The days following the gala killing settled into a fragile new rhythm, one laced with bloodstained tenderness rather than outright torment. Dante’s possessiveness had not vanished it had transformed, wrapping around Elena like chains forged from fire and loyalty. He kept her close, consulting her on syndicate matters, sharing fragments of Phoenix leads from the files as if testing the bridge her instinctive shield had built. Yet the vault coordinates from Ghost burned in her hidden cache, a secret lifeline amid the deepening pull toward her husband.
One evening, after a long strategy session in the study where they had pored over maps and Phoenix documents together, Dante followed her to the east wing. The air between them hummed with unspoken need the nights of pinning without consummati
