The opportunity arose during one of Dante’s rare absences from the mansion, a late-night summit with council remnants to quell whispers of instability in the alliance. Elena had feigned exhaustion after another brutal morning at the breakfast table, where she watched him dismantle a smuggling ring with chilling efficiency. “Stay put,” he had ordered, his hand lingering on her scarred wrist a second too long, the tremble betraying the cracks she had witnessed in the study. But as soon as the convoy departed, she moved.
The east wing guards had been doubled, but patterns were predictable. A sympathetic maid bought with promises of protection for her family created a diversion with a kitchen “accident.” Elena slipped into Dante’s private study, heart thundering. The computer on his desk was
