The coffee between them had gone cold.
Alessia traced the rim of her untouched cup, the porcelain smooth beneath her fingertips. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken accusations. She could feel Dante's gaze on her—heavy, assessing—but she refused to look up. Not yet. Not until she could school her features into something resembling indifference.
The memory of that night at the winter gala played behind her eyes like a broken film reel.
Sixteen years old, dressed in emerald silk, her father's hand firm on her shoulder. "The Valtieri boy will be there. You will keep him occupied."
She hadn't asked why. She'd learned early that questions were a currency her father didn't deal in.
Now, the truth settled over her like ash.
"You knew," she said at last, her voice barely above a whisper. "All these years, you knew it was me."
Dante didn't move from his place against the counter. "I knew you were part of it."
"But not the whole story."
A muscle in his jaw twitched. "No."
The admission should have felt like a victory. Instead, it tasted bitter.
Alessia pushed the cup away. "If you thought I had the ledger—if you believed I was part of stealing it—why marry me? Why not just take me and torture the truth out of me?"
The corner of Dante's mouth lifted, though there was no humor in it. "Would you have believed me if I said I wanted to?"
Her breath caught.
Before she could respond, his phone buzzed again. This time, he didn't glance at it. His attention remained fixed on her, unrelenting.
"Lucian's alive," he repeated, as if she might have forgotten. "And he's the only one who can tell us who's really pulling the strings."
Alessia exhaled sharply. "Assuming he'll talk."
"Oh, he'll talk." Dante's voice dropped, a dark promise woven through the words. "One way or another."
The air between them crackled with something dangerous—something that had nothing to do with ledgers or betrayals.
Alessia stood, smoothing her hands over her thighs. "Then what are we waiting for?"
Dante straightened, his gaze raking over her. "You're not going."
"The hell I'm not."
"It's not safe."
She laughed, the sound sharp enough to cut glass. "Since when has that ever stopped me?"
For the first time, something flickered in his expression—something that might have been respect. Or annoyance. With Dante, it was hard to tell.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a sleek black handgun, offering it to her grip-first. "Then you'll need this."
Alessia took it, the weight familiar in her palm.
Dante's fingers brushed hers as he let go, lingering just a second too long. "Try not to shoot me in the back, *principessa*."
She smirked. "No promises."
Outside, the first drops of rain began to fall, painting the city in shades of gray.
Somewhere in the shadows, Lucian was waiting.
And this time, Alessia intended to get answers.