WHISPERS OF THE RED DRESS 119

The black car waiting outside was a heavily armored, bulletproof sedan.

Stefano opened the rear door for me, ushering me inside before slipping into the seat beside me. The driver—a towering, silent man with a scarred jaw—pulled away from the curb the second the doors clicked shut.

I pressed my back against the leather seat, staring out the tinted window as the familiar streets of my quiet neighborhood faded into the dark, rainy night.

"Where are you taking me?" I demanded, my shock finally giving way to a surge of anger. "I have a job! I have an apartment! My landlord is going to—"

"Your landlord works for my family," Stefano interrupted smoothly, pulling a sleek tablet from the pocket of the seat in front of him. "Your boss at the archive library is on my payroll. Your entire life, Elena, has been built inside a cage I constructed to keep you invisible."

I gaped at him. "You... you stalked me for thirty-seven years?!"

"I protected you," Stefano corrected, his dark eyes fixing onto mine with an intensity that made my throat tight. "Your mother died five years ago from cancer. She called me from her deathbed and made me promise one thing: that you would never know who your father was."

The air left my lungs again. "My father? My mother told me he died in the military before I was born."

Stefano let out a low, humorless laugh. "Your mother was a brilliant woman, but she lied when it mattered. Your father isn't dead. He is Salvatore Rossi. The Don of the tri-state syndicate. The man who ordered his own brother executed because of a dispute over territory."

I shook my head, tears overflowing my eyelashes. "No. No, this is crazy. I'm an archivist! I fix old books! I'm thirty-seven years old and I spent my birthday in a church hall because I didn't have enough friends to fill a booth at Applebee's!"

Stefano reached out, his warm, broad palm gently cupping the side of my face. His thumb brushed away a tear trailing down my cheek. The contrast between his lethal violence five minutes ago and his gentle touch now was dizzying.

"You are Clara Vance's daughter," he murmured, his thumb lingering against my cheekbone. "You have her fire. You have her eyes. And whether you want it or not, Elena... you have the Rossi blood."

The car turned off the main highway, pulling through a massive wrought-iron gate surrounded by stone walls and high-definition security cameras. Ahead of us, sitting atop a dark hill overlooking the Hudson River, stood a sprawling, gothic stone mansion.