Alessia's POV
Dante's words hang between us, crisp as the night air.
"Then make me stop falling for you."
My heart doesn't skip. Because I know better. Dante doesn't mean it. This is just another tactic, another calculated play to lure me in.
And yet…He saw the way I reacted to Marco's necklace. He saw what Marco was doing to me. That shouldn't mean anything. But it does. And that makes me hate him even more.
I step back, shaking my head. "You don't know me, Dante."
He studies me. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes, his eyes burn.
"I know enough," he says.
I laugh bitterly. "No, you think you do. But you're wrong."
Dante tilts his head, as if reading between the lines, as if trying to peel me open and dig through the layers. He won't find anything. Because there's nothing left of me to find. I turn my back on him. I don't care what he feels.
I don't care if he thinks Marco is dangerous. I don't care if, deep down, he might be right. Because at the end of all this, Dante is still the man I came here to destroy.
And I'm going to do it with my own hands.
I walk away without another word.
…
Later That Night.
Marco's office is dim, the only light coming from the glow of the city outside the window. He stands behind his desk, swirling a drink in his hand, watching me like I'm something to be measured and weighed.
I kept my face blank. But I felts the shift. Something about him tonight is different. What now? Before I could even process my thought his voice came through.
"Come here," he says.
I don't hesitate. Not because I want to obey him, but because hesitation is weakness. And Marco don't like weakness. I step forward.
He sets his drink down. Then, without a word, he opens a drawer and pulls out a gun. A sleek, matte black pistol.
He turns it in his hands, almost admiring it, before extending it to me. I take it. It's heavier than it should be. Not like it was my first time holding a gun, I'm a detective after all. He watches me, his gaze sharp, dissecting.
"There's a man in that room who betrayed me," Marco says evenly. "If you're really with me, you'll handle it."
The words echo. ~If you're really with me~
I close my fingers around the gun, tightly. So tight that my knuckles turned white.
Marco steps forward, his face still.
"If I ever find out you're lying to me," he murmurs, "I won't be forgiving."
I meet his gaze. Because I have to. Because I refuse to stop now. And then, without another word, I turn and walk toward the room.
Every step feels like a countdown. To what? I don't know yet. But I'm about to find out.
I push open the door. The room is dimly lit, shadows stretching across the walls, pooling in the corners like waiting specters.
And in the center, a man tied to a chair. His face is bloodied, bruised. Sweat slicks his skin, his breathing ragged, chest rising and falling too fast. Panic shows in his eyes when they land on me. I don't even have to say anything. He knows what's about to happen.
"No," he gasps, shaking his head wildly. "Please—please, I swear, I didn't—"
His voice cracks. Real, raw terror. I didn't want to, but what choice did I have ? Let Marco destroy my plans before I even get to execute them? Never!
I tighten my grip on the gun. Behind me, Marco leans against the doorframe. Watching. The man in the chair sees my hesitation. He latches onto it.
"You don't have to do this," he pleads, voice hoarse. "Please—I have a family. A daughter—"
I suck in a sharp breath. I can't listen. Because if I do, if I let myself hear the human beneath the blood and the bruises—I'll break. And Marco will see it. I can't afford to break.
The gun feels slick in my grip, the metal pressing into my skin like a brand. I raise it and the man flinches. Marco smirks. And in that moment, something inside me shifts.
Because this isn't about proving my loyalty. This isn't even about Marco. It's about me. It's about seeking revenge on Dante for killing my dad. It's about who I am, who I've always been.
Marco thinks he's turning me into him. He thinks I'm becoming his perfect little monster. But he's wrong. So fucking wrong, because this is my choice. And if I pull this trigger, it won't be for Marco. It won't be for loyalty. It will be for revenge, for Papa.
I breathe in, steady. Sure. And I pull the trigger. The gunshot shatters the silence. The man jerks back. His body slumps, lifeless. Blood seeps into the floor. The air is filled with the scent of gunpowder.
And then—Laughter. Marco is laughing, low, dark, and pleased. I turn to face him, my pulse hammering. He's grinning, eyes gleaming with something that makes my stomach churn.
"That's my girl," he murmurs, stepping forward. "I knew you had it in you."
I stare at him. I don't speak. Instead, I wiped my face clean of emotion, slid the gun onto the table, and walked out of the room.