It started with a phone call. Daniel had been pulled into an emergency meeting out of town, which meant I was stuck late at the office, finishing his reports. The sun had long since dipped below the skyline, and the city lights were flickering on one by one. I was finally ready to lock up when my phone buzzed with an unknown number.

"Isabella." The voice was deep, smooth, and utterly unmistakable. My stomach sank.

"How did you get my number, Marco?" I asked, trying to keep my tone steady.

"I have ways," he replied casually, as if that explained everything. "I need you to bring me a file from Daniel's office. Tonight."

"It's after hours," I bit back.

"I didn't ask what time it was."

I bit back a groan. "And if I say no?"

"You won't."

Against my better judgment, I grabbed the file from Daniel's desk and headed to the address Marco had texted me. It wasn't his ridiculous penthouse this time-it was a quiet street in a part of the city I didn't know well.

The Meeting

When I arrived, the building looked like some kind of upscale private club. Inside, the lighting was dim, the air thick with the scent of cigars and expensive liquor. Men in suits lingered in corners, their conversations low and guarded.

Marco was at the back, leaning against the bar like he owned the place. His suit jacket was off, sleeves rolled up, revealing strong forearms. The sight irritated me more than it should have. He looked far too composed, too sure of himself.

"You made it," he said, taking the file from my hand without a thank-you.

"Now that you have it, I'm leaving," I said flatly, turning to go.

But as I did, two men stepped in front of the door. They weren't dressed like security-more like the kind of men you crossed the street to avoid.

"Change of plans," Marco said calmly, sliding the file onto the bar. "You're staying."

My eyes narrowed. "This wasn't just about the file, was it?"

He smirked faintly. "Not entirely. I need someone I trust to listen in and take mental notes. And before you start, yes-you're the closest thing I've got to someone I trust."

My laugh was humorless. "You don't trust me. You barely tolerate me."

"Exactly," he said, his tone infuriatingly calm. "Which means I know you're not stupid enough to double-cross me."

Before I could respond, three more men entered the room. Their conversation was sharp, in rapid Italian, with Marco occasionally switching to English for my benefit. It didn't take long for me to realize what was happening-this was a negotiation. Not about stocks or property, but territory. My pulse quickened. I was in the middle of a mafia meeting.

The Gunfire

Half an hour in, the tension in the room shifted completely. One of the men slammed his glass down and said something that made Marco's jaw tighten. He rose to his feet, his voice low but lethal. I couldn't understand the words, but I didn't need to-the threat in his tone was clear.

And then, as if someone had given an unspoken signal, the man reached into his jacket. Gun.

It happened in a blur. Marco stepped in front of me without hesitation, shoving me toward the bar as his men drew their own weapons. The room erupted into chaos-shouts, the sharp crack of gunfire, the metallic tang of adrenaline in the air.

"Stay down!" Marco barked, pushing me lower behind the bar.

My heart hammered in my chest, but my eyes stayed locked on him. Even in the chaos, he moved like he'd done this a hundred times-controlled, precise, deadly.

When the noise finally died down, two of the men were gone, the others muttering angrily as they left. Marco straightened, rolling his shoulders like it was just another night at the office. He turned to me, his eyes scanning me quickly.

"Are you hurt?"

I shook my head, still catching my breath. "What the hell was that?"

"Business," he said simply, as if the answer should satisfy me.

"That's not business. That's-" I cut myself off, realizing there was no point. This was his world. And for a brief, terrifying moment, I had been inside it.

A Dangerous Truth

He handed me a glass of water. "You did good. You stayed quiet."

"I didn't 'do good,'" I snapped, standing. "You lied to me. You dragged me here without telling me what I was walking into. You put me in danger, Marco."

His gaze was steady, almost unreadable. "If I wanted you dead, Isabella, you wouldn't be here."

My eyes narrowed. "That's not the point."

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "The point is, you were safer with me than anywhere else in this city tonight. Whether you like it or not."

I hated that he might be right. I hated even more that some small, treacherous part of me had felt... safer when he'd stood in front of me. I pulled my coat tighter and turned toward the door.

"Stay out of my life, Marco."

His reply followed me out, low and certain. "That's not going to happen."

The words clung to me all the way down the dim hallway, as if they'd wrapped invisible chains around me. Outside, the night air was cold, but not cold enough to erase the heat of his presence from my skin. I hated him-hated his arrogance, his world, the way he could shield me one second and manipulate me the next. But deep down, an even more dangerous truth gnawed at me: part of me feared I'd see him again... and part of me feared I wouldn't.

The elevator ride up to my apartment felt longer than usual. Each passing floor carried the echo of Marco's words-That's not going to happen. I hated how they replayed in my head like a stubborn song I couldn't shake.

My hands trembled as I unlocked the door. The apartment smelled faintly of lavender, a scent I usually found comforting, but tonight it only felt foreign. I kicked off my heels, tossed my coat over the couch, and leaned against the wall, pressing my palms into my eyes.

My phone lit up with a text from Daniel.

Running late. Just got out of the meeting. You still at the office?

I stared at it, my mind racing. I could lie. I could tell him I was home and avoid the questions. But my fingers hesitated over the screen, because no matter what I said, he'd sense something was off. Daniel always did.

Home now. Just tired.

I hit send and tossed the phone aside, sinking into the couch. But rest wouldn't come. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the flash of the gun, the way Marco had moved-fast, lethal, calculated. And the look in his eyes afterward, when he'd checked me for injuries... not softness exactly, but something else. Something I didn't want to name.

The next morning, Daniel's knock on my door came earlier than expected. I was still in my robe, hair damp from the shower, when I opened it.

"Morning," he said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. "You left the office in a hurry last night."

"I finished the reports. Didn't see the point in staying."

His brow furrowed. "You look tired."

"I am tired."

Daniel's eyes lingered on my face a moment longer than necessary, like he was searching for cracks in my story. But he let it go. "That file I needed... I'll pick it up from the desk this morning."

I froze.

"The file?" I asked carefully.

"Yeah. The one I told you not to move. It's sensitive."

My stomach dropped. "Right. Of course."

But I knew the desk was empty. I had handed that file over to Marco without even checking what was inside.

I avoided Daniel for the rest of the day, ducking out for lunch and spending the afternoon buried in minor reports. By the time the clock struck six, I thought I was safe. I gathered my things, stepped out of the office-

And froze.

Marco was leaning against a black car parked across the street, sunglasses on despite the fading light. He pushed them down slightly when he saw me, revealing eyes that glinted with something between amusement and intent.

"What are you doing here?" I hissed as I crossed to him.

"Making sure you don't get yourself killed."

"I wasn't planning on it."

"Neither were the men last night," he said dryly. "And yet..."

I rolled my eyes. "Go home, Marco."

"I could say the same to you." He opened the passenger door. "Get in."

"I'm not going anywhere with you."

"Then we'll talk here, where Daniel's office windows have a perfect view of us."

My jaw tightened. He was impossible. Against my better judgment, I slid into the car, slamming the door.

The ride was quiet for several minutes. I kept my gaze fixed out the window, refusing to give him the satisfaction of eye contact.

"That file," he said finally, "wasn't for Daniel."

My head snapped around. "What?"

"It was bait. Something my... competitors wanted badly enough to set up that meeting."

"And you used me to deliver it."

"You were the only one who could walk in and out without suspicion."

I laughed bitterly. "Do you hear yourself? That's not a compliment."

"I'm not here to compliment you, Isabella. I'm here to tell you that because you delivered it, your name is now circulating in circles you don't want to be in."

My stomach twisted. "You mean-"

"I mean," he cut in, "someone might try to use you to get to me. And I don't trust anyone else to keep you alive."

I hated that my pulse quickened-not out of fear, but because some traitorous part of me believed him.

The rest of the evening unfolded in a haze of sharp words, tighter silences, and subtle shifts in power. Marco's "protection" came with rules-where I could go, who I could talk to, even what time I could leave work. It felt like a cage, but one that also, infuriatingly, made me feel shielded.

And then, just when I thought I could push him away again, the first warning came.

A single red rose, left at my apartment door. No note.

Marco's reaction was immediate-calm on the surface, but his knuckles whitened around the stem as he tossed it into the trash. "Pack a bag," he said. "You're staying with me."

That night, I found myself in his penthouse for the second time. The city lights-

The argument had been sharp enough to cut the air between us. I had accused him of being controlling, manipulative, infuriating. He had countered with his usual calm, infuriating composure.And then, in the middle of it-without warning-he kissed me.

It wasn't soft. It wasn't tentative. It was the kind of kiss that demanded surrender, one that stripped away every defense I'd built and left me breathless. His hand cupped my jaw, fingers sliding into my hair, pulling me closer until my palms were flat against his chest.I hated that I didn't push him away.

My mind screamed at me to stop, but my body betrayed me, melting into the heat of him. The city lights outside blurred into streaks of gold, and for a moment, there was only the press of his mouth, the steady thud of his heart under my fingertips.When he finally pulled back, his gaze searched mine like he was trying to read every unspoken thought.

"You should hate me," he murmured."I do," I whispered back. But the word felt weaker than it should.

The days that followed blurred together in a strange rhythm. I still didn't trust him-at least, that's what I told myself-but I began to notice things I'd ignored before. The way he always walked slightly ahead of me in public, shielding my path. How his voice softened, almost imperceptibly, when he said my name.

He didn't push for another kiss, but the memory of the first lingered like a mark on my skin. I caught myself watching him when he wasn't looking, and more dangerously, wondering what it might be like if I stopped resisting entirely.It was dangerous, how comfortable I was becoming.

The truth shattered that comfort on a rain-soaked Thursday night.

Marco had left for a meeting, telling me to stay inside. Restless, I wandered his penthouse, the rain pattering against the glass like impatient fingers. I found myself near his private study-one of the few rooms he kept locked. Tonight, the door was ajar.Curiosity tugged me inside.

The room was darker, lined with shelves of leather-bound books and framed photographs that didn't match the sleek, modern style of the rest of the apartment. I traced a finger over one of the frames-and froze.It was a photo of Marco shaking hands with a man I hadn't seen in over fifteen years.A man with familiar eyes, familiar shoulders.My father.

The breath left my lungs. I had been seven when he walked out, taking nothing but a suitcase and his wedding ring. No calls, no letters, no explanations. My mother had cried for weeks before her grief hardened into silence.And now, here he was-smiling beside the man who had dragged me into the very world I'd sworn to avoid.

I kept going, finding more proof in the drawers. A letter in his handwriting. A few signed documents. Enough to confirm it wasn't a coincidence.

The sound of the front door unlocking jolted me. I slid everything back into place and stepped out, closing the study behind me.

Marco entered, shaking rain from his hair. His eyes swept the room. "You've been quiet tonight."I forced a faint smile. "Just tired."He nodded, unconcerned. "Get some rest."

And that was it. No suspicion. No sign he had any idea what I had just discovered.

That night, in the guest room, I lay awake listening to the rain. My mind replayed the photograph, the handshake, the truth I now carried alone. Marco didn't know. He didn't even realize the man in the picture was my father.And I wasn't going to tell him.

Some truths are sharper when hidden.

I will not burn with rage, I told myself, staring into the darkness.I will keep the fire quiet, let it smolder deep, unseen.Because when the moment comes, I want the flame to be steady......and I want it to burn them both to ash.

The rain kept falling, steady as my breath, patient as my revenge.