Morning arrives with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer to the face. I wake up angry, which is better than waking up confused or terrified, so I'm calling it progress.
Last night's mystery visitor thought he could tie me up, touch me, and disappear into the darkness like some kind of criminal phantom of the opera.
The cologne. The touches. The fact that someone in this house has a key to my room and a concerning lack of boundaries leads me to a certain ideas of who that might’ve been.
Nope. Not today, Satan.
I put on the maid uniform because apparently that's my life now, but I skip the whole "demure servant" energy.
Today I'm channeling "woman who has had enough of everyone's nonsense and is about to make it everyone else's problem."
The mansion is fully awake now—staff moving through hallways, the smell of coffee and fresh bread drifting from the kitchen. But I ignore all of it. I have a destination and zero patience for detours.
The double doors at the end of the main hall are massive, dark wood with brass handles that probably cost more than my entire existence.
Two guards stand on either side like human bookends. They're the standard mafia uniform—black suits, earpieces, expressions that suggest they failed the personality test but aced "intimidating presence."
I march straight toward them. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just pure momentum fueled by righteous indignation and a severe lack of sleep.
"I need to see whoever's in charge," I announce, stopping directly in front of them.
The one on the left—buzz cut, neck thick as a tree trunk—doesn't even blink. "Leave."
"No." I cross my arms. "I need to speak to the boss. Now."
The one on the right actually laughs. It's not a nice laugh. It's the kind that suggests he thinks I'm adorable in my stupidity, like a kitten trying to fight a Doberman.
"The boss doesn't meet with maids, sweetheart. Run along."
"I'm not running anywhere." I plant my feet. "Open the door or I'll—"
"You'll what?" Buzz Cut steps forward, and suddenly personal space is a concept he's never heard of.
"I'll…" I don't get to finish that threat, which is good because I didn't actually have an ending for it.
Buzz Cut grabs my arm and twists it behind my back. Not hard enough to break anything, but definitely hard enough to make the point that I'm out of my depth.
I cry out—half pain, half outrage—and try to pull away, but his grip is iron.
"Let me escort you back to where you belong to," he says, voice cold. "We can do this easy or—"
"Stop."
The voice comes from inside the office. Low and commanding. The kind of voice that doesn't need to yell to make you freeze in place.
Both guards go absolutely still and Buzz Cut releases my arm so fast you'd think I'd suddenly caught fire.
They step aside, eyes forward, looking like soldiers who just remembered their commanding officer exists.
"Let her in," the voice continues, each word precise and controlled.
The doors swing open.
I rub my arm where Buzz Cut grabbed it—there'll be a bruise later, which seems fitting for this whole experience—and walk through. The doors close behind me with a soft click that sounds way too final.
The office is exactly what you'd expect from someone running a criminal empire. Dark wood paneling. Expensive furniture that probably has names. Windows overlooking perfectly manicured grounds.
The kind of space that screams "I have power and money and absolutely no sense of interior design restraint."
A man sits behind a massive desk, his back partially turned toward the windows. He waves a hand dismissively without looking, and I hear the locks engage behind me. Because apparently I needed another reminder that I'm trapped.
Great. Excellent. Everything's fine.
He turns to face me, and the world tilts sideways.
It’s Dante.
Five years have not been kind. Or maybe they have, depending on your definition.
A scar cuts across his right eye, pale against tanned skin—the kind of mark that tells stories about violence and survival. His jaw is sharper, harder, like someone took the soft edges off and forgot to sand them back down.
Dark hair. Dark eyes. Dark everything, really, including the expression that holds absolutely zero warmth.
He radiates power in a way that makes the air feel heavier. The young enforcer I loved—the one who smiled and made promises—is gone. This man is something else entirely.
Something dangerous. Something that makes my survival instincts scream "abort mission" while my legs refuse to move.
"Valentina."
He says my name like he's tasting something he hasn't had in years. Testing to see if it still fits in his mouth.
My legs tremble but I don't step back. I won't give him that. "Why did you leave me at the altar?"
The words burst out before I can arrange them into something more dignified—not what I planned to ask, but what I wanted to ask for five years.
"Why did you humiliate me? Why did you let me walk through the rain in my wedding dress while your men drove away?"
He watches me for a long moment. His expression reveals nothing—no guilt, no anger, no recognition that he just heard a question at all.
It's like looking at a wall and expecting it to apologize.
Then he speaks. But not to answer me.
"Is your room comfortable?" His tone is conversational, like we're discussing weather. "Has the staff treated you well?"
I stare at him. My brain short-circuits trying to process this. "Did you hear what I just said?"
"I heard you perfectly."
He stands, moving around the desk with the kind of fluid grace that suggests violence is always an option but currently unnecessary. He stops close—too close—invading the space where I should feel safe but don't.
“And you?”
I can smell his cologne now. Sandalwood and something darker. The exact scent from last night. From my dream. From five years ago when I was young and stupid enough to believe in happy endings.
He looks down at me, and my heart launches into a sprint that would make Olympic athletes jealous.
"Yes," I manage, voice steadier than I feel. "I'm comfortable. Everything's great. Except there was a man in my room last night while I slept." The sarcasm drips off every word. "A little inconvenience, really. Just some light bondage. Tuesday night activities."
His lips curve—not quite a smile, more like the suggestion that smiling is theoretically possible. "Good."
That's it. Just "good." Ignoring the part where I just accused him of tying me up.
"I need to leave for business," he continues, already turning back toward his desk like this conversation is over. "If there's anything else you want to discuss, we can talk when I return."
Anger flares hot in my chest. The game he's playing—the casual dismissal, the refusal to acknowledge five years of questions—makes something snap inside me.
"I'm supposed to be your escort," I say, chin jerking up stubbornly. "That was part of the contract, right? Accompany you to events?" I pause. "So I'll go with you."
He stops. Turns back to face me. For the first time since I walked in, I see something crack through that controlled exterior—surprise, maybe. Or calculation. His eyes narrow slightly, reassessing me like I've just moved an unexpected piece on his chessboard.
Then he smiles. It's dangerous. Sharp. The kind of smile that promises this won't end well for me.
"Okay then."