Chapter 2

• Alessia
• The moment I stepped inside, I knew something was wrong.
• The house smelled different. Not the familiar scent of my father’s cigars or the faint traces of the cologne he used to wear. The air was sterile, as if someone had wiped away everything that once made this place home.
• And then I saw it.
• The sitting room was completely unrecognizable.
• The rich mahogany furniture had been replaced with sleek, modern pieces. The warm tones that once made the space feel inviting were gone, replaced by cold grays and blacks. Every trace of my father had been erased.
• I turned sharply, scanning the walls. His framed photographs were gone.
• Except for one thing. My baby pictures.
• I swallowed, my throat tight. Why would they leave those?
• I had spent six years imagining this moment, picturing the warmth of my father’s embrace, his proud smile, the way he would tease me for being so serious all the time.
• But he wasn’t here. And in his usual spot sat Dante Moretti.
• He settled into an armchair like he owned the house, watching me carefully, his expression unreadable. Like he was waiting for me to say or do something.
• I lowered myself onto the couch, forcing myself to sit still when every muscle in my body screamed to lash out. To demand answers.
• Instead, I took a steadying breath, keeping my voice even.
• “My dad? Where is he?” I asked, my tone soft despite the rage burning inside me.
• Dante leaned back, stretching an arm over the chair. His dark eyes gleamed with something I couldn’t place.
• “Your dad?”
• I clenched my jaw. “You heard me.”
• He exhaled slowly, like this conversation bored him. Then he tilted his head, a smirk playing on his lips.
• “Can’t believe you didn’t hear,” he said casually. “Your father died six years ago.”
• At the moment, all I heard was dark eerily sounds, it was as if a trailer slammed into me. My heart pounded, stealing air from my lungs.
• I stared at him, still. My mind refused to process what I’d just heard.
• “No, that’s not true.” I said, my voice cracking.
• Dante raised a brow. “No?”
• I shook my head. “That’s not possible.”
• He sighed, like he had to explain something simple to a child.
• “People talked about how bratty you were for not attending his burial. Guess it makes sense now. You really didn’t know.”
• Something inside me snapped.
• My hands trembled as I gripped the armrest of the couch, my nails digging into the leather.
• Six years ago? I refuse to believe that.
• Six years of waiting for my father’s messages. Six years of wondering why he never came for me. And he was dead the entire time?
• Every fiber of my being screamed at me to pull out my gun and put a bullet between Dante’s eyes.
• But I knew better. Detectives knew better than to overreact.
• My vision blurred with unshed tears, but I refused to let them fall. But no matter how much I tried to control it, tears kept flooding my eyes.
• I wouldn’t break, not yet. Not in front of him. Showing any sign of weakness in front of Dante was playing with fire and I wasn’t ready to show that weakness.
• Instead, I blinked my tears away and did the one thing I knew he wouldn’t expect.
• I stood up, and walked towards him, slow and predatory. My eyes betrayed anger but my lips betrayed nothing.
• His bodyguards moved instantly, stepping forward to intercept me.
• Dante raised a hand, stopping them mid-step.
• I didn’t stop until I was standing right in front of him, staring deep into his soul.
• Then, without hesitation—I knelt.
• The entire room went silent. I watched as Dante rolled his eyes, that slow smirk playing on his lips that only made me want to slam his face on the floor.
• I grabbed onto the fabric of his trousers, my fingers gripping tightly.
• “Help me” I said, my voice cracked.
• “What?” He asked.
• “Help me find whoever killed my dad,” I whispered. “Please, I beg you.”
• For a moment, Dante didn’t move. Then I felt it, his hand stroking my hair.
• Slow. Methodical. Possessive.
• A shiver crawled down my spine, but I held still, waiting for his answer.
• Then he leaned in, his breath warm against my ear.
• “Don’t worry, amigo” he murmured, his voice a dangerous promise.
• His fingers curled around my chin, tilting my face up so our eyes met.
• “Just wait till I make you my bride.”
• A chill slithered down my spine, but I refused to let it show.
• Dante couldn't even give me time to mourn or at least breath before going into this marriage.
• This was not what I had expected. Not even close. My father had been murdered, my entire home had been stripped of his existence, and now Dante wouldn't help me until he claimed me like a prize.
• No, something wasn’t right.
• I slowly stood, dusting my knees as I pulled back. I needed time to think, to understand what the hell was happening.
• But Dante had other plans.
• “Since you’ll be staying here now,” he said, his voice smooth, calculated, “you should get comfortable.”
• I clenched my jaw. “Who said I’m staying?”
• Dante smirked. “Where else would you go, tesoro? You’re back in the city, no father to welcome you, no allies to turn to. This house—” he gestured around the grand space, “—is all you have left.”
• I hated that he was right. But I hated more that I didn’t understand why he was here.
• My father was dead. Fine. But why was Dante here? Why had he taken over this house? And why was my past being rewritten like I had never mattered?
• I turned away from him, scanning the room again.
• And then, I saw it.
• A painting.
• At first glance, it was just an abstract piece, black and crimson covering the canvas. But when I stepped closer, my stomach twisted into knots.
• Because it wasn’t abstract, it was a hidde message. The moment I looked at it from a different angle, I saw my father’s initials.
• ‘R.B’
• I sucked in a sharp breath.