RUTHLESS VOW

Chapter Two: Into the Lion's Den

I had three days to dismantle my life.

Three days to pack twenty-six years into a single suitcase. Three days to craft lies convincing enough to fool my mother. Three days to pretend I wasn't walking into a cage.

I started with my apartment. My coworker Sarah had been searching for a place closer to the office, so I offered her mine. She asked why I was leaving so suddenly. Family emergency, I told her. She didn't push.

Work was harder. I'd built a reputation at the firm—reliable Elena, dependable Elena, the one who fixed problems no one else noticed. My manager frowned at my leave request, but I'd banked enough goodwill that he granted it. A year, I told him. Maybe less. He said my position would be waiting.

I doubted I'd ever come back.

The hardest part was my mother.

I drove to her house Wednesday evening, the weight of the truth pressing against my ribs. The little blue house looked the same—white shutters, flower boxes, the old oak tree my father had threatened to cut down a hundred times but never did. It was the house that held us together through everything.

My mother was in the kitchen when I arrived, stirring something on the stove that smelled like rosemary and comfort. She turned and smiled,

"Sweetheart! I wasn't expecting you tonight. Are you hungry? I made soup again."

She always made soup . old habits she never broke.

"I can't stay long, Mom." "I need to tell you something." I said, sitting at the table where I’d done homework and watched my parents argue over bills.

Her smile faltered. She sat across from me, her hands wrapping around mine "What is it, sweetheart? You look pale."

Watching the concern gather in her eyes, I almost broke.

Almost.

"I've taken a new job," I said. "A live-in position. A Private household. It's an incredible opportunity."

"Live-in?" She repeated softly. "For how long?"

"A year."

"A year." She repeated the word like it was foreign, impossible to understand. "Elena, that's so long. Who is this client?"

"He's a businessman. Very private." The lies came easier than I expected, and I hated myself for how smoothly they flowed. "The pay is excellent, Mom. I'll be able to send money home every month. You won't have to worry about anything."

She studied my face with those soft brown eyes that had always seen too much. After a long silence, she squeezed my hands.

"My responsible girl," she said finally, "Always taking care of everyone else. Just make sure someone takes care of you too."

I hugged her longer than usual. She didn't know she was the reason I was doing this. She never would.

Thursday morning arrived gray and cold, as if the sky itself was mourning.

My suitcase packed and waiting by the door. My fingers found the necklace at my throat again—that nervous habit I'd developed since my father gave it to me. The gold was warm against my skin, a small comfort in the face of what was coming.

At exactly nine o'clock, a black sedan turned onto my street.

Part of me had hoped it wouldn't come, that Dante Moretti would change his mind or decide that terrorizing a dead man's daughter wasn't worth his time. But the car pulled up to my building with mechanical precision. This was real. This was happening.

I grabbed my suitcase and walked out of my apartment without looking back.

The driver was silent as he loaded my bag into the trunk. He opened the rear door, and closed it once i was inside. The leather smelled expensive—cedar and something darker that I couldn't name.

We pulled away, and I watched my building shrink in the rear-view mirror. My ordinary life with its ordinary problems. Gone.

I was someone else now.

The property of Dante Moretti.

The drive took nearly an hour.

We left the city behind, trading crowded streets for winding roads lined with trees. The houses grew larger and more distant, hidden behind walls and gates and long driveways. This was old money territory, the kind of wealth that didn't need to announce itself because everyone who mattered already knew.

Finally, we turned onto an unmarked private road. Trees closed in above us, The road curved and climbed, and then the trees fell away and I saw it.

The Moretti estate.

The villa sprawled across the landscape like something from another era—cream-colored stone, terracotta roof tiles, climbing ivy that softened the edges of the facade.

As we approached, I noticed what the beauty was designed to hide. Cameras mounted, Guards stationed at intervals along the drive, their postures casual but their eyes tracking our car. A small building near the main entrance staffed by men who watched us pass with cold assessment.

This wasn't just a home. It was a fortress.

The car stopped before the main entrance—.The driver opened my door, and I stepped out on legs that felt unsteady beneath me.

Before I could knock, the doors swung open.

A woman stood in the entrance. She was perhaps fifty, with silver-streaked hair pulled back in a severe bun and a face that gave nothing away. Her black dress was simple but perfectly tailored, and she held herself with the quiet authority.

"Miss Russo." Her voice was cool and professional. "I'm Greta, the house manager. Please, follow me."

She didn't wait for a response. I grabbed my suitcase before the driver could and followed her inside.

Marble floors stretched in every direction, gleaming beneath a chandelier that scattered light like diamonds. A grand staircase curved upward to the second floor, its banister polished to a mirror shine. Fresh flowers burst from crystal vases, filling the air with a sweetness that felt almost aggressive. Everything was immaculate, expensive, designed to impress and intimidate.

"Mr. Moretti is occupied with business matters today," Greta said, as we climbed the stairs. "He will send for you when he's ready to discuss your duties."

When he's ready. Not when I was settled. When he decided I was worth his attention.

I swallowed my irritation and kept my voice neutral. "Of course."

She lead me through identical hallways until we reached a room at the end,

Greta stopped before a door at the end of the hall.

"Your quarters, Miss Russo."

She pushed the door open, and I stepped inside.

The room was enormous. Bigger than my entire apartment. A king-sized bed, velvet chaise, a fireplace, windows overlooking endless gardens. Through another, a walk-in closet already filled with clothes.

Clothes in my size. Silk blouses, tailored pants, dresses in colors I would never have chosen for myself. Someone had prepared for my arrival down to the smallest detail.

The thought made my skin crawl.

"Meals are served at seven, twelve thirty, and seven," Greta continued. "You'll eat in the staff dining room unless Mr. Moretti requires your presence elsewhere. Certain areas of the house are restricted—I'll provide a map. Do you have questions?"

A thousand. None that she would answer.

"When will I see Mr. Moretti?"

"When he sends for you." The answer didn’t change. "Dinner is in eight hours. I suggest you rest."

She left without another word.

I walked to the window and looked out at the grounds below. From here I could see more of the security—guards making rounds, cameras hidden in the garden architecture, the high walls that encircled the property. Even if I wanted to run, where would I go? How would I get past all of that?

I was trapped. Truly, completely trapped.

What I didn't know—what I couldn't know—was that Dante Moretti wasn't occupied at all. He was standing in his private office on the third floor, watching the security feed that showed my room. Watching me stand at the window, small and lost and beautiful. His hands tightened on the edge of his desk.

He'd told himself he would stay away. Give her time to adjust. Maintain distance. Control.

But control had snapped the moment he saw me that day in the cemetery, standing in the rain with grief etching shadows under my eyes. And every moment since had been an exercise in restraint he wasn't sure he possessed.

In his pocket, his phone buzzed. A message from Enzo: Is the girl settled? Are you sure about this arrangement?

Dante stared at the message for a long moment, then typed back: She's here. That's all that matters.

He deleted the message thread immediately. Some things were better left unrecorded.

On the screen, I sat on the edge of the bed and lowered my head into my hands. Whenever flickered across Dante’s face—guilt, want something far darker—he refused to name it.

He lied to keep me. Taken me for reasons he refused to examine.

And he would do it again.

Anyways.

One year. Twelve months. Three hundred and sixty-five days.

I could survive anything for a year.

I had to.