They told Dante Cavallaro that Sophie Miller had stolen one hundred thousand dollars from his private safe and disappeared with the one ledger capable of destroying his empire.

When Sophie opened her eyes again, the harsh smell of antiseptic had been replaced by the scent of lavender and cedar.

She blinked against the soft, warm sunlight filtering through heavy silk drapes. She was lying in a massive, feather-soft bed with high-thread-count sheets that felt like silk against her bruised skin.

For a terrifying second, she thought she was back in Vane's basement. She gasped, trying to sit up, but a sharp pain lanced through her ribs.

"Don't move."

The voice came from a leather armchair by the window.

Sophie turned her head slowly.

Dante Cavallaro sat there in a gray cashmere sweater, looking tired, his jaw shadowed with stubble. He wasn't holding a gun or a ledger. He was holding a glass of water with a straw.

“Dante?” Her voice was less than a dry rasp.

He stood up immediately, walking over to the bed with a slow, deliberate grace so as not to frighten her. He sat on the edge of the mattress and gently lifted her head, holding the straw to her lips.

She drank greedily, the cool water soothing burned her throat.

When she finished, she pulled back, her eyes wide with terror. “I... I didn't steal the money, Dante. I swore to you. I walked into the study to clean the desk, and the safe was already open. Marco was standing there. He hit me from behind, and when I woke up, I was in the back of a van—”

“I know, Sophie,” Dante interrupted softly.

She stopped. Her breath caught. “You...you know?”

“Marco is dead,” Dante said, his voice steady and devoid of emotion. “The money has been recovered. The ledger is back in the safe where it belongs.”

Sophie stared at him, tears welling in her eyes. After six months of beatings, starvation, and endless interrogations where no one believed her, the simple truth felt impossible to process.

“You believe me?” she whined.

Dante reached out, his large, called hand hesitating for a fraction of a second before gently brushing a strand of honey-blond hair away from her forehead. His touch was uncharacteristically gentle.

“I should have believed you six months ago,” Dante said, his voice thick with a rare remorse. "I let my pride and my paranoia blind me. I let them hurt you."

Sophie closed her eyes, a single tear escaping down her cheek. “They... they branded me, Dante. They said I was a trainer.”

“I know,” Dante said, his jaw tightening as the memory of the serpent brand flashed in his mind. “And anyone who had a hand in that is already dead or wished they were.”