The attic room was cold, the chill seeping through the cracked floorboards as if winter itself lived in the foundations of the mansion.

The tension in the Vance estate reached a boiling point over the next month. Julian’s warnings had not been entirely empty. The Moretti family, a rival syndicate that controlled the eastern logistics and illegal gambling operations, was actively trying to reclaim territory lost to the Vances years ago.

Despite Gabriel’s assurances, I couldn't shake the feeling that my presence had created a target on his back. I spent my days mastering my role as his assistant, managing his schedules, sitting in on high-level administrative meetings, and acting as his trusted confidante. The staff no longer looked at me as the maid who washed dishes at 3 AM; they looked at me with deep respect—and a touch of fear—knowing I held the ear of the most dangerous man in the city.

One evening, Gabriel returned home late from a meeting downtown. He looked exhausted, his tie loosened, his jacket draped over his arm. As he entered our penthouse suite, I immediately poured him a glass of scotch and handed it to him.

"Thank you," he murmured, pulling me into a gentle embrace, resting his chin on top of my head as he inhaled the scent of my hair. "It’s been a long day."

"The Morettis?" I asked softly, rubbing his back.

"They intercepted a shipment at Pier 4," Gabriel admitted, taking a sip of his drink. "Nothing we can't recover, but they’re becoming bolder. Donathan Moretti, the head of the family, thinks he can intimidate us."

"Julian thinks I'm the reason they are being so aggressive," I said, unable to hide the guilt in my voice.

Gabriel pulled back, holding me by my shoulders, his expression instantly darkening. "I told you not to listen to Julian. Donathan Moretti has been trying to take Pier 4 for five years. This has nothing to do with you."

"But if they find out about us— about my past—"

"They won't," Gabriel cut in firmly. "Because starting tomorrow, you are not leaving the estate without my personal security team. And next week, I am taking you away from all of this for a few days."

I looked at him in surprise. "Away? Where?"

A faint, rare smile touched Gabriel’s lips. "My family owns a private villa on the northern coast. Away from the city, away from the business, away from Julian. Just you and me."

My heart fluttered with hope. A few days alone with Gabriel, away from the dark shadows of mafia politics and constant danger, sounded like a dream.

However, dreams in our world were fragile things.

Three days before our scheduled departure to the villa, Gabriel was called away to an urgent, middle-of-the-night meeting at the southern docks. A fire had broken out in one of the main warehouses, and arson was suspected.

"Stay in the penthouse," Gabriel instructed, kissing my forehead lingeringly in the grand foyer before leaving. "The perimeter security is on high alert. You are completely safe here. I will be back before sunrise."

"Be careful, Gabriel," I begged, clutching his coat sleeve. "Please."

"Always," he promised, giving me one last intense look before stepping into the armored SUV with his guards.

After he left, the mansion felt eerily quiet. I tried to sleep, but restlessness kept me awake. By 2:00 AM, unable to toss and turn any longer, I put on a warm robe and walked down to the main kitchen to make myself some chamomile tea. It was a habit I couldn't break—the quiet hours of the night were still the only time my mind felt truly active.

The kitchen was dark, lit only by the faint moonlight streaming through the large arched windows—just like the night I had first met Gabriel.

I turned on the electric kettle, waiting for the water to heat up. The silence of the house was absolute.

Suddenly, a faint click echoed from the direction of the side service entrance—the entrance used exclusively by delivery trucks and staff.

My heart skipped a beat. I froze.

It’s just the night patrol, I told myself, trying to calm my rising panic.

But then came the sound of muffled footsteps. Fast, heavy, and synchronized. Not the casual stroll of house security.

I quietly shrank back into the shadows of the pantry alcove, pulling my robe tightly around myself. My instincts, honed by years of surviving Marcus’s unpredictable violence, screamed that something was terribly wrong.

Through the narrow slit of the pantry door, I saw three men in dark clothing and tactical vests step into the kitchen. They carried suppressed handguns.

"Clear the lower floor," one of them whispered in a harsh, foreign accent. "Find the girl. Moretti wants her alive. If the brother or any guards get in the way, eliminate them."

My blood ran cold.