His Ruthless Claim

Isla didn't sleep. How could she? Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Dante Vitale's face-those dark, penetrating eyes that seemed to strip away every defense she'd built over the years. Every time she started to drift off, her mind conjured images of what he might do to Sofie if Isla made the wrong choice. She'd spent the first hour testing the windows. They didn't open. The door was locked from the outside. Her phone still had no signal, and she suspected the penthouse was equipped with some kind of jammer. The second hour, she'd paced the length of the bedroom, her mind working through scenarios. Call the police? He'd know before they arrived, and Sofie would pay the price. Try to escape? Even if she could get past Marco and whoever else was guarding this place, Dante had made it clear he had resources. He'd find her. By the third hour, she'd resigned herself to the only real option available: play along, gather information, and find a way out that didn't get anyone killed. The fourth hour, she'd finally sat down at the desk and opened the laptop someone had thoughtfully provided. It wasn't connected to the internet-of course it wasn't-but it had software she recognized. Spreadsheet programs, financial analysis tools, even some of her preferred forensic accounting applications. He'd done his homework on her. That thought should have terrified her. Instead, it stirred something else. Something dangerous. Dawn was breaking over the city, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold, when she heard the lock click. Isla turned from the window, her spine straight, her chin lifted. Marco entered carrying a tray. The smell of fresh coffee and warm pastries filled the room, making her stomach growl traitorously. "Good morning, Ms. Rivera," he said, setting the tray on the desk. "I hope you were able to rest." "You hope I was comfortable in my prison cell?" Isla crossed her arms. "How thoughtful." Marco had the grace to look uncomfortable. "I understand this situation isn't ideal-" "Ideal?" She laughed, the sound sharp. "I've been kidnapped, threatened, and told I have to work for a criminal or die. 'Not ideal' is quite the understatement." "Mr. Vitale will see you in an hour," Marco said, ignoring her outburst. "I'd recommend you eat something. It's going to be a long day." He left before she could respond. Isla stared at the food, her stomach warring with her pride. Pride lost. She was hungry, exhausted, and if she was going to face Dante Vitale again, she needed her strength. The coffee was perfect-dark, rich, with just a hint of cream, exactly how she liked it. That bothered her more than anything else. How much did he know about her? Exactly fifty-nine minutes later, Marco returned. This time, he wasn't alone. A woman in her late twenties followed him, carrying a garment bag and a makeup case. "What's this?" Isla asked. "Mr. Vitale thought you might want to freshen up," the woman said with a warm smile that seemed genuine. "I'm Elena. I brought you some clothes and-" "I don't need clothes. I need to go home." Elena's smile turned sympathetic. "I know this is difficult. But Dante-Mr. Vitale-he's not as bad as you think. Just... give him a chance." "A chance?" Isla stared at her. "He threatened to kill me." "Did he?" Elena tilted her head. "Or did he give you a choice?" Before Isla could respond, Elena hung the garment bag on the bathroom door. "There's a shower, fresh towels, everything you need. The clothes should fit-we're about the same size. When you're ready, Marco will take you to Dante's office." She left, and Isla was alone again with Marco standing guard outside. Twenty minutes later, showered and dressed in clothes that fit suspiciously perfectly-black slacks, a silk blouse in deep emerald, and heels that were actually comfortable-Isla followed Marco through the penthouse. In daylight, it was even more impressive. Modern art on the walls, furniture that probably cost more than her car, and floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a breathtaking view of the harbor. It should have felt cold, sterile. Instead, it felt lived in. Books on the coffee table. A half-finished chess game on a side table. Small touches of humanity in this temple of wealth. Marco stopped at a set of double doors, knocked once, and pushed them open. Dante's office was exactly what she'd expected: massive, powerful, intimidating. Dark wood furniture, leather chairs, bookshelves lined with what looked like first editions. And behind an enormous desk, backlit by the morning sun, sat Dante Vitale. He'd changed from his suit into something more casual-dark slacks and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms corded with muscle. His hair was slightly disheveled, as if he'd been running his hands through it. He looked up as she entered, and something flickered in his dark eyes. "Ms. Rivera. I trust you slept well?" "You know I didn't." Isla walked to the chair across from his desk but didn't sit. Not until he told her to. She wouldn't give him that satisfaction. Dante studied her for a long moment, then gestured to the chair. "Please. Sit." This time, she did, crossing her legs and folding her hands in her lap. The picture of composure, even though her heart was racing. "Have you made your decision?" he asked. "Do I really have a choice?" "There's always a choice, Ms. Rivera. The question is whether you're willing to live with the consequences." Isla leaned forward, holding his gaze. "Let me make sure I understand. You want me to use my skills to find whoever is stealing from your criminal organization. In exchange, you won't kill me or hurt anyone I care about. Is that the deal?" "Essentially, yes." "And after I find this person? What then?" Dante's expression didn't change. "Then you're free to go. With compensation, of course. I'm not unreasonable." "Just a kidnapper and a criminal." "I prefer to think of it as protecting my interests." He stood, moving around the desk with that predatory grace she'd noticed last night. He leaned against the front of the desk, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. "You're angry. I understand that. But consider this: the person stealing from me isn't some Robin Hood figure. They're working with people who deal in drugs, weapons, human trafficking. By helping me find them, you're actually doing something good." "That's a convenient rationalization." "Perhaps. But it's also true." He crossed his arms, and Isla found herself distracted by the way the movement pulled his shirt tight across his chest. "You're a fascinating woman, Ms. Rivera. Last night, when my men brought you here, you were terrified. But you didn't beg. You didn't cry. You stood your ground and demanded answers. That takes courage." "Or stupidity." "I don't think you're stupid. Stubborn, certainly. Principled to a fault. But not stupid." He tilted his head, studying her. "Tell me something. Why did you become a forensic accountant?" The question caught her off guard. "What does that matter?" "Humor me." Isla hesitated, then shrugged. "Because numbers don't lie. People do. Systems do. But numbers? They tell the truth if you know how to read them. I like truth." "Even when it's dangerous?" "Especially then." Something shifted in Dante's expression-a flash of what might have been respect, or admiration, or something else entirely. "Then we have something in common. I also value truth, Ms. Rivera. Perhaps more than you realize." He pushed off the desk and walked to the windows, hands in his pockets. For a moment, he looked almost... weary. "I was born into this life," he said quietly. "My father was don before me. His father before him. I never had a choice about what I would become. The family business was decided before I could walk." He turned back to her. "But unlike my father, I don't enjoy the violence. I don't take pleasure in fear. I do what's necessary to protect what's mine and keep my family safe. Nothing more." "You're trying to make me sympathize with you." "No. I'm trying to make you understand me. There's a difference." He moved closer, and Isla's breath caught. "Work with me, Isla. Help me find who's betraying my family. And when it's done, I give you my word-you walk away unharmed, well-compensated, and free to forget any of this ever happened." "Your word?" She laughed bitterly. "Forgive me if I don't find that particularly reassuring." "Then let me give you something more concrete." He pulled his phone from his pocket, tapped a few times, then handed it to her. On the screen was a bank statement. An account in her name, showing a balance of zero. As she watched, the number changed: $50,000 deposited. "A sign of good faith," Dante said. "Find the thief, and there will be more. Much more. Enough to change your life, if that's what you want." Isla stared at the number, her mind reeling. Fifty thousand dollars. That was more than she made in a year. It could pay off her student loans, get her out of her cramped apartment, give her the security she'd never had growing up. "You're trying to buy me." "I'm trying to give you a reason to say yes beyond fear." His voice was closer now. She looked up to find him standing directly in front of her chair, his dark eyes boring into hers. "I know what it's like to be powerless, Isla. To have no choices, no control over your own life. I'm offering you both. Work with me, and you gain something instead of just avoiding loss." She should be afraid. She was afraid. But beneath the fear was something else-a dangerous curiosity about this man who somehow knew exactly what to say to get under her skin. "Fine," she heard herself say. "I'll do it." "Just like that?" "You said it yourself. I don't have much of a choice. But I have conditions." Dante's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "I'm listening." "First, you let me call Sofie. She needs to know I'm alive and safe." "Done. But you'll tell her you're on a special assignment. Nothing about me or this place." Isla nodded. "Second, I need full access to your financial records. All of them. I can't find a leak if you're hiding things from me." "Also acceptable." "And third..." She stood, forcing him to take a step back. "When this is over, when I find your thief, you let me walk away. Completely. No threats, no looking over my shoulder, no wondering if you'll change your mind. I want my life back." "You have my word." "Your word." She studied his face, searching for any sign of deception. All she saw was intensity and something that looked almost like... interest. "Why do I feel like making a deal with you is like making a deal with the devil?" "Because it probably is." He extended his hand. "But I keep my promises, Isla. Always." She stared at his hand-large, elegant, dangerous. The hand of a man who'd probably killed, who certainly had ordered deaths. A hand that should repulse her. But when she placed her palm against his, the shock of contact sent electricity racing up her arm. His skin was warm, his grip firm but not crushing. For just a moment, neither of them moved, the air between them charged with something she didn't want to name. Dante's thumb brushed across her knuckles, a touch so light she might have imagined it. His dark eyes held hers, and she saw the exact moment his carefully controlled mask slipped. Just for a heartbeat, she glimpsed raw hunger. Then he released her hand and stepped back, his expression once again unreadable. "Marco will set you up in the office next to mine," he said, his voice rougher than before. "You'll have everything you need. We'll start immediately." "One more thing," Isla said, proud that her voice was steady despite her racing pulse. "If I'm going to work for you, I need to know what I'm getting into. I need to understand your operation, your enemies, everything." "That could be dangerous knowledge." "I'm already in danger. Might as well know why." Dante studied her for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Very well. Tonight, you'll join me for dinner. I'll explain everything you need to know about my world. But I warn you, Isla-once you understand it, you can't unknow it. Are you sure you want that?" "I'm sure." "Then we have a deal." He walked to his desk, pressed a button on the phone. "Marco, please show Ms. Rivera to her new office. And get her whatever she needs." Marco appeared in the doorway. "This way, Ms. Rivera." Isla followed him, but at the threshold, she looked back. Dante was standing at the window again, his back to her, tension visible in every line of his body. "Mr. Vitale?" she called out. He turned, one eyebrow raised. "Thank you," she said. "For the choice. Even if it wasn't much of one." Something flickered across his face-surprise, perhaps, or something softer. "You're welcome, Isla." The sound of her first name on his lips sent warmth curling through her stomach. Dangerous, her mind whispered. This man is dangerous in more ways than one. But as Marco led her to an office that was almost as impressive as Dante's, Isla couldn't shake the feeling that she'd just stepped off a cliff. The only question was whether Dante Vitale would catch her-or let her fall. ----- The office was perfect. Multiple monitors, high-speed computer, every software program she could possibly need. Marco had brought in her personal laptop from her apartment (which meant someone had broken in, but she tried not to think about that), along with some of her clothes and toiletries. "Mr. Vitale wants you to be comfortable," Marco explained. "You'll be staying in the penthouse for the duration of the investigation. For your safety." "You mean to make sure I don't run." "That too." Marco almost smiled. "But honestly, Ms. Rivera, once you start digging into this, you'll be safer here than anywhere else. Whoever's stealing from Mr. Vitale-they won't be happy when you find them." Great. As if she needed another reason to be terrified. But as she settled into the ergonomic chair and pulled up the first of the financial files Dante had sent over, Isla felt something she hadn't expected: excitement. This was what she was good at. Finding patterns, following the money, uncovering secrets buried in numbers. She might be working for a criminal, but at least she was doing what she loved. Hours passed in a blur. Isla was so absorbed in the data that she didn't notice when the sun began to set, painting the office in shades of gold and orange. She didn't notice Marco checking on her twice, or the way he quietly left a sandwich and coffee on her desk. What she did notice was the pattern emerging from the chaos. Shell companies layered on shell companies. Payments that went through three, four, five intermediaries before reaching their final destination. Whoever was stealing from Dante wasn't just smart-they were brilliant. They understood the system intimately, knew exactly how to hide their tracks. But they'd made one mistake. Every transaction, no matter how well hidden, happened on a specific day of the week. Always the same day. Always within the same three-hour window. That meant routine. And routine meant vulnerability. "Find something interesting?" Isla jumped, nearly knocking over her cold coffee. Dante was leaning against her doorframe, jacket off, tie loosened, looking unfairly attractive in the soft evening light. "How long have you been standing there?" she demanded. "Long enough to see you smile at your computer screen. What did you find?" She hesitated, then turned her monitor toward him. "Your thief has a pattern. They only move money on Thursdays, between two and five PM. That suggests they're doing it during a specific meeting or event when they know they won't be interrupted." Dante moved into the room, coming to stand behind her chair. She could feel the heat of his body, smell his cologne-something expensive and woodsy that made her want to lean back into him. Focus, Rivera. "What kind of meeting?" he asked, his voice low and close to her ear. "I don't know yet. But if I can get access to your schedule for the past two years, I can cross-reference the theft dates with your calendar. That should tell us who had opportunity." "Clever." His hand landed on the back of her chair, not touching her but close enough that she could feel his presence like a physical force. "You're even better than I thought." "Flattery won't make me work faster." "I'm not flattering you. I'm stating a fact." He straightened, putting distance between them, and she told herself the disappointment she felt was just exhaustion. "It's nearly eight. Time for dinner." "I should keep working-" "You've been staring at screens for eight hours. You need to eat. And I promised you answers." He extended his hand again, and once more, Isla found herself taking it without thinking. His fingers closed around hers, warm and sure, and he pulled her gently to her feet. For a moment, they stood too close, her hand still in his, her face tilted up toward his. "You're going to be trouble, aren't you?" Dante murmured, his dark eyes searching hers. "Is that a problem?" "It should be." His thumb traced a slow circle on the inside of her wrist, right over her racing pulse. "But I'm beginning to think I like trouble." Then he released her and stepped back, the moment broken. "Come. Let's eat." As Isla followed him through the penthouse to a dining room she hadn't seen before, she realized something that should have terrified her but instead sent a thrill through her veins: She was in far more danger from Dante Vitale than she'd realized. And the worst part? She was starting not to care.