Page 28 of Of Lies and Shadows

The hallway is empty. Still. I walk toward Dante’s office with measured steps, forcing my breathing to stay calm even as my heart pounds like a warning. The door, of course, is locked. I glance over my shoulder to double-check. Nothing.

I kneel, tug the bobby pin free from my hair, and ease it into the lock with the kind of practiced precision that should probably shame me more than it does. The mechanism clicks open under my fingers, and I slip inside.

The room is tidy in a way that feels unnatural, so meticulous it’s almost surgical. Everything is in its place, a perfect facade of order, as if Dante is trying to box in the chaos of his world and keep it sealed behind this door.

I head to the desk first. It’s neat and impersonal. The drawers are filled with predictable things—pens, crisp envelopes, nondescript invoices, but nothing that would raise a red flag. I move to the low cabinet on the right, theone I noticed him use when he thought no one was watching. Locked.

Another bobby pin. Another gentle twist. The cabinet gives.

Inside, I find a narrow accordion file, worn at the edges and tucked in like it hasn’t been touched in years. I open it carefully.

The first file I flip through is everything my father could dream of.

Shipping logs. Port authorities paid off. Names I recognize and some I don’t, written in Dante’s sharp, methodical handwriting. It’s a complete money trail, clear evidence of Forzi operations tied to unlicensed weapon imports from Eastern Europe. If I handed this over, it would cripple Dante’s business overnight. No more secrets. No more protection. The entire operation would collapse like a house of cards. And the twins… they’d lose everything.

I stare at the pages, frozen. My hands ache to do something, either burn them or use them, but I force myself to gently close the folder and tuck it right back where I found it.

The second file is labeledMorozov – Temp Agreement.It’s not as dramatic, but it’s still useful. A short-term deal with a small arms broker in Montenegro. High-value shipments, nothing huge, but enough to interest my father and pacify Don Salvatore for now. It expires at the end of the month. Just enough to buy me time.

I snap a photo of the key pages with my burner phone, then return everything to its exact place. No trace. No proof I was ever here.

But as I close the cabinet, I hear the unmistakable creak of a floorboard behind me.

My whole body goes still. The air changes. He’s here. I should’ve checked if his car was still outside, but I didn’t. A stupid rookie mistake.

I turn, plastering a bright smile on my face like a mask I’ve worn too many times before.

“Surprise!” I say, then let my smile falter as if I’m only just realizing it’s him. “Oh. It’s you.”

Dante is leaning in the doorway, arms folded, his gaze pinned to me with unsettling precision. He doesn’t speak right away, and the weight of his silence makes my skin prickle.

He tilts his head slightly, dark eyes narrowed, and the stillness around him is worse than any raised voice.

“What exactly are you doing in my office, Miss Winters?” he asks, his voice calm but edged with suspicion.

My brain scrambles, searching for something,anything, that won’t make this worse.

“We’re playing hide and seek,” I say steadily. “And I was sure I saw Alessio take this corridor. If I find him, he promised he’d eat an apple.”

He watches me in silence for a moment, too long for comfort. “The children aren’t allowed in my office. No one is. Not unless I’m here.”

I glance at the door and take a breath. “It was unlocked.”

A blatant lie, and I know it.Goodbye, world.

His gaze doesn’t waver, and for a second, I’m convinced I’m about to get dragged out of here by the throat. But then something shifts. The corner of his mouth twitches almostimperceptibly.

“An apple, you say?”

I nod, forcing a smile. “That’s the deal.”

He studies me for another second, then says, “He’s probably in the cabinet under the stairs.”

“Great, thank you.” I step to pass him, but he shifts at the same time, and I slam straight into him.

My breath catches.

I’m not short, five-seven, tall enough to hold my own, but pressed against Dante Forzi’s chest, I feel swallowed. He’s well over six feet, maybe six-five, all broad shoulders and solid muscle, a wall of heat and power. His body radiates control, even in stillness, and the sharp spice of his cologne wraps around me, grounding and dangerous all at once. My pulse stutters, and when I look up, his gaze is already on mine.

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