Dante's POV
I watch her through the security camera feed.
Aria Moretti sits frozen on her bed, staring at her phone like it's a snake about to bite. Her face has gone completely white.
Good. She should be scared.
I lean back in my office chair and count. One... two... three...
My office door crashes open.
She bursts in without knocking, phone clutched in her shaking hand, eyes blazing with fear and fury. Her careful mask is gone. This is the real her—wild and dangerous and absolutely beautiful.
"How long have you known?" she demands.
I don't pretend to misunderstand. "Since you submitted your application three months ago."
The truth hits her like a punch. She actually stumbles back a step.
"Then why—" Her voice breaks. "Why did you hire me? Why let me into your home? Why—"
"Sit down, Aria."
"Don't call me that!"
"It's your name, isn't it?" I stand up slowly. She tenses like she might run. Or attack. I'm not sure which. "Aria Sofia Moretti. Born March 15th. Parents Thomas and Sofia Moretti, federal prosecutors, murdered fifteen years ago. You were seven. Found by your uncle Marco Petrov, former FBI agent, raised in witness protection under various fake names. Currently—"
"Stop." Her hands are fists now. "Just stop."
I stop. But I don't sit down. We stand there, ten feet apart, the air between us crackling with tension.
She's smaller than me—most people are—but right now she looks like she could tear me apart with her bare hands if I gave her the chance.
I respect that.
"You didn't answer my question," she says, voice steadier now. Controlled. "Why hire me if you knew I was coming to destroy you?"
"Because I wanted to meet you."
That throws her. Her forehead wrinkles in confusion. "What?"
I move around my desk, each step deliberate. She doesn't back up this time. Brave girl.
"I've been tracking you for two years, Aria. Ever since I found out you existed."
"That's insane."
"Is it?" I'm close enough now to see the gold flecks in her dark eyes. Close enough to smell her shampoo—something clean and simple. No expensive perfume. She's not trying to impress anyone. "Your parents were killed because of my family. You spent fifteen years preparing to get revenge. That's not insane. That's... dedicated."
"You're playing with me." Her jaw clenches. "This is some sick game."
"No game." I pull a file from my desk drawer and hold it out. "This is everything I know about your parents' murder. Everything the FBI covered up. Everything your uncle never told you."
She doesn't take it. "Why would you have that?"
"Because I've been investigating their deaths for five years."
Silence. She stares at me like I've started speaking another language.
"You're lying," she finally says. But her voice wavers.
"Am I?" I open the file, show her the first page. Crime scene photos. Her parents' house, covered in blood. "Your mother was shot four times. Your father, six. Professional hits, execution style. The FBI ruled it a mob killing and blamed my father."
"Because it WAS your father!" She grabs the file from me, hands shaking as she flips through pages. "Everyone knows the Constantinos—"
"Everyone knows what they were told to know." I watch her face as she reads. Watches the confusion grow. "Look at the ballistics report. The bullets came from three different guns. My father never used a team for personal kills. He always worked alone. It's his signature."
She's reading faster now, eyes scanning documents.
"And here." I point to a page. "Witness statements. Your neighbor heard cars pull up at 10:47 PM. The 911 call came at 10:52. Five minutes. Professional killers don't spend five minutes in a house unless they're looking for something."
"Looking for what?"
"I don't know. That's what I've been trying to figure out."
Aria looks up at me, and for the first time, I see doubt in her eyes. Not about her hatred—that's still burning bright. But doubt about who she should be hating.
"Why are you telling me this?" she whispers.
"Because you deserve the truth. And because..." I take a breath. This is the hard part. "Three months after your parents died, my mother was murdered. The FBI said it was retaliation. Payback from the Moretti family for what my father did."
Her eyes widen. "I didn't know—"
"Of course you didn't. Your uncle made sure you only knew the parts that would make you hate me." I turn away, looking out the window. The memory still burns. "I was twelve. I watched them kill her. And Aria? The men who did it weren't Morettis. They were professionals. Just like the ones who killed your parents."
I hear her breathing, quick and shallow behind me.
"Someone set both our families against each other," I say quietly. "Someone wanted us destroying each other while they stayed hidden. And it worked. For fifteen years, it worked."
"No." But she doesn't sound sure anymore. "No, that's... that's crazy."
"Is it?" I turn back to face her. "Your uncle trained you to kill me. Spent fifteen years filling your head with revenge. Sent you here to destroy me. Did he ever once suggest investigating? Finding real proof? Or did he just point you at me like a loaded gun?"
She opens her mouth. Closes it. No answer.
Because she knows I'm right.
"I have evidence," I continue. "Proof that something bigger is going on. A symbol that was left at both crime scenes. A pattern of murders across five mafia families over twenty years. All blamed on each other. All perfectly designed to keep us at war."
I step closer. She doesn't move.
"Someone is playing us, Aria. Someone wants the families tearing each other apart. And they used your parents and my mother as the opening moves."
"If that's true..." Her voice is barely a whisper. "If you're not lying... then who killed them?"
"That's what we're going to find out." I hold out my hand. "Together."
She stares at my hand like it's poison.
"You want me to work with you? The man I came here to kill?"
"I want you to help me find the truth. Real revenge isn't killing the wrong person. It's making the right person pay."
For a long moment, she doesn't move. I can see the war happening behind her eyes. Fifteen years of training versus what her gut is telling her.
Finally, slowly, she reaches out.
Our hands touch. The same electric shock from earlier, but stronger now. More real.
"One condition," she says. "If I find out you're lying—if this is a trick—"
"You can kill me yourself," I finish. "I'll even give you the gun."
Her lips twitch. Almost a smile. "Deal."
We shake on it. A partnership born from blood and lies and desperation.
I should let go of her hand. But I don't. And neither does she.
"There's something else you should know," I say.
"What?"
"Your uncle. Marco Petrov." I pull out my phone, show her a photo. "Three weeks ago, I had him followed. He met with someone in a parking garage. Someone from the organization I've been tracking."
Her face goes pale again. "No. Marco would never—"
"Look at his wrist."
I zoom in on the photo. On Marco's exposed forearm where his sleeve has ridden up.
There, in black ink, is a tattoo.
A serpent eating its own tail.
The exact same symbol that was found at both our parents' murder scenes.
Aria's hand drops from mine. She stares at the photo, shaking her head slowly.
"No," she breathes. "No, that's not possible. Marco saved me. He raised me. He—"
My office door slams open again.
We both spin around.
Marco Petrov stands in the doorway, gun pointed directly at Aria's
chest.
"Step away from him, little bird," he says, voice cold as ice. "Now."