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Chapter Nine

Francesca

E verything feels different now. That kiss, god, that kiss, shattered whatever illusion I’d been clinging to.

It wasn’t just tension or proximity or a moment of weakness. It was real. Raw. It sank its teeth straight into my soul and took a piece of me with it.

And now, I can’t betray him.

Not because I’ve gone soft or forgotten who he is, but because I’ve seen the man beneath the reputation. The one who doesn’t know how to show affection but feels it all the same.

I was already conflicted when it was just the children. I knew even then that I could never hand them over to Don Salvatore, no matter what my father demanded.

But now? Now, it’s impossible.

I want to tell him the truth. Every lie, every omission, every reason why I came here. I want to lay it all at his feet and pray he sees me the way I see him—not just as a capo or a father, but as a man. A man who keeps showing me pieces of himself no one else gets to see.

I saw it in the way he kissed me, like he couldn’t breathe without it.

I saw it when Lucia curled into his side during bedtime stories.

I saw it when Alessio spilled an entire bottle of ketchup on a rug worth thousands, and Dante just sighed and handed him a towel, muttering, “Pirates don’t clean, huh?” before doing it himself.

No one warned me how tender he could be and how much that tenderness would wreck me.

And now I don’t know how to protect anyone—not him, not the children, not myself.

Because I’m too deep. And I’m still lying. If the truth comes out, I’ll lose everything, including my life.

The children start school soon, and with it, the clock will be ticking louder. My father will be expecting meetings. Updates. Proof that I haven’t lost sight of the mission.

I brush my fingers against my lips, still feeling the phantom warmth of Dante’s kiss on mine, wondering how something so simple could have upended everything I thought I knew about loyalty. About right and wrong. About myself.

A soft knock at my door jolts me back to reality.

I turn, my heart hammering, half expecting to find a child with a mischievous smile or some new game to play.

Instead, it’s Matteo, one of Dante’s guards. His face is blank. Professional.

“Mr. Forzi would like to see you in his office. Now.”

I nod, swallowing down the rising panic that’s clawing at my throat.

Maybe it’s nothing, I tell myself. Maybe he just wants to talk. About the kiss. About… us. Maybe this is my chance.

I smooth my skirt with trembling hands, square my shoulders, and walk toward the lion’s den, toward the man I already know has the power to destroy me.

I’m giddy, hoping this is about the kiss. Nervous. Hopeful in a way I know better than to be.

I’m ready to tell him everything. About the lies, the fake identity, the reasons I came—and how none of it matters now, not compared to him, not compared to the children.

I walk into the office and find him standing behind his desk, stiff and cold, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscle jumps beneath his skin.

My heart skips. I think maybe he’s about to take it back—the kiss, whatever this is between us.

"Sit," he says.

I sit. My palms are damp against my thighs.

He stays standing, looming, his eyes black and unreadable.

I open my mouth. "Dante, I?—"

The sound of a gun cocking cuts me off. Cold metal presses against my temple.

I freeze. A cold, sick weight drops in my stomach.

No. No, this isn’t ? —

"Listen very carefully, Francesca Mori ," he says, his voice deep and shaking with rage.

I don’t breathe. I don’t dare move. The barrel nudges harder into my skin.

“Dante.”

"Shut the fuck up! If I didn’t know you genuinely cared about my children. If I didn’t know you kept them safe, you would already be dead on the floor."

Tears prick my eyes. My mouth opens with a gasp, but no words come out.

"Was that part of it too?" he sneers. "Spread your legs for secrets? How many men have you fucked for information, little spy?" His voice is pure venom. His hand is steady. "God, your father must really hate you," he spits. "Whoring out his daughter to the enemy."

The tears slip free now, hot and shameful, sliding down my cheeks. I want to scream that he has no idea. That my father never loved me enough to hate me.

But I say nothing. I stay still.

"I’ll make you pay for this," he growls. "For stepping into my house. For touching my children. For daring to think you could play me."

He nudges the gun harder against my forehead now, forcing me to meet his gaze. His face is a mask of fury, of betrayal, of hurt.

I don’t see the man I kissed. I don’t see the man who smiled, who tucked his daughter into bed.

I see the monster. I finally see who they all see. The real him.

"Please," I whisper. "Let me explain?—"

"I don’t care about your reasons. Not even a little." He steps closer, crowding me. His rage fills the room like a second skin. "You’ll only open your fucking mouth when I tell you to," he says, trembling with barely contained violence. "And when you do? It’ll be to suck my cock, understand?"

I flinch, and a soft, broken noise escapes me.

He smiles, and it’s the coldest thing I’ve ever seen.

"I’m going to ruin you, Francesca. I'm going to taint you so badly, even your precious famiglia will pretend you never existed."

He drops the gun. It clatters onto the desk. His hand snaps out, grabbing my jaw in a bruising grip, forcing my head back.

"You’ll marry me," he snarls. "Oh, but don’t get any ideas, cara mia. You’ll never be my wife. You’ll be my nanny. My maid. My whore. Nothing more." His fingers dig cruelly into my skin. "I’ll make you beg for scraps of kindness. I'll make you regret the day you ever heard my name."

The world blurs at the edges, my body trembling so hard I can barely sit upright.

"We’re going to the judge," he says, releasing me with a shove that sends me sprawling back in the chair. "And remove those fucking contacts out of your eyes. You look ridiculous."

I barely process the command before he takes one last step closer and spits in my face.

I gasp. Freeze. It’s not the gun. It’s not even the threats.

It’s this.

This degradation. This deliberate, cutting humiliation. It brands itself deeper than any bullet ever could.

I wipe my face with a shaking hand as he turns away, already barking orders into his phone, arranging a meeting that will seal my fate.

And sitting there, humiliated, broken, burning from the inside out, I know one thing with perfect, horrifying clarity:

I will never forget this moment. Not when he touches me. Not when he looks at me. Not even when I give my last breath.

We don’t even ride in the same car on the way to the judge. He said he had enough of seeing me, that just looking at me made him sick.

He goes ahead, alone, as I stay here. Ordering me to drop the “Alice costume” before I join him for the second part of the masquerade.

I’m marched out by three guards, stripped of even the dignity of walking freely, surrounded like a prisoner of war as they escort me to the bathroom.

My hands shake as I stand before the mirror. One of the guards lingers inside the room, arms crossed, indifferent. I have no right to privacy anymore. Not even here.

“I need to get in the shower,” I say in a hoarse voice.

The guard doesn’t speak. Just turns his back, a small mercy that costs him nothing and me everything.

I peel away the disguise with trembling fingers. First the contacts, revealing the true green of my eyes. Then the makeup, scrubbing at my face until the delicate skin burns.

I catch my reflection in the mirror, and the girl staring back at me isn’t Alice Winters. She’s Francesca Mori, and she’s lost everything.

I look at the guard’s back as I pull my clothes off and step into the shower.

I think, briefly, of fighting. Of knocking him down, running, anything. But there are two more waiting outside the door.

Hope would be useless.

I lather the harsh shampoo into my hair, scrubbing until the water runs pink, the remnants of the dye bleeding away with it.

My natural color won’t return fully today—but in a few weeks, the real me will be impossible to hide.

I scrub my skin raw, too, but no matter how hard I try, I still feel it—the weight of Dante’s spit drying on my cheek. A stain no water will ever wash away.

“Hurry,” The guard barks, keeping his back to me. “If you’re not out of this shower and dressed in ten minutes, I’ll get you out myself.”

I don’t bother replying. I just get out, dry quickly, and put on the clothes I was wearing before going into his office.

“Done. ”

Without waiting, he jerks his head toward the door, and two more men fall into step behind me.

I’m marched down the hall, dripping humiliation with every step, shoved into the waiting car.

The drive to the judge’s home is short but feels endless. No one speaks, at least not to me.

When we arrive, they don’t even bother pretending this is civilized.

I’m pulled from the car and ushered through a side entrance, down hallways empty of witnesses. This is my trial, after all, and I’m a shameful secret.

No chance for escape. No hope.

They take me straight into the judge’s private office. A room I’ve never been inside before but know the consequences of entering it.

And they’re all already there. My father, Don Salvatore, and, of course, Dante.

The atmosphere is heavy and suffocating. Every eye in the room pins me down like a butterfly under glass.

My father glares at me with cold disgust. Don Salvatore sneers, amusement and venom warring in his dark eyes.

Dante doesn’t even look at me at first. He stands stiffly by the window, hands folded behind his back, a statue of fury and betrayal.

The only one who isn’t looking at me with contempt is the judge himself. Judge Rizzo.

There’s sadness in his gaze. Pity. It guts me worse than their hatred.

And then the door creaks open again, letting Bruno in.