Chapter 3 - DUST AND GUNPOWDERLiving in the Moretti mansion felt like walking through a gilded minefield.
For the first two weeks, I was confined to the west wing while my back healed. The pain gradually subsided, replaced by long, pale scars that crisscrossed my shoulder blades—permanent reminders of the night I traded my freedom for a child's life.
Matteo visited me every day. The little boy, who had been quiet and withdrawn around his father's terrifying guards, turned out to be a lively, sensitive kid. He brought me drawings of bright red sports cars, read me storybooks, and sat on the end of my bed while I recovered. Through him, I learned about the quiet tragedy of the house: his mother had passed away during childbirth, leaving Dante to raise him alone amidst a bloodthirsty mob war.
"Papa doesn't smile much," Matteo whispered to me one afternoon as he colored a picture of a dragon. "He only smiles when he wins."
"Wins what?" I asked softly, braiding a loose lock of my brown hair.
"Everything," Matteo replied simply, as if that was the only logical answer.
That evening, I was finally cleared by the doctor to walk around the main areas of the house. Unable to sleep, I wandered down the massive marble staircase at 2:00 AM, wearing a simple silk robe Mrs. Gable had provided. The house was eerie at night—silent, lit only by low wall sconces, with silent men in suits standing at every exit like marble statues.
As I passed the glass doors leading to the indoor shooting range in the basement, I heard the dull, rhythmic BANG... BANG... BANG of heavy gunfire echoing through the reinforced glass.
Curiosity got the better of me. I pushed open the heavy soundproof door and stepped inside.
The smell of burnt gunpowder hit my nose immediately. Dante was standing at the firing line, wearing noise-canceling headphones, a plain black t-shirt that stretched tight across his muscular back, and sweatpants. He held a custom black pistol with both hands, firing with terrifying speed and precision. Every single shot hit the dead center of the paper target fifty yards away.
I froze, suddenly feeling like an intruder. I turned to leave, but the slide of his gun locked back, signaling it was empty.
"You walk too loudly for someone who used to be invisible," Dante said without turning around. He dropped the empty magazine into his hand and set the weapon on the counter.
"I didn't mean to disturb you," I said, leaning against the doorframe. "I couldn't sleep."
Dante removed his headphones and turned to face me. His chest rose and fell slightly, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on his collarbone. In the dim light of the firing range, stripped of his expensive suits and cold demeanor, he looked raw, primal—and overwhelmingly attractive.
"The painkillers wearing off?" he asked, walking over to a small table to pour two glasses of water.
"No, the scars just itch," I replied truthfully.
He handed me a glass. His fingers brushed against mine, sending a jolt of heat straight down my spine. I took a sip, trying to hide the sudden flutter in my pulse.
"You shouldn't be down here," Dante murmured, his eyes lingering on the dip of my robe near my neck. "This basement holds more ghosts than the rest of the house combined."
"You come down here to fight them?" I asked softly, looking at the target perforated with bullet holes.
"I come down here so I don't become one," Dante replied coldly. He stepped closer, towering over me, his shadow swallowing me whole. "The Syndicate is pushing harder. They took another shipment of ours at the docks tonight. They know I'm distracted."
"Distracted by what?"
"By you," Dante snapped, his voice dropping into a dangerous register. He reached out, his thumb catching my chin, forcing me to look up into his dark, stormy eyes. "By the fact that a random waitress threw herself into the fire for my son, and now I can't stop thinking about why you did it."
My breath hitched. "I told you. I didn't think—"
"Liar," Dante whispered, his thumb lightly pressing against my lower lip. "You have a bleeding heart, Clara. In my world, a bleeding heart gets you killed. But somehow, yours managed to save the only thing in this world I care about."
The space between us charged with an electric, dangerous tension. For a terrifying second, I thought he was going to kiss me. I wanted him to. The realization horrified me. He was a killer, a mob boss, a man who held me captive in a golden cage.
Before either of us could cross that invisible line, the heavy steel door behind us burst open.
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It was Marco, Dante’s top lieutenant, his face pale and covered in sweat.
"Boss," Marco panted, holding up a encrypted tablet. "We have a problem. The Syndicate just dropped a package at the front gate. It's addressed to Miss Vance."
