Power was never Dante's weakness. Control was.
And for the first time, Ava could see it slipping from his hands like blood through a clenched fist.
The mansion was too quiet.
Ava stood in the dim hallway outside their bedroom, watching him. Dante Moretti the man who once seemed untouchable, unshakable-paced the length of the study like a caged predator. His footsteps were heavy against the marble floor, his jaw tight, his hands clenched.
The reports had come back hours ago. Nothing. No name, no trail, no whisper. The Mole was still hidden.
Dante's men waited in silence along the edges of the study, shoulders stiff, afraid to breathe too loudly.
Even his most trusted lieutenants seemed uneasy
under the weight of his fury.
"Three weeks," Dante growled, slamming his fist against the edge of the desk. The wood cracked under the force. "Three weeks and you bring me shadows."
One of his men swallowed hard. "Boss, we've turned over every stone. If there was something to–"
"Don't finish that sentence." Dante's voice was lethal, a blade across the room. His dark eyes snapped to the man, freezing him in place. "There's always something to find. If you haven't found it, it means you're not digging deep enough."
The man lowered his head, muttering an apology.
Dante's lip curled in disgust before he turned away.
Ava pressed her hand against her chest. She had never seen him like this before–not even when
Ethan had tried to take her. This was different. This was personal. The Mole was more than an enemy; he was a ghost Dante couldn't chase down, and that helplessness was tearing him apart.
When the men finally dispersed, Dante poured himself a drink from the bar. His hands shook as he lifted the glass, amber liquid sloshing against the crystal. He didn't sip it. He threw it back, emptying it in one swallow. Then another.
The sharp smell of whiskey drifted toward Ava as she leaned against the doorframe.
"You're scaring them," she whispered.
Dante stilled, his back rigid. Slowly, he turned to face her. His eyes softened for a brief second when they landed on her, but the storm beneath never calmed.
"They should be scared," he said flatly. "Fear keeps them loyal."
"And what about you?" she asked carefully, stepping into the room. "What does fear do to you, Dante?"
His laugh was bitter, humorless. "It keeps me awake."
Ava's heart clenched. She crossed the room, standing beside him, her hand brushing against his arm. His muscles were like stone beneath her fingers.
"Sit down," she murmured, trying to ground him.
"You're wearing yourself raw."
He caught her wrist before she could pull away, holding it with a grip that was too tight, too desperate. His gaze bore into hers, wild and unblinking.
"If I stop moving, Ava... if I stop hunting, he'll get closer. He'll touch what's mine." His hand slid to her waist, pulling her sharply against him. "And I won't let that happen."
The possessiveness in his voice sent a shiver down her spine. Once, his obsession had thrilled her, made her feel desired, cherished in a way no one else ever had. But now? Now it felt like a chain tightening around her throat.
"You can't fight shadows, Dante," she whispered, her breath uneven.
He slammed his glass down on the desk, the shatter making her flinch. He caught her face in his hands immediately, his grip rough.
"Don't tell me what I can't fight. Don't you understand?" His voice broke, raw. "You're the only thing I can't lose. Everything else--power, loyalty, blood –I can rebuild. But not you."
Her lips parted, but no words came. The intensity in his eyes was suffocating, a fire that burned too hot.
That night, when he pulled her into his bed, his touch was urgent, almost punishing. His kisses were deep, consuming, like he was trying to stamp his name into her very soul. She responded, because she couldn't not respond-–but inside, a knot of fear twisted tighter.
This wasn't love. This was war, and she was both the prize and the battlefield.
The following morning, Ava woke to the sound of raised voices downstairs. She wrapped herself in a silk robe and padded softly down the grand staircase.
Two guards stood in the foyer, whispering.
"He's losing it," one murmured,moving his eyes around nervously. "The boss is questioning everyone like we're all guilty. If we don't find the mole soon..."
The other shook his head. "Keep your mouth shut.
Paranoia's a disease, and if he hears you, you'll be next on the floor."
Ava froze mid-step, their words sinking deep into her chest. She had known Dante's paranoia was growing, but hearing his men fear him like this—it sent a chill through her veins.
When Dante appeared behind her, she nearly jumped. He slid his hand around her waist, guiding her back toward the stairs with a quiet, "Don't listen to them."
"But they're right," she whispered when they were alone again. "You're tearing yourself apart, Dante.
You're not sleeping, you're not eating—"
His lips crashed onto hers, silencing her. His kiss was fierce, a battle he refused to lose.
"Don't question me," he breathed against her mouth.
"Just stay where I can see you. Stay close to me".
That night, Ava couldn't sleep. She lay awake, listening to the creak of the floorboards below, the murmur of Dante's voice as he barked orders into the phone.
When she finally drifted off, it was only to wake again in the middle of the night. The bed was cold beside her.
She found him in the sitting room, shirtless, his knuckles raw and bloodied. The smell of iron clung to him.
"Dante..." her voice trembled.
He didn't look at her. He stared down at his hands like they belonged to someone else.
"If I lose control, Ava," he whispered, his voice hollow and terrifying.
Her breath caught. At that moment, Ava realized the greatest danger might not be The mole at all.
It was the man she loved –the Don unraveling before her eyes.
As she reached for him, torn between love and fear, a message buzzed on his phone. One word lit the screen like fire in the dark—
"Mole."