RUTHLESS VOW

Chapter Three: The Household

Three days passed, and Dante Moretti remained a ghost.

I caught glimpses of him—a shadow at the end of a hallway, a voice behind a closed door, the lingering scent of cedar and smoke in a room he'd just left. But he never acknowledged me, never summoned me, never so much as glanced in my direction. I was furniture. Less than furniture. At least furniture served a purpose.

The waiting was deliberate. I knew that. He was reminding me of my place, establishing who held the power. Every hour without a summons carried the message: You exist at my convenience. You matter when I decide you matter.

I refused to let it break me.

Instead, I learned the house.

I mapped the hallways during my wanderings, memorizing which doors led where and which were always locked. I counted the windows and noted which overlooked the gardens and which faced security stations. I tracked the staff’s routines when they cleaned, when they ate, when the guards changed shifts. Information was power. Especially here.

On my second morning, I met Marco Benedetti.

I was in the kitchen, attempting to make coffee without bothering the cook, when a warm voice came from behind me.

"You're doing it wrong."

I spun around, my heart leaping into my throat.

The man leaning against the doorway wasn’t what I expected from a Moretti associate. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark curly hair and eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled. And he was smiling now—an easy, genuine. It felt almost out of place in this house.

"The machine is temperamental," he said, pushing off the doorframe and crossing toward me. "You have to press the button twice or it just stares at you judgmentally."

He reached past me and demonstrated, pressing the button with two quick taps. The machine hummed to life.

"I'm Marco." He held out his hand. "And you must be Elena."

I shook it cautiously. His grip was firm but not aggressive. "How do you know my name?"

"Everyone knows your name. You're the most interesting thing to happen here in months." He grabbed a mug and poured himself coffee with the ease of someone who belonged here. "Don't worry, that's a compliment. This place could use some shaking up."

"I'm not here to shake anything up. I'm here to work off a debt."

"So I've heard." Marco leaned against the counter, studying me with open curiosity. There was no calculation in his gaze, Just interest. "Michael Russo's daughter. The accountant who walked into Dante's office and didn't flinch."

"Who told you that?"

"Dante." Marco's smile widened at my surprise. "He doesn't talk much, but when he does, people listen. He said you had fire. Coming from him, that's practically a marriage proposal."

I ignored that. "Who are you? Besides someone who knows how to work the coffee machine?"

"I'm Dante's second-in-command. His right hand. His best friend, though he'd never admit to having one." Marco shrugged. "We grew up in this world together. Someone has to keep him human."

The word caught me off guard. Human. As if Dante Moretti were something else entirely. Maybe he was.

"Does he know you're talking to me?"

"Probably. Dante knows everything that happens in this house." Marco took a sip of his coffee. "But he didn't tell me not to, which means he doesn't mind. Or he's curious. With Dante, it's hard to tell the difference."

Before I could respond, a sharp voice sliced through the kitchen.

"Marco. Stop fraternizing with the help."

I turned to find a young woman in the doorway. She was striking—dark hair cut sharply at her shoulders, eyes nearly black, her beauty fierce rather than soft. She wore silk and heels, and pure disdain.

Lucia Moretti.

She looked at me the way someone looks at a stain on expensive fabric.

"So this is the debt." Lucia circled me slowly, her heels clicking against the tile. "I expected someone more impressive. Someone who might actually be worth two million dollars."

"Two point three," I corrected calmly. "If you're going to insult me, at least be accurate."

Something flickered in her eyes. Surprise, maybe. Marco coughed to hide what sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

"She has a mouth on her," Lucia said.

"She does," Marco agreed cheerfully. "I like her already."

"You like everyone. It's a character flaw." Lucia turned her attention back to me. "Let me be clear about something, Elena Russo. I don't know why you're here, and I don't care about your father's debts. What I care about is my brother. If you're here to manipulate him, spy for someone, or cause any trouble—I will destroy you. Slowly. Thoroughly. Do you understand?"

I should have been afraid. This woman had power and resources and a family name that could crush me without breaking a sweat.

But I'd spent my whole life being underestimated. I was tired of it.

"I'm here because I had no choice," I said quietly. "Your brother made sure of that. I'm not planning anything except surviving the next twelve months and walking away with my family intact. If that's a problem for you, I suggest you take it up with him."

Lucia stared at me for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, the corner of her mouth twitched.

"Maybe you're not completely pathetic after all." She turned on her heel and strode out of the kitchen without another word.

Marco let out a low whistle. "That went well."

"That was going well?"

"For Lucia? Absolutely. She didn't threaten to have you killed even once." He finished his coffee and set the mug in the sink. "Don't take it personally. She's protective of Dante. Has been since they were kids. Their father was..." He paused, something dark passing over his face. "Let's just say Lucia learned early that the only person she could trust was her brother. Anyone new is a threat until proven otherwise."

I filed that information away. Their father. Something bad. Another piece of the puzzle that was Dante Moretti.

"And what about you?" I asked. "Am I a threat to you?"

Marco's smile returned, easy and warm. "Not even a little. I think you might be exactly what this family needs." He headed for the door, then paused. "Word of advice? Don't let Dante's silence get to you. He's watching. He's always watching. When he's ready, he'll make his move."

He left me alone with my cooling coffee and more questions than answers.

That evening, I encountered the third member of Dante's inner circle.

I was exploring the library—one of the few rooms I was allowed to access—when I realized I wasn't alone. An older man sat in a leather armchair by the window, a book open in his lap, watching me with eyes that missed nothing.

"Miss Russo." His voice was cultured, precise. "I wondered when we would meet."

I recognized him from my research: Enzo Caruso, senior advisor to the Moretti family. He'd served Dante's father before serving Dante, decades of loyalty that made him practically untouchable.

"Mr. Caruso." I kept my distance. "I didn't mean to disturb you."

"You didn't." He closed his book and studied me with unsettling intensity. "I've been curious about you. The daughter of Michael Russo, living under this roof. Your father and I had dealings, years ago. He was a desperate man. Desperate men make dangerous choices."

Something cold slithered down my spine. "I'm not my father."

"No?" Enzo's gaze didn't waver. "We shall see. Blood tells, Miss Russo. It always tells eventually."

He stood and approached me, moving with the careful deliberation of someone much older. He stopped close enough that I could smell his cologne—expensive, cloying.

"Your father wore a mask for many years. Played the role of the devoted family man while making deals in the shadows." Enzo's eyes bore into mine. "Tell me, did he give you anything before he died? Any gifts? Any keepsakes that seemed particularly important to him?"

My hand went instinctively to the necklace at my throat. Enzo's gaze followed the movement, and something that might have been satisfaction crossed his features.

"A pretty piece," he murmured. "Your father always did have an eye for... insurance."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Don't you?" He stepped back, his expression smoothing into something more neutral. "Be careful in this house, Miss Russo. Not everything is as it seems. And not everyone who smiles at you has your best interests at heart."

He returned to his chair and reopened his book, dismissing me as completely as if I'd vanished.

I left the library with his words echoing in my mind. Blood tells. Not everything is as it seems.

What had my father done? What secrets had he carried to his grave?

And why did I have the terrible feeling that Enzo knew more than he was saying?

Later that night, I couldn't shake the encounter. I stood at my window, looking out at the dark gardens, and replayed every word Enzo had said. The way he'd looked at my necklace. The talk of insurance and masks and blood.

What I didn't know was that on the third floor, Dante stood at his own window, watching the light in my room. Marco had told him about the kitchen meeting. Lucia had reported her encounter. And Enzo had sent a text: The girl is asking questions. Poking around. Perhaps we should reconsider this arrangement.

Dante had deleted that message too.

Enzo had been his father's man first. Loyal, yes. But his loyalty came with opinions, with judgments, with a tendency to see threats where Dante saw... what? He didn't have a word for what Elena was to him yet.

He only knew that she was his. And anyone who threatened her—even those within his own family—would learn exactly what that meant.

On the screen of his phone, another message from Enzo appeared: I assume you've verified the debt was legitimate? No irregularities in the paperwork?

Dante stared at the message for a long moment. Then he typed: Everything is in order. Focus on the Conti situation.

He deleted this exchange as well. Some things were better left unexamined.

In my room, I finally turned away from the window and climbed into bed. Three days down. Three hundred and sixty-two to go.

I closed my eyes and tried not to count the hours until morning.

But sleep didn't come easily. Because in the darkness, I kept seeing Enzo's knowing smile. Kept hearing his warning: Not everything is as it seems.

And I couldn't shake the feeling that he was talking about more than just my father.