Chapter 4

Vale Armory smelled like polished metal and old money.

The front showroom was elegant—glass cases, velvet-lined displays, weapons arranged like jewelry. But the real business was behind the second set of doors, where the guards stood with their hands folded and their eyes calculating.

Celia stood at the entrance, her child beside her, dressed in a little coat like a doll.

She tried to walk forward.

A guard shifted, blocking her with a polite, immovable smile. “Ma’am. Inner access is restricted.”

Celia’s smile tightened. “I’m Dante Moretti’s wife.”

The guard’s gaze didn’t change. “We recognize wives who are recognized.”

Dante’s jaw clenched. “She has paperwork.”

The guard’s eyes flicked to Dante, respectful but unyielding. “Paper isn’t the same as status.”

Celia’s cheeks flushed. “This is humiliating.”

It was.

And it wasn’t mine.

Dante turned to me. “Rina.”

Just my name. Like a command disguised as a request.

I stepped forward.

The guard’s gaze dropped to my hand—where a simple ring sat, not a diamond, not loud, but recognizable. The kind of ring Victor Vale had once given me as a protective emblem when his world started circling mine.

A key.

A warning.

The guard nodded once and stepped aside. “Ms. Vale. Welcome.”

Celia stared at me, shock morphing into fury. “Why does she get to go in?”

Dante’s voice was cold. “Because I need this done.”

Celia grabbed his sleeve, lowering her voice. “Dante. Don’t do this in front of them.”

He didn’t soften. “You want protection? You want the right weapon? Then you want this.”

Celia’s eyes cut to me like blades. “So she’s your wife now?”

Dante didn’t answer.

I walked toward the inner doors, and the guards opened them for me.

Celia followed, but the guard stopped her again. “Not you.”

Celia’s voice rose. “I am his wife!”

The guard didn’t blink. “Then have him prove it.”

Silence struck like a slap.

Dante’s face went hard. He leaned close to me, voice low. “Get it done. Pick something for her.”

“For her,” I echoed.

“Rina,” he warned.

I stepped into the inner room. The air was colder. The weapons were heavier. The men watching were sharper.

And at the far end, behind a desk of dark wood, sat Victor Vale.

My brother.

Not by blood—by choice, by war, by the way he’d pulled me out of fire more than once.

Victor’s gaze swept over me, then over Dante, then landed on Celia still stuck behind the line.

His expression didn’t change, but the temperature did.

“Moretti,” Victor said, voice smooth as a blade. “You brought chaos into my house.”

Dante’s jaw flexed. “I brought business.”

Victor’s eyes flicked to me again. “And you brought her.”

Celia forced a bright smile. “Mr. Vale, I’m Celia Romano-Moretti—”

Victor cut her off with a single raised finger. “No.”

Celia froze.

Victor leaned back slightly. “My rule is simple. The heir’s wife enters. The heir’s mistress waits outside.”

Celia’s face went white. “Excuse me?”

Dante’s voice turned dangerous. “Watch your mouth.”

Victor’s gaze didn’t flinch. “In my building, I watch yours.”

Celia’s eyes darted to me, and something ugly sharpened inside them. She stepped closer to the boundary line, lowering her voice, dripping sweetness.

“So this is what it is,” she murmured. “She’s the reason you can’t acknowledge me here.”

Then Celia’s hand slid into her purse.

And she pulled out a photograph.

She held it up so Victor, Dante, and every guard could see.

It was me—laughing, head turned, caught in a moment I hadn’t realized was captured. Beside me stood a man. Only half his face showed.

But the half that showed… looked like Dante.

Same jawline. Same dark hair. Same suit.

Celia’s voice trembled with manufactured hurt. “Tell them the truth, Rina. Tell them who you really are. Tell them you’re the woman who’s been sleeping with my husband.”

Victor’s gaze stayed on the photo, then shifted to me. Quiet. Waiting.

Dante stared too—his eyes narrowing like he recognized details he didn’t want to recognize.

Celia lifted her chin. “Admit it. The woman in that photo is you.”

The room held its breath.

But peace was the thing Dante always promised while sharpening the knife.

I looked at Victor. Then at Dante. Then at Celia’s triumphant smile.

And I chose the truth that cut.

“The woman in the photo is me,” I said.

Celia’s eyes gleamed.

I let that satisfaction settle—just long enough for it to become a trap.

Then I lifted my gaze to Dante and spoke softly, clearly, so every guard heard.

“But the man in the photo isn’t him.”