Beneath His Protection

Chapter 3 – The Deal

Silence in the penthouse was a different kind of noise.

Christina stood in the massive living room, still clutching the handle of her bag, even though she hadn’t moved for twenty minutes. The front door had long since clicked shut behind Dante, yet his presence clung to every inch of the space — like cologne, or danger, or a storm that had passed but left the air changed forever.

She let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

The city glimmered outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, a dazzling sea of lights stretching endlessly into the horizon. She was used to New York — the grit, the pressure, the speed — but from up here it looked unreal, like a painting. Silent. Remote. Unreachable.

Just like him.

Dante Moretti.

She finally set her bag down on the floor with a soft thud and looked around.

Everything was immaculate — dark wood, marble counters, cold steel fixtures. The furniture was high-end, masculine, understated. No pictures. No books. No personal items. It felt like a place people lived in, but not a life.

She walked slowly into the kitchen. There were rows of glass cabinets, a stocked wine rack, and an espresso machine she wouldn’t dare touch.

A note was left on the counter in sleek handwriting:

You’re safe here. No one will enter without my permission. Eat. Rest. Don’t open the balcony door — the alarm is armed. I’ll return tomorrow. – D.

There was a number beneath it, just “D” with a line: his private number, maybe. She stared at it. It stared back like a trap.

Safe.

That word meant different things when it came from someone like him.

⸻

She explored the rest of the apartment.

The guest bedroom was larger than her entire studio. It had a plush king-sized bed with jet-black linens, a modern dresser, and its own bathroom that smelled like leather and spice. The water pressure in the sink nearly knocked her over. There was a robe waiting in the closet, still wrapped in plastic, and a set of silk pajamas folded on the edge of the bed.

There were also clothes.

All her size.

She stepped back from the dresser like it had bitten her.

He’d guessed her measurements. Or worse, someone had taken them.

She didn’t know which was more disturbing.

Christina changed into the robe — refusing the pajamas, even if they looked tempting — and curled up on the sofa in the living room. She kept the TV off. She didn’t want sound. She wanted clarity.

But clarity didn’t come.

Only more questions.

Why had Dante spared her? Why let her in, only to keep her caged? And why… why did she feel more watched here than when she was on the street?

At around 9:00 PM, someone knocked at the door.

She jumped, her heart slamming against her ribs.

“Who is it?” she called.

“Room service,” a male voice answered, amused.

She opened the door slowly. A young man in a tailored black uniform smiled at her, holding a tray of food.

“Compliments of Mr. Moretti,” he said. “Dinner and dessert. Would you like me to set it out?”

She shook her head. “No. I’ve got it. Thanks.”

He bowed slightly and left.

The tray held pan-seared salmon, wild rice, grilled vegetables, and tiramisu for dessert. There was also a glass bottle of San Pellegrino, chilled.

She ate two bites. Then closed the lid.

⸻

At midnight, sleep finally won.

But dreams found her.

She was running. The alley was endless. The gunshot rang in her ears again and again, until it wasn’t just the sound — it was the weight. The heat of breath. The press of a hand. His hand.

When she jolted awake at 3:27 AM, the sheets were tangled around her legs and her skin was damp with sweat.

She got up and padded into the kitchen. Poured herself water.

And there he was.

Dante.

Leaning against the counter in a black button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie undone. He didn’t look tired — he never looked tired — but there was something in his eyes. A weariness. Like he’d lived through a hundred nights just like this one.

Christina nearly dropped her glass.

“You—” she gasped. “You scared me.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he said. His voice was soft, gravelly. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

She put the glass down, still recovering. “You said you’d come back tomorrow.”

“It is tomorrow.”

Christina checked the clock on the stove. 3:28 AM.

She sighed. “You know, most people think ‘tomorrow’ starts after sunrise.”

He smirked faintly. “I’m not most people.”

She folded her arms. “So what now? Another warning? Another deal?”

He looked at her. Really looked. Then stepped forward and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small velvet pouch and set it on the counter in front of her.

“What’s this?”

“Insurance.”

She opened the pouch slowly.

Inside was a flash drive.

“Encrypted,” Dante said. “Inside are documents. Photos. Things that could destroy me and my people if they ever reached the wrong hands.”

She stared at it.

He continued, “You said you weren’t going to the police. I believe you. But I’ve learned not to take chances.”

Christina’s hand curled around the pouch.

“You’re giving me blackmail material on yourself,” she said slowly.

He nodded. “In exchange for your silence.”

Her breath caught. “That’s not a deal. That’s… suicide.”

Dante’s gaze was steady. “It’s a test of trust. You can keep it. Hide it. Use it if I ever cross a line.”

“And if I do?”

He shrugged. “Then I deserved it.”

She swallowed.

“I don’t understand you,” she said. “You kill a man, threaten me… then give me something that could destroy you.”

“You saw something you weren’t meant to. And you didn’t scream. You didn’t run to the cops. You walked into my car knowing who I am. That means something to me.”

He paused.

“I’m not asking for forgiveness,” he added. “I’m asking for patience.”

Christina stood in silence.

Finally, she tucked the pouch into her robe pocket and turned back toward the hallway.

“Good night, Dante.”

He didn’t stop her.

But as she walked away, she could feel his eyes on her — not with malice, but with something heavier.

Something that felt like fate.

The pouch sat on the nightstand next to Christina’s bed like a bomb waiting to be triggered.

She hadn’t opened it again.

She hadn’t even touched it since placing it there. But she couldn’t stop thinking about it — the weight of it, the threat it contained, and the meaning behind the man who gave it to her.

Who did that? What kind of criminal handed someone the key to their destruction?

It wasn’t just a power move. It wasn’t even trust.

It was something else. Something twisted and intimate, like a secret passed between lovers — except they weren’t that. Not even close.

Were they?

She pressed her fingertips to her lips and exhaled slowly. Her dreams had been clearer than she cared to admit. Dante’s hands in her hair, his mouth brushing her ear, his body pinning hers against cold marble.

Christina. Stop.

This wasn’t a fantasy. It was a survival cage. No matter how velvet the bars, she was still locked inside them.

⸻

The next morning, Dante was already gone.

Again.

A note waited in the kitchen, simple and businesslike:

I’ll be out most of the day. Use the apartment as you like. Stay inside. Don’t open the door unless it’s Enzo. – D.

There was a name. A new one.

She wasn’t sure if that was meant to comfort her or scare her more.

An hour later, Enzo introduced himself.

He was massive — easily six foot five, broad as a wall, bald, and covered in tattoos that peeked out from under the collar of his shirt. But when he spoke, it was with a polite, almost gentle tone.

“I’ll be right outside if you need anything, miss,” he said.

Miss.

She had to bite back a laugh. She was a hostage in a mobster’s penthouse, and yet the henchman was calling her miss like she was some debutante.

Christina spent the next few hours exploring every inch of the apartment. She found a private library filled with books in Italian and Latin — dusty, untouched. An office with sleek monitors and encrypted files she didn’t dare poke through. A locked drawer she couldn’t open. A room that looked like a gym, complete with punching bags and heavy weights.

She also found the piano.

Tucked into a quiet corner by the windows, like a forgotten piece of his soul.

She ran her fingers over the keys. It was perfectly in tune. The only thing in the place that felt… human.

She sat down.

Closed her eyes.

And began to play.

Not a song she knew. Not anything she’d learned. Just instinct — soft, minor notes, quiet and moody. It felt like him. Dark. Elegant. Sad.

She didn’t notice the time pass. Not until she heard a voice behind her.

“I didn’t know you played.”

She jumped, fingers stumbling.

Dante was standing in the doorway, still in his dark overcoat, watching her with a strange expression.

“I didn’t know you had a piano,” she said, turning around slowly.

His gaze flicked to the instrument. “It was my mother’s.”

Her heart stilled.

That was the first thing he’d ever said about his family.

She rose slowly from the bench. “She played?”

“Every night,” he said. “Until the day she died.”

“I’m sorry.”

He nodded, then took off his coat, hung it on the rack, and walked toward the kitchen.

“I heard from your professor,” he said casually, as if they were discussing the weather.

Christina blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I made a call. Told them you were taking a few days off due to a family emergency. They agreed to give you extensions on your upcoming exams and papers.”

Her mouth opened. Then closed.

Then opened again.

“You… called my professor?”

He poured himself a drink. “Not personally. But yes. It’s handled.”

She stared at him, stunned.

“I didn’t ask you to do that,” she said.

“No,” he agreed, “but I assumed you wouldn’t want to fall behind while being babysat by a mobster.”

Her cheeks burned. “You’re unbelievable.”

He looked up. “I’m efficient.”

She walked toward him, fists clenched. “You’re controlling.”

“I’m keeping you alive.”

“I never asked for your protection.”

“No,” he said, sipping his drink, “you didn’t. But the second you saw what you saw, it stopped being your decision.”

⸻

The tension between them thickened.

Then, for the first time in hours, Dante’s tone softened.

“You could’ve screamed,” he said, voice low. “You could’ve panicked. Run to the police. You didn’t.”

“Because I was afraid.”

“No,” he said, “you were calm. Scared, yes. But controlled. That’s rare.”

She crossed her arms. “What’s your point?”

“I think you’re smarter than you realize. I think you understand how the world works — more than you’re willing to admit.”

Christina’s heart pounded.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Dante said, setting down his glass, “that maybe you don’t belong in a classroom. Maybe you belong somewhere you can actually use that brain of yours.”

She stared at him.

He was serious.

“You want to recruit me?” she asked. “Into your little empire of crime?”

He smiled. Not cruel. Not cold. Almost… admiring.

“I want to give you a choice,” he said. “For once.”