hours."
Amanda giggles. Marco pulls her toward the stairs, and they disappear into one of the guest rooms. The door slams. Within minutes, I hear sounds that make it very clear what they're doing.
I stand in the kitchen holding my coffee cup, waiting to feel something. Anger. Hurt. Humiliation.
Nothing comes.
Betrayal only works if there's something real to betray. Marco and I don't have a real marriage. We have a contract. He's fulfilling his needs elsewhere while I fulfill my role at social events.
This should bother me. The fact that it doesn't bothers me more.
I signed Dante's agreement eight hours ago. Now I need to prove I meant it.
I go to my room and pull out my phone. The message I send is simple: "He's occupied. I'm moving now."
Dante's response comes in seconds: "Study. Third drawer, left side. Passwords: Moretti2019, backup is Marco1990. Be quick."
My hands shake as I put the phone away. This is real now. I'm actually doing this.
I wait two hours until the sounds from the guest room stop. Marco emerges looking satisfied, walks Amanda to the elevator without saying goodbye to me, then announces he's taking her to brunch.
"Do you want to come?" he asks, like offering me a seat at the table with his mistress is generous.
"No, thank you. I have some things to do here."
"Suit yourself." He's already texting someone else as he leaves.
The moment the elevator doors close, I move.
Marco's study is on the second floor. I've never been inside without him present. The door is locked, but Dante gave me the code: 0815. His mother's birthday, according to Sofia.
The lock clicks. I slip inside and close the door behind me.
The room smells like expensive leather and Marco's cologne. There's a massive desk, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a wall of windows overlooking the city. Everything is organized, pristine, designed to impress.
I go straight to the third drawer on the left. It opens easily. Inside are folders, USB drives, and a laptop I've never seen Marco use.
I pull out my phone and start photographing. Bank statements showing transfers to accounts in the Cayman Islands. Six million dollars moved over eight months in careful increments. Emails discussing shipments that don't match the family's legitimate import records. Communication with someone named Victor about "mutual interests" and "opportunities."
Victor Castellano. The name from the news. The crime boss Dante mentioned. Marco's enemy who he's somehow doing business with.
I'm so focused on capturing everything that I don't hear the door open.
"You're a natural."
I spin around so fast I nearly drop my phone.
Dante stands in the doorway. He's in dark clothes, perfectly still, watching me with those intense eyes that see everything.
My pulse jumps. Not just from being startled. From the way he's looking at me. Like I'm doing exactly what he hoped I would do, and he's pleased about it.
"You scared me," I whisper, pressing my hand against my chest where my breath has gone shallow.
"Good." He steps inside and closes the door behind him. "Fear keeps you careful. Careful keeps you alive."
He moves closer. Each step feels deliberate. Purposeful. Like he's giving me time to run if I want to, but we both know I won't.
"Did you find what you needed?" His voice is quiet, controlled, but there's something underneath it. Something that makes my skin feel warm.
I hold up my phone, showing him the photos. "Bank transfers. Emails with Victor Castellano. Shipment records that don't match the books."
Dante takes my phone, his fingers brushing mine. The contact lasts a second too long to be accidental. I feel it everywhere.
He scrolls through the photos, his expression hardening. "There's more. Look at the dates on those transfers. They're accelerating. Marco started slow, careful. Now he's desperate. Moving larger amounts more frequently."
He hands my phone back, but doesn't step away. He's close enough now that I can smell him. Something expensive and clean with an edge of danger underneath. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
"He's going to do something reckless soon," Dante continues. His voice drops lower, more intimate. "Desperate men make fatal mistakes. When he does, you need to be ready."
"Ready for what?" My voice comes out breathier than I intended.
"To use it against him." Dante's gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second before returning to my eyes. "To become the person who ends him instead of the person who goes down with him."
I should step back. Create distance. But my body won't cooperate. Something about his presence makes me feel rooted to this spot, caught between wanting to run and wanting to lean closer.
"Keep looking," he says. "There's a laptop in that drawer. Password is the same. Marco keeps everything documented because he's arrogant enough to think no one would dare look."
He moves past me toward the desk, and I catch the warmth of his body as he passes. My breath stutters.
Focus. I need to focus.
I pull out the laptop and power it on. The password works. Marco's email opens immediately, showing months of correspondence I shouldn't be seeing.
Dante stands behind me now. Not touching, but close enough that I feel his presence like heat at my back. He reads over my shoulder, occasionally reaching past me to point at something important. Each time his arm comes near mine, my skin reacts like he's touching me even though he's not.
"There," he says, his voice near my ear. "That email. Screenshot it. He's promising Victor access to our shipping routes. That's treason in this world."
I do as he says, my fingers fumbling slightly on the phone.
"You're doing well," Dante murmurs. His breath stirs my hair. "Better than I expected. You're going to be excellent at this, Isabella."
I don't know if it's a compliment or a warning. Maybe both.
"Why does that sound dangerous when you say it?" I ask quietly.
He's silent for a moment. Then: "Because excellence makes you valuable. And valuable things are always dangerous to possess."
I turn to face him. It's a mistake. He's closer than I realized. Close enough that I can see the faint scar running through his left eyebrow. Close enough to see gold flecks in his dark eyes. Close enough to feel the pull between us like gravity.
"Is that what I am to you?" I ask. "A valuable thing to possess?"
His jaw tightens. "You're asking me to be honest?"
"Yes."
"Then yes. That's part of it." His eyes search mine. "But you're also the first person in sixteen years who's looked at me and seen something other than a weapon. That's worth more than possession."
The confession hangs between us. Raw. Real. More honest than anything Marco has ever said to me.
I should move. Should create space. Should remember that this man manipulated me into betraying my husband.
Instead, I stay frozen, caught in his gaze, feeling something shift inside my chest that has nothing to do with survival and everything to do with want.
The sound of the elevator jerks us both back to reality.
Dante's expression changes instantly. "Marco's home early."
My stomach drops. "What do I—"
"Put everything back. Now."
I shove the laptop into the drawer and close it. Dante checks the room with expert efficiency, making sure nothing looks disturbed. We're moving toward the door when we hear footsteps in the hallway.
Too late.
The study door opens.
Marco stands there, his expression shifting from surprise to suspicion in the span of a heartbeat. His eyes move between Dante and me, taking in our proximity, our guilty tension.
"What are you two doing?" His voice is careful, controlled, but I hear the accusation underneath.
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out. I've spent my whole life learning to lie smoothly, and suddenly I can't remember how.
Dante steps forward without hesitation. "I was showing her the security systems." His voice is completely calm, completely confident. "She should know how to access the emergency protocols if something happens."
Marco's eyes narrow. "In my study?"
"The main panel is here. You were supposed to show her weeks ago. Since you forgot, I handled it."
The lie is smooth, plausible, delivered with just enough authority to make Marco doubt his own suspicion.
But I see it. The flicker in Marco's expression. The doubt that won't quite disappear. He doesn't fully believe us.
"Right," Marco finally says. "I've been busy."
"Clearly." Dante's tone carries just enough judgment to make Marco defensive.
"I'll show her the rest later," Marco says. His eyes lock on mine. "Won't I, Isabella?"
"Of course," I manage.
Marco steps aside to let us pass. As I walk by him, I feel his attention on me like a physical weight. He knows something is wrong. He can't prove it yet, but he knows.
We've made a mistake.
Dante and I walk down the hallway in silence. When we reach the stairwell where Marco can't hear us, Dante's hand catches my elbow, pulling me to a stop.
"He's suspicious," Dante says quietly. "Which means we need to move faster. He'll start watching you now. Be more careful."
"You're the one who came to the study while I was there," I point out.
"I know." Something flashes in his eyes. "That was my mistake. I wanted to see you work. I wanted to watch you become what I know you can be."
He releases my arm but doesn't step back. "I won't make that mistake again. But Isabella, remember this: Marco is weak, but he's not stupid. He's going to test you now. Make sure you pass."
He walks away, leaving me standing in the stairwell with my pulse racing and the terrible certainty that everything just became infinitely more complicated.
Because Marco suspects something.
And in this family, suspicion gets people killed.