Chapter 3
1055 Words
Rain slicked the city windows that morning, soft and steady against the glass walls of the Russo Estate. Lena sat alone in the library, fingers tapping on her keyboard while the storm hummed like background music.
She’d been working since dawn, trying to organize Dante’s timeline his rise from small investor to global powerhouse. But the more she read, the more the pieces didn’t fit.
Some contracts were missing signatures. Others referenced companies that didn’t exist anymore. And in one folder marked Confidential Do Not Copy, there was a single photograph of a young man who looked nothing like Dante, yet carried the same surname.
Adrian Russo.
Lena frowned, scrolling through the accompanying notes. Deceased, 2013. Cause of death: unknown.
Before she could dig deeper, the door opened behind her.
“Working early again,” Dante’s voice murmured, smooth but carrying an edge that made her heart stutter.
She shut the folder quickly. “I couldn’t sleep.”
He walked closer, his footsteps soft against the rug. “Curiosity or insomnia?”
“Both,” she said lightly, keeping her tone neutral.
Dante leaned against the edge of the desk, eyes scanning her laptop screen. “You’re thorough. I like that. But some files like the one you just closed aren’t meant for print.”
Her stomach flipped. “I wasn’t”
He raised a hand, cutting her off. “You’re my writer, Ms. Morgan. I expect curiosity. Just know it has… limits.”
The air between them tightened, the storm outside echoing the one brewing in her chest.
“Who was Adrian?” she asked quietly.
For a moment, Dante said nothing. His jaw flexed, and when he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than she’d ever heard it. “My brother.”
She waited.
“He died young. Wrong place, wrong time.”
His gaze drifted to the window. “I built this empire after that. Some say I did it for ambition. Truth is, I did it for revenge.”
Her heart ached at the rawness in his tone. “And did revenge fix anything?”
He looked at her then really looked at her. “No. It only made me richer.”
That night, Lena stayed later than usual. She told herself it was for work, but part of her knew it wasn’t true. There was something magnetic about Dante something she wanted to understand.
When she brought him a cup of coffee, she found him in his private study, staring at a wall filled with photographs.
They weren’t business photos. They were personal snapshots of the city, his staff, even Evelyn. But one frame stood out: a picture of two boys laughing beside a beat-up car. Dante and Adrian.
Lena placed the cup gently on the desk. “You kept his photo here.”
He nodded, not taking his eyes off it. “Adrian was the dreamer. He wanted to open cafés. I wanted to conquer the world. I won, but he would’ve lived happier.”
She smiled faintly. “Maybe that’s why you collect coffee machines instead of cars.”
He actually chuckled. “Caught that, did you?”
“I notice things.”
He turned to her then, his expression softer than she’d ever seen it. “That’s dangerous, Lena.”
Her name in his mouth made her pulse trip.
“You keep saying that,” she said, forcing a smile. “That I’m in danger. But from what, exactly?”
He moved closer, slow and deliberate, his voice dropping low. “From me.”
The air thickened. She could smell his cologne something dark and sharp, like smoke after rain.
“Then maybe,” she whispered, “you should stop letting me this close.”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped back suddenly, the mask sliding over his face again. “Get some rest. Tomorrow, we start the chapter about the deals.”
And just like that, he was gone.
The next day, Lena couldn’t stop thinking about him or Adrian. She tried to focus on the writing, but every sentence seemed to bleed into something else.
She opened the restricted folder again. There, hidden beneath scanned contracts, was a series of old police reports each one sealed but labeled with initials that matched Dante’s companies.
Drug trafficking. Illegal trade. Laundering. All tied to businesses now scrubbed from existence.
Her chest tightened. If this was the truth, then Dante’s memoir wasn’t a confession it was a cover story.
She should’ve stopped reading. Should’ve deleted everything. But instead, she saved copies to a hidden drive. Not for blackmail, but for safety.
If Dante ever turned on her, she needed proof she wasn’t part of his world.
At least, that’s what she told herself.
That evening, Dante appeared again, this time in a black suit, freshly shaven, impossibly composed. “You’ll join me for dinner tonight,” he said not asked.
“Is that part of the contract?”
“Consider it… a research meeting.”
The restaurant he chose wasn’t public it was a private dining room in the city, empty except for candlelight and silence.
As they ate, he asked her questions she didn’t expect.
“Why ghostwriting?”
“It’s easier to tell someone else’s story than my own.”
“Then what’s your story?”
She hesitated. “A small-town girl who thought words could save people.”
“Have they?”
“Not yet.”
He smiled faintly. “Maybe they will.”
When the meal ended, they stepped outside into the cold night. His driver waited, but he didn’t open the door. Instead, he turned to her, eyes reflecting the city’s gold lights.
“You looked at files you shouldn’t have,” he said softly.
Her heart stilled. “I ”
He held up a hand. “Don’t deny it. I expected it.”
“Then why ”
“Because I wanted to see if you’d tell me the truth.”
She swallowed hard. “And if I don’t?”
His smile was almost sad. “Then I’ll know exactly what kind of story we’re writing.”
He opened the car door for her. “Goodnight, Ms. Morgan.”
And just like that, she realized something terrifying he wasn’t angry. He was testing her.
And worse, she wasn’t sure who was winning anymore.
- Writer
