His Dangerous Love: The Writer And The Don

Aria Sterling POV

Vitiello Holdings was a fortress of glass and steel that pierced the Manhattan skyline. It was a monument to power, cold and unyielding.

I shouldn't be here. I should be at Best Buy, purchasing a new laptop and trying to salvage my hard drive. But I wasn't.

Two hours after the incident at the bistro, a black SUV had pulled up to my crumbling apartment building. A man in a suit-one of the guards from the restaurant-had handed me an envelope. Inside was a check for the damage, and a summons.

"Mr. Vitiello wishes to discuss the incident," the guard had said. It was not a request.

Now, I stood in an office that was larger than my entire apartment floor. The walls were lined with books, floor to ceiling. The view behind the massive mahogany desk showed the city sprawling out like a conquered kingdom.

Dante Vitiello sat behind the desk. He was reading a file. My file.

"Aria Sterling," he said without looking up. "Age twenty-four. Ghostwriter for low-end romance novels. Investigative journalism degree, unused. Bank account balance..."

He paused, his eyes scanning the page before lifting to meet mine.

"...negligible."

He closed the folder with a soft thud and looked at me. The boredom was gone from his eyes, replaced by a predatory focus.

"You investigated me," I said. It was a statement, not a question.

"I investigate everyone who makes a scene in my presence," he replied. "It is a matter of survival."

"Why am I here?" I asked, keeping my voice steady. "I took the money. We are even."

"Are we?"

He stood up. He moved with a lethal grace, like a panther circling prey. "You refused my money initially. You demanded an apology. That implies you have principles. Or perhaps just a lack of self-preservation."

"Both, maybe," I whispered.

"I have a problem, Aria," he said. He leaned against the edge of his desk, crossing his arms over his chest. "The federal government is auditing my family's legitimate businesses. They are looking for cracks in the foundation. They want to paint us as monsters."

"Aren't you?" The words slipped out before I could stop them.

His lips quirked up in a humorless smile. "We are necessary monsters. But for the sake of the audit, and a merger I am orchestrating, I need to appear... human. I need a biography. A memoir. Something that frames the Vitiello legacy as a story of immigrant success and community service, rather than violence."

"You want me to lie for you," I said.

"I want you to write a story," he corrected. "You are a writer, are you not? A desperate one, if my sources are correct."

He picked up a piece of paper from his desk and slid it across the polished wood.

It was a contract. The number at the bottom made my breath hitch. It was enough money to pay my rent for five years. It was enough to get my mother into a better care facility.

"I can't," I said, backing away. "I write fiction. I don't write propaganda for criminals."

He moved faster than I thought possible. In a blink, he was in front of me, blocking my path to the door. He didn't touch me, but his presence was suffocating.

"You saw blood on my cuff yesterday, didn't you?" he asked softly.

I swallowed hard. "Yes."

"Then you are already a witness, Aria. You are already involved."

He reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers were rough, calloused. The touch burned.

"Take the job," he said. "Write the book. Live in my house where I can ensure you don't talk to the wrong people about what you saw on my sleeve. Or walk out that door and wonder every time a car slows down behind you if it is your last moment on earth."

It wasn't a choice. It was a cage disguised as an opportunity.

I looked into his dark eyes and saw my reflection trapped there.

"I need an advance," I said.

Dante Vitiello smiled, and it was the most terrifying thing I had ever seen.

"Done."