The Mafia king's obsession

The Gilded Cage

The Moretti estate was located on the North Shore of Long Island, a place where the trees grew tall enough to hide the security cameras and the sound of the Atlantic obscured the screams of the city.

When the black car passed through the wrought-iron gates, Elena felt a physical shift in the air. The driveway was a long, winding throat of gravel that led to a neo-Gothic mansion. It looked less like a home and more like a mausoleum for a king who is still alive but will soon be dead.

Dante’s driver, the man Elena now knew as Pietro didn't speak as he led her through the massive front doors. The interior was a study in contradictions: priceless Renaissance art hung on walls fitted with state-of-the-art biometric scanners.

“The study is upstairs,” Pietro said, gesturing toward a grand staircase of dark mahogany. “The Boss is waiting.”

Elena’s heels clicked sharply against the marble floors, the sound echoing in the cavernous hallway. She felt small, but she kept her chin parallel to the ground. She wouldn't let them see her tremble.

When she reached the study, the door was already open. The room was lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, but unlike her cramped apartment, these books looked unread—leather-bound trophies of a wealth that didn't care for knowledge.

Dante was standing by a floor-to-ceiling window, looking out at the gray, churning surf of the Sound. He didn't have his jacket on; his shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing tattoos that wound around his forearms like ink-black serpents.

“You're five minutes early,” Dante said without turning around.

“I didn't want to give you a reason to visit my brother again,” Elena replied, dropping her bag onto a velvet chair.

Dante turned then. The late afternoon light hit his face, highlighting the exhaustion in the lines around his eyes. For a split second, he didn't look like a boss; he looked like a man drowning in his own empire. Then, the mask clicked back into place—cold, sharp, and impenetrable.

“Leo is in the library across the hall. He’s been told you’re here to help him with his thesis on the Fall of the Republic.” Dante took a step toward her, his presence instantly shrinking the room. “He doesn't know about Julian. He doesn't know about the debt. As far as he’s concerned, I’m paying you a generous consulting fee because I value his education.”

“So, I'm just another part of the lie?”

“You are the only part of his life that isn't a lie, Elena. That’s why you’re here.” He stopped inches from her, his gaze dropping to the silver cross she wore around her neck. “Don't break his spirit. If he finds out what his name really costs, he’ll never recover.”

“And what about me, Dante?” she whispered, the proximity making her lightheaded. “What happens to me?

Dante reached out, his thumb grazing the line of her jaw. It was a slow-burn touch, a lingering heat that felt like a brand. “You're a historian, Elena. We'll see what's left of yours when the winter is over.”

He pulled away abruptly, the warmth of his hand leaving a cold

void. “Go. He’s waiting.”