A Dangerous Game

Virello Estate – Private Lounge

The air in the VIP lounge was heavy with the scent of whiskey, smoke, and something more dangerous—power. The room was dimly lit, the golden glow of the chandelier reflecting off the polished mahogany table where Dante Castellano now sat, his long fingers tapping against the glass in front of him.

Belle stood a few feet away, perfectly still, the tray in her hands steady despite the storm raging inside her.

How had she let this happen?

She had spent months perfecting the art of invisibility, making herself nothing more than a shadow in this house. And yet, with a single glance, Dante Castellano had seen her.

Worse—he wasn't letting her go.

"You can set that down," Dante said casually, motioning to the table. His voice was deep, slow, like a blade dragging across silk.

Belle obeyed, placing the tray down without a word.

She turned to leave, but—

"Stay."

The command was quiet, effortless.

And yet, it might as well have been an iron shackle around her wrist.

Belle forced herself to look at him, to pretend she was just another maid, just another nobody in his presence. But Dante's smirk told her he wasn't fooled.

He leaned back in his chair, watching her like a hunter toying with prey.

"What's your name?"

A test.

Belle's heart pounded, but her face remained neutral. She had prepared for this. Her alias, her story—it had been crafted with care.

"Elena," she answered smoothly.

Dante hummed, swirling the whiskey in his glass. He didn't believe her.

"Elena, huh?" His tone was amused. Doubtful.

He motioned for her to pour him another drink.

Belle hesitated only for a second before picking up the crystal decanter. She tilted it carefully, letting the amber liquid slide into his glass, her movements steady, controlled.

And yet—Dante was watching her hands.

Belle realized too late what he was looking for.

Scars. Callouses. Signs of a fighter.

Her grip on the decanter tightened. He was testing her.

The moment stretched, thick with unspoken words.

Then—Dante chuckled.

"Relax, Elena. You're shaking."

Belle gritted her teeth. She wasn't. But the way he said it—mocking, knowing—made her want to slam the glass into his face.

Instead, she stepped back, lowering her head in practiced submission.

"Will that be all, sir?" she asked.

Dante leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Not yet."

Damn it.

"You see," he continued, his gaze locked onto her, "I have a habit of remembering faces. And I don't recall seeing you here before."

Belle kept her expression blank. Lie. Deflect. Stay in control.

"I was assigned to the estate a few weeks ago, sir."

Dante tilted his head.

"Hmm. Assigned? That's interesting."

The air between them thickened. Belle's pulse roared in her ears.

He was playing with her. Hunting her.

Dante reached for his drink, but instead of taking a sip, he lifted the glass—offering it to her.

Belle stiffened.

This was another test.

No mafia heir in Valdraven would ever share a drink with a servant. This wasn't about politeness. It was a trap.

She had two choices:

1. Refuse—and confirm she wasn't just a maid.

2. Accept—and risk whatever game he was playing.

The room felt suffocatingly silent. Every instinct screamed at her to walk away.

Instead, Belle stepped forward, took the glass, and—brought it to her lips.

She didn't drink, but she let the whiskey touch her mouth before lowering it again.

Dante watched her like a wolf who had just found something worth chasing.

"Interesting," he murmured.

Belle placed the glass back on the table and turned to leave.

"You should be careful, Elena," Dante called after her.

She stopped.

"Some people here… aren't who they claim to be."

Belle's breath hitched.

She didn't turn around. She couldn't.

She simply walked away—back into the world of servants, shadows, and secrets.

But as she left, one thing was clear.

Dante Castellano wasn't letting this go.

And neither was she.