Chapter 8 Rossi threat
The fire had burned low by the time I finally drifted off against Dante’s chest. His arm stayed around me the whole night—solid, warm, unyielding. I woke once in the small hours to the sound of snow tapping the windows and his quiet breathing above me. He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t let go.
Morning came too soon. Gray light filtered through the heavy drapes. I stirred, realizing I was still curled into him on the sectional, his jacket now draped over us like a blanket. His hand rested low on my back, fingers splayed possessively.
He was already awake. Gray eyes open, watching the dying embers.
“Morning,” I murmured, voice thick with sleep.
“Morning.” His thumb moved once—slow circle against my spine. Then he shifted, gently easing me upright. “You slept.”
“Barely.” I rubbed my eyes. “You didn’t.”
“I don’t sleep much.” He stood, stretching. The black shirt from yesterday was rumpled, sleeves still rolled. He looked dangerously beautiful like this—unguarded, human.
I watched him walk to the window, peering out at the fresh snow blanketing the grounds. For a second, the tension between us felt… peaceful. Fragile.
Then his phone buzzed on the coffee table—sharp, insistent.
He picked it up, face hardening the instant he saw the screen.
“Marco,” he answered, voice flat. “Talk.”
I sat up straighter. Watched the shift happen: shoulders squaring, jaw locking, the boss sliding back into place like armor.
“How many?” A pause. “And the message?”
Another pause. His knuckles whitened around the phone.
“Lock it down. Double the perimeter. No one in or out until I get there.” He ended the call, stared at the blank screen for a beat.
“What happened?” I asked quietly.
He turned. “Rossi hit one of our warehouses in Red Hook last night. Two of our guys dead. They left a message.”
My stomach dropped. “What message?”
“‘Give us the girl, or we take more.’” His voice was ice. “They know you’re back. They know you’re here.”
I hugged my knees again. The room suddenly felt colder.
Dante crossed back to me, crouching so we were eye-level.
“You’re not leaving this house,” he said. “Not for anything. Not until I end this.”
“I can’t just—”
“You can. And you will.” No room for argument. “They’re not playing anymore, Liliana. They want leverage. You’re the easiest way to get to me. To hurt me.”
I stared at him. “To hurt you?”
He didn’t flinch. “You think I built all this security for show? You think I’ve spent years watching every shadow around you because I like control?” His voice dropped. “They killed your father because he was getting too strong. Too untouchable. They couldn’t take him out clean, so they waited. They watched. And when they saw the crack—the one weakness—he had…”
He stopped.
My breath caught. “What are you saying?”
Dante looked away, jaw tight. “Your father wasn’t killed by strangers. Someone close gave them the location. The timing. The moment he’d be alone. Someone he trusted.”
The words landed like a punch.
“Who?” I whispered.
“I don’t know yet.” He met my eyes again. “But I’m close. And if the Rossis think they can use you the same way—use you to break me—they’re about to learn how wrong they are.”
I swallowed hard. “So what now?”
“Now you stay inside. You stay with me.” He stood, offering his hand. “Come on. Shower. Change. Eat. Then we talk strategy.”
I took his hand. Let him pull me up. Our fingers stayed linked a second longer than necessary.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of quiet efficiency. Maria brought breakfast to the dining room—coffee, fruit, eggs—but the usual warmth felt strained. Dante ate standing, phone in one hand, issuing orders in clipped Italian to his men. Guards doubled at the gates. Cameras recalibrated. Extra patrols on the perimeter.
When he finally sat across from me, plate untouched, I couldn’t hold it in anymore.
“You really think they’ll come here?” I asked.
“They might try.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “But they won’t get through. Not this time.”
“And the betrayal?” I pressed. “About Dad. You’ve known for a while?”
“Suspected.” His voice was low. “The night he died… something never sat right. The hit was too clean. Too fast. Like they knew exactly where he’d be. Who’d be with him. Only a handful of people had that information.”
I stared at my coffee. “You were with him that night.”
“I was.” He didn’t look away. “I left him for twenty minutes to handle a call. When I came back… it was too late.”
Guilt. Raw. Unfiltered.
I reached across the table, covered his hand with mine. “It wasn’t your fault.”
He turned his hand over, laced our fingers. “Doesn’t change the fact that I failed him. And I won’t fail you.”
The moment stretched—intimate, heavy.
Then his phone buzzed again. He glanced at it, face hardening.
“Stay here,” he said, standing. “I need to handle this.”
He walked out, already barking orders into the phone.
I sat alone in the massive dining room, the chandelier glittering above me like a cold crown.
Hours later, the house felt like a fortress under siege—silent, watchful. Guards moved in pairs through the halls. Windows were shuttered. The indoor pool lights were off. Everything locked down.
Dante returned around dusk, coat dusted with snow, expression grim.
He found me in the library—Dad’s old desk still there, leather-bound books lining the walls. I’d been staring at a photo on the shelf: Dad and a teenage Dante, arms around each other, both smiling like the world couldn’t touch them.
He stopped in the doorway.
“They’re moving,” he said quietly. “Rossi’s putting feelers out. Offering money for information. They’re asking about you specifically—where you go, who you see, when you’re alone.”
I closed the photo frame. “So I’m officially bait.”
“You’re officially off-limits.” He stepped closer. “From now on, you’re not out of my sight. You sleep in my room. You eat with me. You move with me. Until this is over.”
I looked up at him. “You’re serious.”
“Dead serious.”
I stood. “And if I say no?”
He closed the distance in two steps, towering over me. Not threatening. Protective.
“Then I carry you there myself.”
Heat bloomed in my chest—anger, fear, something hotter.
“You can’t just—”
“I can. And I will.” His hand cupped my jaw—gentle but firm. “Because the alternative is losing you. And that’s not happening.”
I searched his face. Saw the fear behind the steel.
“Okay,” I whispered.
His thumb brushed my bottom lip. “Good.”
He didn’t kiss me. Not yet.
But he didn’t let go either.
That night, I stood in his bedroom doorway—still in my sweater and leggings—watching him check the windows, the locks, the hidden safe behind the painting.
He turned, saw me.
“Come here.”
I did.
He pulled back the black duvet, waited.
I slid under the covers.
He joined me—still fully dressed except for his shoes. Lay on top of the sheet, arm over my waist, body a solid wall between me and the door.
“Sleep,” he murmured against my hair.
I closed my eyes.
But sleep didn’t come easy.
Because in the dark, with his heartbeat steady against my back, I realized something terrifying.
The cage wasn’t the house anymore.
It was him.
And I didn’t want out.