You picked the wrong side, Elena.” Luca’s message glowed on the burner phone, the words searing into her mind as the photo’s faded “Moretti” inscription burned in her pocket. Elena Russo sat rigid in the back of Dante’s speeding car, the leather seats cold against her skin, the city’s neon lights blurring past. Dante’s hands gripped the wheel, his jaw tight, his gray eyes flicking to her in the rearview mirror. The memory of her tackling him at the pier, saving him from a bullet, hung between them, heavy and unspoken.

“Why’d you do it?” Dante’s voice cut through the silence, low and rough, like gravel underfoot. “You were at the pier with them. Why save me?”

Elena’s heart pounded, her fingers clutching the photo hidden in her jacket. The image of her mother with Dante’s father gnawed at her, a puzzle she couldn’t solve. Luca’s cryptic warning, I know who you really are, echoed, twisting her gut. She’d betrayed Dante by giving Luca the shipment details, yet she’d risked her life to save him. Why?

“Maybe I don’t want a war on my conscience,” she said, her voice sharp, deflecting. She met his gaze in the mirror, her artist’s eye catching the storm in his eyes, anger, confusion, and something softer, something dangerous.

Dante’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You’re not that noble,” he said, pulling the car into the underground garage of his penthouse. The engine died, and the silence was suffocating. He turned, his arm resting on the seat, his body too close. “Tell me the truth, Elena.”

Her skin prickled, his closeness igniting a spark she hated herself for feeling. “The truth?” She forced a laugh, bitter and sharp. “You’re forcing me to marry you, Dante. Trust isn’t exactly on the table.”

His eyes darkened, and for a moment, she thought he’d reach for her. Instead, he leaned back, his voice low. “You’re playing a dangerous game. And I don’t lose.”

The garage’s fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting stark shadows across his face. Elena’s hand tightened around the phone in her pocket, Luca’s message a ticking bomb. She needed answers, about the photo, her mother, Luca’s cryptic hint, but Dante’s gaze felt like a trap, pulling her in.

Inside the penthouse, Elena slipped into the guest suite, her heart still racing. The city skyline glittered through the windows, a mocking reminder of her cage. She pulled out the photo, her fingers tracing her mother’s face. The “Moretti” inscription on the back was in her mother’s handwriting, she’d know that elegant scrawl anywhere. What had her mother been to Dante’s father? And why did Luca know more than she did?

A sharp knock jolted her. Sofia Moretti stood in the doorway, her red lips curled in a sneer, her black dress clinging to her like armor. “Still snooping, Russo?” she said, her voice dripping venom. “You’re not cut out for this world.”

Elena shoved the photo into her pocket, her chin lifting. “And you’re not cut out to scare me, Sofia.”

Sofia’s laugh was cold, her eyes glinting like a blade. “You think saving Dante makes you one of us? You’re a liability. And I’ll prove it.” She stepped closer, her perfume sharp and floral. “I saw you at the pier. With him.”

Elena’s blood ran cold. Sofia had seen her with Luca. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, her voice steady despite the panic clawing her chest.

“Don’t I?” Sofia’s smile was triumphant. “Dante’s blind, but I’m not. You’re a traitor.” She turned to leave, then paused. “Oh, and that photo? It won’t help you. Some secrets are better buried.”

Elena’s breath hitched. Sofia knew about the photo? Her mind spun as Sofia’s heels clicked away, each step a warning. She needed to confront Luca, but first, she had to face Dante.

Elena found Dante in his office, the room bathed in the soft glow of a desk lamp. Papers were scattered across the desk, the shipment folder gone, likely secured after her break-in. He stood by the window, a glass of whiskey in his hand, his silhouette sharp against the city’s lights.

“You wanted the truth,” she said, her voice cutting through the silence. She stepped forward, her hands trembling but her resolve firm. “Why was my mother with your father? I found a photo, her and him, together.”

Dante’s shoulders stiffened, his glass pausing halfway to his lips. He turned, his eyes narrowing, but there was something else—guilt, maybe, or grief. “You’re digging in the wrong places,” he said, his voice low, controlled. “Your mother’s gone. Let it go.”

Elena’s fists clenched, her nails biting her palms. “Don’t tell me to let it go,” she snapped, her voice shaking. “She was my mother, Dante. And that photo had ‘Moretti’ written on it. What aren’t you telling me?”

He set the glass down, the clink loud in the quiet room. He crossed to her, stopping inches away, his gaze searching hers. “You want answers?” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “Then stop sneaking around behind my back. You’re my fiancée, Elena. Act like it.”

Her heart pounded, his closeness overwhelming. The word fiancée felt like a brand, but his eyes held a flicker of something raw, something that made her want to believe him. She opened her mouth to argue, but a sharp beep from her pocket cut her off.

Her burner phone. Luca.

Dante’s gaze dropped to her pocket, his jaw tightening. “Answer it,” he said, his voice deadly calm. “Now.”

Elena’s hand shook as she pulled out the phone, Luca’s message stark on the screen: You betrayed me. Dante’s men are dead. This is on you.

Before she could react, Dante snatched the phone, his eyes scanning the message. His face hardened, a storm brewing in his gaze. He grabbed her arm, his grip like iron, and pulled her close. “You’re working with Luca Vitale,” he said, his voice a low snarl. “Give me one reason I shouldn’t end you right now.”

Her phone slipped from her fingers, clattering to the floor.