The Mafia Heiress's Ruthless Revenge

Alessia Moretti POV:

The moment the front door closed behind Dante, the penthouse became utterly silent. The quiet was so absolute it made my ears ring.

I stood in the foyer, the feel of his suit jacket still on my fingertips, the ghost of her perfume still in my nose.

There was no more hesitation. I walked straight to his study.

The door was heavy, solid wood, fitted with a fingerprint scanner. I remembered the day he’d programmed my print into the system, a year ago. “My world is never closed to you,” he’d murmured against my hair, his words a romantic veil over what I now saw was a carefully curated deception.

I pressed my thumb to the glowing panel. A green light flashed, and the lock clicked open. The irony was a bitter taste in my mouth.

The study smelled of cedar and old leather, a scent that had once brought me comfort. Now it felt suffocating.

I scanned the room. Everything was immaculate, the office of a man in complete control.

I went to the bookshelf that concealed the hidden door and pushed. It didn’t budge. There had to be a code, or some hidden mechanism. I didn't have time for that.

My attention shifted to the massive mahogany desk.

The surface was clear except for a few neat stacks of files and his laptop. My gaze fell on the bottom right drawer. It had a small, antique brass lock.

I remembered trying to open it once, just out of curiosity. Dante had stopped me, his hand covering mine, his tone light but firm. “Highest level corporate secrets, darling. The lifeblood of the Rinaldi Group.”

I’d teased him for being so dramatic. Now I realized his tension hadn't been an act.

I pulled on the handle. It was locked tight.

I started searching for the key. I checked the pen holders, lifted the file trays, ran my hands under the lip of the desk. Nothing.

He wouldn’t carry a key that important on his person. It would be too easy to lose.

My eyes returned to the desk, landing on the custom humidor I’d given him. The one from the photograph.

He had a ritual. One cigar every afternoon. He touched this box every single day. The most obvious place was also the safest.

I lifted the heavy lid. Inside, a row of Cuban cigars lay nestled in the cedar lining.

I took them all out, one by one, and set them carefully on the desk. I ran my fingers over the velvet bottom of the box. There was a slight unevenness near the back edge.

Using my fingernail, I gently pried at the corner. The velvet lining lifted away. It was a false bottom.

Beneath it, carved into the wood, was a small, hidden compartment.

And inside, resting in the custom-fit space, was a small, ornate brass key.

It was a perfect match for the lock on the drawer.

My heart pounded against my ribs like a drum. The truth was right there.

I picked up the key. The metal was cold against my skin, sending a shiver through me.

I took a deep breath and slid the key into the lock of the forbidden drawer.