I didn't sleep.
Not a single minute. Every time I closed my eyes, the memory of the auction—the screaming, the chaos, the shadows of men moving around me—raced back like a relentless storm. My chest ached. My hands trembled. And yet, through the haze of exhaustion and fear, one thought refused to leave me: the file.
Dante had it. He had kept it hidden. My name was on it. ELENA ROSSI. I remembered seeing it once before, in his office, hidden among stacks of folders and papers, a black binder that seemed ordinary enough but carried the weight of everything I didn't know about my life.
I couldn't stop thinking about it. I needed to know. Not because I wanted to pry or challenge him—I had learned quickly that questioning Dante Moretti came with risks—but because it was my life. Every memory, every piece of my past, every secret I didn't know… it belonged to me. And I had a right to it.
The mansion was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that felt alive, like it was listening. The walls, the floors, even the air itself seemed to be holding its breath. I could hear my own heartbeat thudding in my ears, loud and uneven, as I swung my legs over the bed and stood.
I wrapped a shawl around my shoulders and moved carefully toward the door. Each step down the marble hallway felt like stepping deeper into a trap. Shadows stretched across the walls, distorted by the dim lighting, turning every corner into a potential threat. I didn't care. I had to see the file.
Dante's office was on the far side of the mansion, past the sweeping staircase and the sitting area I had memorized in hours of wandering when no one was watching. Every step made my pulse quicken. My imagination ran wild with possibilities. Maybe it was just financial records. Maybe it was old papers about my father. Maybe… maybe there was something more, something personal.
The door was closed when I reached it. My hand trembled slightly as I reached for the handle. Unlocked. I exhaled slowly, then pushed it open and stepped inside.
The room was darker than I remembered, the city lights barely spilling across the polished floor. Shadows pooled in the corners, giving the bookshelves and the massive desk an almost menacing life of their own. The familiar scent of leather and cologne—sharp, expensive, precise—hit me like a wave. Dante's presence lingered even when he wasn't there.
I walked carefully to the desk, scanning the surface. Nothing. Just papers, a glass paperweight, and a cup with a single pen lying across it. My stomach sank. Had he moved it? Of course he had. Dante wasn't stupid. He didn't leave things exposed.
I turned my attention to the shelves behind the desk. Rows of folders, organized neatly, waiting to be discovered—or hidden. My fingers grazed the edges of each one, scanning for the familiar black binder. Shipment records. Financial files. Names I didn't recognize.
Then, near the middle shelf, I saw it. Black. Heavy. Imposing in its simplicity. My heart leapt. ELENA ROSSI, printed boldly across the front. My name.
I pulled it down slowly, careful not to make a sound. The binder felt heavier than I expected, the weight of hidden secrets pressing into my hands. I sat at the edge of the desk, the marble cold beneath my palms, and opened it carefully.
The first page made my breath catch: a photograph. Me, younger, maybe sixteen. Outside my school, awkward smile, the kind of photo that should have been harmless, forgotten in a box somewhere. And yet, here it was. In Dante's hands. Or rather, in the binder he kept hidden.
I flipped through the next pages. Financial records. My father's name repeated in a series of loans, debts, numbers that made my head spin. Notes about people I didn't recognize, about places I'd only vaguely heard of. Surveillance reports. Details about me. About what I did, where I went, who I spoke to. Every movement I had made, carefully logged.
Then something slipped from between the papers, landing softly on the desk. I froze, my breath catching. A photograph. Not mine. A woman. Dark hair. Sharp cheekbones. Eyes that seemed almost… familiar, though I couldn't place why. My heart skipped, a curious mix of fear and recognition making my stomach twist.
I leaned closer. The resemblance was uncanny. The curve of her jaw. The tilt of her eyes. Almost like I was staring at a reflection of myself. And yet, it wasn't me.
I turned the photo over—and froze.
The name was partly covered by another document. I couldn't see it clearly, but I could see enough to know it wasn't mine. My fingers tightened around the photo, my pulse hammering in my ears.
And then I heard it—the soft click of the door opening. My stomach lurched.
Dante.
He stepped in silently, his dark eyes immediately locking onto the binder on the desk. Then, the photo in my hand. His gaze shifted, sharp and unreadable, like a knife slicing through the air.
"You shouldn't have opened that," he said, his voice low, calm, and dangerous.
I froze, unable to move. My hands shook, the binder heavy on the desk, the photo trembling between my fingers.
Dante stepped closer, closing the distance between us effortlessly. The air felt charged, thick with power and tension. "Some things… are not meant for your eyes," he continued, each word deliberate, measured.
I swallowed, trying to steady myself. "Why? Why do you have a file on me?" My voice was quieter than I intended, but there was steel hidden beneath the tremor. "What… what do you want with it?"
His dark eyes studied me for a long, suffocating moment. Then he leaned back against his desk, arms crossed, expression unreadable. "Because in my world," he said quietly, "trust is a luxury. And information… is survival."
I stared at him, trying to make sense of his words. Survival? Trust? I had been thrown into his world, sold like property, yet here he was, controlling even my knowledge of myself. My throat felt dry, but I pressed on. "So… you knew about me before the auction. You… you knew who I was?"
He didn't answer right away. The silence stretched between us, heavy, suffocating. Then, finally, he said, "I always know more than people think." His tone was soft, but the words carried weight, a quiet threat I could feel crawling down my spine.
I picked up the photograph again, studying the woman's face, trying to connect the dots. Something about her haunted me. I couldn't place why, couldn't name the feeling. But I knew, somehow, that she mattered. That she was important. That she was… connected to him.
My eyes flicked back to Dante, who remained motionless, a predator in his natural habitat. I realized then that I had crossed a line, poked at a secret I wasn't meant to see. But I couldn't stop myself. I needed answers.
"Who is she?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Dante's gaze hardened, eyes narrowing. "You will learn when the time is right," he said, final, unyielding. "For now… put it away."
I hesitated, fingers lingering on the binder, the photograph heavy in my hands. Questions swirled in my mind, tangled and impossible to separate. Who was she? Why did she look like me? And why did Dante care so much about keeping her hidden?
I closed the binder slowly, placing it back on the desk. The weight of secrets pressed down on me, but beneath the fear, there was a spark—hope. Maybe, just maybe, one day, I would understand. And maybe, just maybe, I would find a way to take control of my life again.
As I turned to leave, Dante's eyes followed me. "Remember," he said quietly, "some truths are dangerous. Some knowledge… can change everything. Choose wisely what you chase."
I nodded, stepping back into the hallway, my heart pounding. The mansion seemed darker, the shadows longer, yet inside me, a fire had been lit. I would find out what Dante had on me. I would understand why he kept it. And I would survive.
Because in his world, in this life full of danger and secrets, survival was the first step toward hope. And hope… was something I wasn't willing to give up.