Chapter 5:The Mansion

The mansion was quiet when I woke up—too quiet for a house filled with armed men. It felt as though every sound had been stolen and buried somewhere beneath the marble floors and expensive walls. I blinked twice, adjusting to the dim light squeezing through the heavy curtains of the guest room I’d been given.

I sat up slowly, aware of the stiffness in my muscles from yesterday’s tension. My fingers brushed against the silk sheets as if they didn’t belong to me. No room I’d ever slept in had walls lined with classical paintings or a chandelier hanging above my head like a frozen constellation.

But none of this mattered. Luxury didn’t change reality.

I am here because I must survive. Because my mother still needs me.

That thought grounded me more than anything else.

I quietly got out of bed and moved toward the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. Last night replayed in fragments—meeting Dante Moretti, the ruthless mafia heir whose presence felt like winter trapped inside a man. His eyes… there had been something sharp in them, something that made breathing feel like a challenge.

But he hadn’t touched me. Hadn’t threatened me.

Perhaps that was worse. Because fear of what might happen eventually was far more suffocating than a threat made clear.

Once dressed, I opened the bedroom door gently. A guard stood just outside. His posture straight, his expression unreadable.

“I’d like to get some fresh air,” I said, managing to keep my voice steady.

He looked at me for a second, then pressed his earpiece. “She wants to take a walk.”

No response came that I could hear, but he nodded and led the way through the corridors. I followed him silently.

The mansion felt like walking through power. Everything from the polished floors to the strategic placement of security cameras whispered wealth and authority. Yet buried beneath it all was coldness—like the place was carved out of stone and silence.

He stopped in front of two large doors and pushed them open.

The air that hit me was warm, rich with the scent of damp soil and blooming flowers.

I stepped inside.

A garden. Indoor. Breathtaking.

Glass windows stretched from floor to ceiling, sunlight pouring through and bathing every leaf in gold. There were vines winding around iron arches, a stone fountain at the center, and hundreds of orchids and roses arranged like someone had personally curated perfection.

My chest tightened.

This… this felt like a stolen piece of peace inside a kingdom built on violence.

I walked forward, fingertips grazing petals. The garden felt strangely alive. As if it whispered secrets from the past, belonging to someone who never truly made peace with their own chaos.

A small metal plate beneath the fountain caught my eye.

“Even in darkness, something must grow.”

For a moment, I forgot everything—my fear, my circumstances, even the man who owned this place.

I only remembered my mother’s voice telling me stories about planting seeds in rough soil. About hope being stubborn.

I’m still planting mine, Mama. Even here.

But then, footsteps echoed behind me, slow and controlled. I turned, already knowing who it was.

Dante stood at the garden entrance, dressed in black, hands in his pockets, his gaze burning yet unreadable.

“Good morning,” I said before I could stop myself.

He didn’t respond at first. Just watched me, like figuring out whether acknowledging me was worth his time.

“This isn’t a sanctuary,” he finally said. “It’s a reminder.”

“Of what?” I asked.

“That beauty is temporary,” he replied, voice low. “And peace is nothing more than an illusion.”

I held his gaze. “Then why keep it?”

He looked past me, eyes fixed on the fountain. “Because even illusions have their use.”

Silence fell again, but this time it wasn’t empty. It was heavy.

I understood something then.

He wasn’t cruel because he wanted to be.

He was cruel because something—someone—taught him to survive by freezing first.

And maybe this garden was the last warm place he allowed to exist.

Before I could speak, he turned away. “You’ll be assigned tasks today. Stay out of trouble.”

And just like that, he left.

He didn’t see the way my fingers trembled around the petal I’d unconsciously picked.

He didn’t see me whisper, “Temporary or not, it still grows.”

⸻

Marco’s POV (Dante’s right-hand man)

If Dante Moretti was ice, I was the stone beneath it—silent, absorbing each crack.

I watched from a distance as he left the indoor garden, posture composed but shoulders slightly tense. Anyone else wouldn’t notice. I had known him for years. Tension in his shoulders was the equivalent of an emotional storm.

That girl, Sophie… she stirred something he’d long buried. And that was dangerous.

I approached him as he stepped into the hallway.

“You were up early,” I said.

He didn’t slow down. “I don’t recall asking for commentary.”

“You never do,” I replied calmly, following him. “But I give it anyway.”

He halted in front of his office door, glanced at me. That look was enough to send most grown men scrambling.

But I wasn’t most men.

“The girl is quiet. Observant,” I said.

“She is irrelevant,” Dante cut in.

I nodded. “Good. Because irrelevant things shouldn’t disturb your morning routine.”

He didn’t react, but his jaw tightened.

“You had a reaction,” I pointed out casually.