I clicked on one of the articles, skimming through the carefully worded prose that danced around the truth everyone knew but no one said aloud: that beneath the veneer of legitimate business, both the Contis and the O'Sullivans operated in shadows, in blood, in power that had nothing to do with boardrooms and everything to do with fear.
The article mentioned Dante Conti as the head of the family, with his brothers serving as key lieutenants. Rafe was described as "the enforcer"—a vague term that could mean anything from legal counsel to something far more sinister.
Given the way he moved, the controlled power in his posture, the watchfulness in his eyes—I suspected it was the latter.
I closed the browser, suddenly feeling exposed despite the emptiness of the park. What was I doing? Researching a man who had essentially stalked me? A man connected to a family that was, if not an enemy of my family, certainly not an ally?
I should be calling my brothers. Warning my father. Taking precautions.
Instead, I was sitting in a park, heart racing at the memory of dark eyes and a voice that seemed to see through all my carefully constructed defenses.
"This is insane," I whispered, shoving my phone back into my bag.
I stood, ready to head home, when a prickling sensation at the back of my neck made me freeze. That feeling again—of being watched, observed, hunted.
Slowly, I turned, scanning the park, the street beyond, the buildings lining the perimeter.
Nothing. No one.
Just my imagination. Just paranoia born of too little sleep and too much stress.
I hurried toward my apartment, keeping to well-lit paths, checking over my shoulder more often than I'd like to admit. By the time I reached my building, my heart was racing, though whether from exertion or anxiety, I couldn't say.
Inside, I locked the door behind me, then checked the windows, drawing the curtains against the gathering dusk. The apartment felt different somehow—still mine, still safe, but with an awareness of its vulnerability that hadn't been there before.
I moved to the piano, my sanctuary, my constant. The keys were cool beneath my fingers as I began to play—Chopin's Nocturne in C Minor, the melancholy notes filling the space, pushing back against the silence, against the thoughts I couldn't seem to escape.
As the music flowed through me, I gradually relaxed, the tension easing from my shoulders, my breathing slowing to match the rhythm of the piece. This was real. This was mine. This was something no one could take from me.
When the final notes faded into silence, I felt more centered, more myself. Whatever strange spell Rafe Conti had cast, I wouldn't let it consume me. I was Grace O'Sullivan—stubborn, independent, and far too smart to be drawn into whatever game he was playing.
I would be more careful. More aware. I would vary my routine, take different routes to class, maybe even ask Connor to have someone check on me occasionally.
I would be rational. Cautious. Controlled.
But as I prepared for bed that night, as I moved through my apartment turning off lights and checking locks, a small,treacherous part of me wondered if I would see him again. If he would appear in my life as suddenly as before, bringing with him that strange, electric awareness that made everything else seem dull by comparison.
And God help me, I wasn't sure if the flutter in my stomach at the thought was fear or anticipation.
Perhaps it was both.
I crawled into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin like a child seeking protection from monsters in the dark. Sleep seemed impossible, my mind still racing with questions, with memories, with the echo of his voice.
Someone who sees you.
Eventually, exhaustion won out, and I drifted into uneasy dreams—of dark eyes watching me from shadows, of hands reaching for me, of a voice that promised both danger and salvation.
I didn't hear the soft click of my balcony door being unlocked, didn't sense the presence that moved silently through my darkened apartment, didn't feel the weight of a gaze that watched me sleep with possessive intensity.
I didn't know that while I dreamed of him, he was already there—a shadow among shadows, patient, calculating, certain.
Waiting for the perfect moment to make me his.
6
GRACE
The words on my laptop screen blurred together, legal precedents and constitutional amendments swimming before my eyes like alphabet soup. I blinked hard, forcing myself to focus.
