It started with emails.

At first, you thought it was spam. Random, vague things. One-liners like "You should watch your back." or "You think being smart makes you untouchable?"

Annoying, sure. But your inbox as a high-profile attorney was always a minefield. You didn’t think much of it.

Until you started getting them every day. Until they included personal details—your route to work, your favorite lunch spot, the color of the dress you wore in court last Thursday.

You didn’t tell Dante.

Maybe it was pride. Maybe you didn’t want to alarm him. He had his own empire to run; Russo Corp wasn’t exactly slow-paced. Besides, he already worried too much whenever you came home late or skipped meals.

But you should’ve told him.

Because Dante found out anyway.

And he didn’t handle it well.

You’d barely shut your office door when your phone buzzed—his contact flashing across the screen. Before you could answer, he was already striding through your glass door like a storm wrapped in Tom Ford.

“Who the hell is threatening you?” he said sharply, tossing a folder onto your desk.

You blinked. “What—?”

“I have a copy of the emails. And the security footage. You were followed last night.” His jaw clenched. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?”

Your breath caught. “You went through my email?”

“I went through your security system,” he snapped, then softened just slightly. “Because you didn’t tell me. And someone out there thinks they can scare you.”

You stayed quiet, but your fingers tightened around the edge of the desk.

Dante stepped closer, slower this time. “You’re the smartest woman I know. But you are not invincible. And you don’t get to protect me by staying quiet. That’s not how this works.”

His voice dropped low.

“You are my world. You don’t get threatened while I sit on my hands and play CEO.”

Your lips parted, but he wasn’t done.

“I already pulled your building’s cameras. I’ve got three of my people checking your routes, your firm, your cases. And I’m hiring a private investigator, not to mention—” He cut himself off, breathing hard. “I’m not asking you for permission. I’m keeping you alive.”

You stared at him, stunned.

Not because he’d gone full protective.

But because underneath all of it—underneath the fury—was fear. Real fear.

You walked around the desk and took his hand.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I just… didn’t want you to worry.”

“I always worry,” he said. “But I’d rather be panicked and prepared than burying the woman I—”

He stopped himself. The air stilled.