Chapter 10 Sneak out attempt
The house felt like a tomb after Dante left.
I wandered from room to room, the silence pressing in heavier with every step. Maria tried to keep me company—offering tea, fresh cookies, gentle conversation—but even she couldn’t fill the void. Dante’s presence had become a physical thing: the low rumble of his voice, the weight of his gaze, the way the air shifted when he walked into a room. Without him, everything felt flat. Hollow.
By midday Friday, I was climbing the walls.
I kept replaying his parting words: Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.
And Jamal’s last text: That’s more than I expected. Let me know when “maybe” turns into “yes.”
I stared at the message for the hundredth time, thumb hovering.
I needed air. Real air. Not the recycled, climate-controlled stuff inside these walls. I needed to feel the city pulse around me, even if only for an hour. I needed to remember what normal felt like before bullets and betrayal and a man who kissed me like I was oxygen and then locked me away to keep me safe.
I found Maria in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for dinner. She looked up, saw my face, and sighed.
“You’re going to ask, aren’t you?”
I leaned against the counter. “How did you know?”
“Because you’ve got that look. The same one you had at sixteen when you wanted to sneak out to that concert.”
I managed a small smile. “Will you help?”
She set the knife down carefully. “Liliana… Dante will kill me. Then he’ll kill you. Then he’ll bring us both back just to kill us again.”
“I’m not asking you to lie for me. Just… a distraction. During the guard rotation at three. Ten minutes. That’s all.”
She studied me for a long time. Then she nodded once. “Ten minutes. No more. And you take the back service door by the garage. The cameras there have a fifteen-second blind spot when the system reboots. Marco told me once—don’t ask how I know.”
I hugged her tight. “Thank you.”
She patted my back. “Be careful, sweetheart. And come back in one piece. He’s already half-mad with worry.”
I changed into jeans, a dark hoodie, and boots. Pulled my hair into a low ponytail. Slipped on sunglasses even though it was overcast. At 2:55 p.m., Maria started a loud argument with one of the kitchen staff about the menu—enough noise to draw attention to the main wing.
I slipped down the back staircase, heart hammering, and waited in the shadows of the garage hallway. At 3:00 sharp, the security lights flickered—the system reboot. I moved.
The service door was unlocked. I pushed it open, cold air hitting my face like freedom.
I walked fast—not running, just purposeful—down the side path, through the service gate that Maria had left cracked. A black town car waited at the curb, engine idling. Sophia’s driver, Tony, behind the wheel. She’d arranged it without asking questions.
I slid into the back seat.
“Brooklyn Heights,” I told him. “Quiet café on Montague Street.”
Tony nodded. “Got it. And if anyone asks, I never saw you.”
The drive felt surreal. City traffic, horns, people walking dogs, couples holding hands. Normal life moving on while my world stayed frozen behind bulletproof gates.
Jamal was already there when I arrived—sitting at an outdoor table under a striped awning, two coffees in front of him. He looked up, saw me, and his face split into that easy, warm smile.
“You came.”
I slid into the chair opposite him. “I came.”
He pushed one of the coffees toward me. “Black with a little sugar. Figured that was safe.”
I wrapped my hands around the cup. The warmth seeped into my palms. “Thank you.”
We talked. Nothing heavy. He told me about his job—debugging code for a fintech startup, the kind of work that sounded peaceful compared to my reality. I told him about art history classes, late-night museum visits, the way certain paintings made me forget everything else.
He laughed when I described my favorite professor’s dramatic lectures. I laughed when he told me about his aunt who still makes him dance at family cookouts.
No guns. No threats. No possessive gray eyes watching every move.
For forty glorious minutes, I was just a girl on a coffee date with a nice guy.
Then my phone vibrated in my pocket.
I glanced at it under the table.
Unknown number: Where are you?
Dante.
My stomach dropped.
I looked up. Across the street, a black SUV idled. Tinted windows. Familiar plates.
One of Dante’s men.
Jamal followed my gaze. “Everything okay?”
I forced a smile. “Yeah. Just… family stuff.”
I stood. “I have to go. I’m sorry.”
He stood too, concern in his eyes. “Hey. If you need anything—anything at all—call me. Okay?”
I nodded. “Thank you, Jamal. For this. For being normal.”
He touched my arm lightly. “You deserve normal, Liliana.”
I turned and walked away fast, hood up, sunglasses on. Tony’s car was already pulling up. I slid inside.
“Home,” I said. “Now.”
The ride back felt endless. I kept checking the rearview, half-expecting the SUV to follow. It didn’t. But I knew they’d already called it in.
When we pulled through the gates, Marco was waiting at the front door. Face like thunder.
“Upstairs,” he said. No greeting. No explanation.
I went.
Dante’s bedroom door was open. I stepped inside.
He stood by the window, back to me, hands braced on the sill. Coat still on. Snow melting on his shoulders.
He didn’t turn around.
“How long did you think it would take?” His voice was quiet. Deadly calm.
I swallowed. “I needed air.”
“You needed air.” He repeated it slowly, like tasting the words. “So you slipped past double security, rode in someone else’s car, sat across from a man who has no idea what kind of target you are, and called it air.”
I took a step forward. “It was coffee. Forty minutes. I wasn’t followed. I was careful.”
He turned then.
His face was a mask—cold, controlled—but his eyes burned.
“You were careful.” He stepped closer. “And if the Rossis had been watching? If one of their scouts had seen you? If they’d grabbed you while I was three hours away thinking you were safe in this house?”
I lifted my chin. “Then I’d have fought. Same as I always do.”
He laughed—short, bitter. “You think this is a game, Liliana? You think because you’re twenty-one and beautiful and tired of rules, the world will play nice?”
“I’m not a child.”
“No.” He closed the distance until we were inches apart. “You’re not. But you’re still mine to protect.”
The word hung between us.
Mine.
I searched his face. Saw the fear beneath the anger. Saw the exhaustion. Saw the man who hadn’t slept properly since the night Dad died.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I just… I needed to feel like myself again. Not the guarded princess. Not the leverage. Just me.”
His hand came up—slow—cupping the side of my face. Thumb brushing my cheek.
“You are not leverage,” he said roughly. “You are everything.”
Then he kissed me.
Hard. Desperate. Like he’d been holding it in for years and the dam finally broke.
I gasped into his mouth, fingers curling into his coat, pulling him closer. He backed me against the wall, one hand braced above my head, the other sliding to my waist, gripping hard enough to bruise.
His tongue swept in—claiming, tasting, punishing. I met him stroke for stroke, nails digging into his shoulders.
He broke away just long enough to rasp against my lips: “You don’t get to risk yourself. Not for coffee. Not for some college boy. Not for anything.”
“Then stop locking me away,” I breathed. “I’m not glass.”
He kissed me again—slower this time. Deeper. His hand slid under my hoodie, palm hot against my bare stomach.
“I’m trying,” he murmured. “God help me, I’m trying.”
He lifted me suddenly—hands under my thighs—carrying me to the bed. We fell together, him over me, weight pressing me into the mattress.
I tugged at his coat. He shrugged it off without breaking the kiss. His shirt followed—buttons popping in his haste.
My hands roamed his chest, tracing scars, feeling the heat of his skin.
He pulled back just enough to look at me—eyes dark, pupils blown.
“Tell me to stop,” he said hoarsely. “Because if you don’t, I won’t.”
I cupped his face. “Don’t stop.”