Alessia sat at the steel-and-glass breakfast bar, watching Dante move through the kitchen with the lethal grace of a panther. He poured two cups of black coffee, sliding one toward her without a word.
She didn't touch it.
"The ledger," she said. "How do you know my father took it?"
Dante leaned against the counter, the steam curling around his sharp jaw. "Because I was there."
A flash of memory—her father's study, the night of the winter gala. Dante, younger, bleeding from a cut above his brow, his hands bound behind his back. Her father's voice, cold as the grave: "You'll tell your uncle the Valtieri ledger is gone."
Alessia's fingers tightened around the porcelain. "You were the hostage."
"And you," Dante murmured, "were the distraction."
She flinched. That night, her father had sent her to charm the Valtieri heir—a boy with too-pretty eyes and a knife strapped to his thigh. She'd stolen his keys. His wallet. His first kiss.
She hadn't known she was stealing his family's legacy too.
Dante's phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, his expression hardening. "We have a problem."
Alessia arched a brow. "Another one?"
"Your father's men just raided the Valtieri vault." He turned the screen toward her—security footage of masked figures loading something into a van. "They took the decoy."
Her blood ran cold. "Meaning?"
"Meaning," Dante said softly, "someone told them where to look. Someone close to you."
The list was short. Her bodyguard. Her cousin. Her—
Lucian.
Alessia stood so fast the stool clattered to the floor. "He's alive."
Dante's smile was all teeth. "And you're going to help me find him."