Forbidden In His Bed

I stared out the tinted window of the black SUV as the city lights blurred past, my stomach in knots. Four years. That's how long it'd been since I'd really come home. College had been my escape—far away from New York, from the memories, from the life Dad had built. But now I was back. Twenty-one, done with school, and heading straight to the one place that still felt like a prison wrapped in luxury.

The Moretti estate.

It wasn't just a house. It was the family stronghold. Bulletproof gates, armed guards, more security than the White House. Dad had built it that way. Safe. Untouchable. Now it belonged to Dante, along with everything else—the business, the power, the responsibility of keeping me "protected."

The driver was one of Dante's men—Marco, I think. Big guy, silent, earpiece in. Another guard rode shotgun. No taxi for the daughter of a mafia boss. Dante had sent them to the airport without asking. A text from an unknown number: Car will be waiting. Black Escalade. Don't argue.

I hadn't argued. What was the point?

We pulled up to the gates, and they opened immediately. Cameras everywhere. The driveway was long, lined with trees and hidden sensors. The house loomed ahead—massive stone facade, lighted windows, fountains frozen in the December cold. It screamed money. Old mafia money.

Marco got out and opened my door. The other guard grabbed my suitcases from the trunk like they were nothing.

"Miss Caruso," Marco said with a nod. "Welcome home."

"Thanks," I muttered, stepping out into the chill. I pulled my coat tighter. Designer coat—Dante's money paid for it. Everything I had came from him now.

I expected someone to greet me at the door. Maria, maybe. Or even Dante himself.

But the massive front doors stayed closed.

Marco keyed in a code, and we went inside. The foyer was warm, marble floors shining, chandelier sparkling like diamonds. Same as always. Smelled like money and polished wood.

Maria appeared from the hallway, wiping her hands on an apron, her face breaking into a big smile.

"Liliana! Oh, my sweet girl!" She hurried over and pulled me into a hug. "Look at you—all grown up and beautiful."

"Hey, Maria." I hugged her back. She was the only real warmth in this place.

"The men will take your bags up," she said, waving at the guards. They nodded and headed for the stairs.

No Dante.

"Where is he?" I asked, trying to keep my voice light.

Maria's smile faded a little. "Mr. Dante is handling some business. He said to make sure you're comfortable. He'll be back later."

Business. Always business.

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. Of course he sent the guards. Of course he wasn't here himself. Four years of barely any contact—short calls, money wired without a note—and now, on the day I come home, he's too busy.

Guess I didn't matter that much.

"Come, I'll show you your room," Maria said, linking her arm with mine.

We walked up the grand staircase. The house was exactly the same. Priceless art on the walls—Dad's collection. Crystal vases on tables. Everything screaming wealth and power. The kind of rich that came with bodyguards and blood.

My room was untouched. Pink walls I'd hated since I was sixteen. White silk bedding, walk-in closet bigger than most apartments. Fresh flowers on the dresser—orchids, Dad's favorite.

I wandered the hall after Maria left me to unpack. Peeked into the library—leather-bound books, Dad's old desk still there. The formal dining room with the long table where "family" meetings used to happen. Even the indoor pool downstairs looked the same, steam rising from the heated water.

Nothing had changed. Dante lived here, ran everything from here, but it felt like a museum. Like he didn't put his mark on it. Or maybe he just didn't care enough to bother.

It hurt. More than I wanted to admit.

He'd taken over the family after Dad died. Stepped up like it was his birthright. Dad had trained him for it—pulled him off the streets young, taught him the life, trusted him completely. Dante had been like a son to him.

And me? I got sent away to school. Protected. Provided for. But not wanted. Not really.

I went back to my room and unpacked slowly. Designer clothes I'd bought with his money. Jewelry. The red dress I'd worn to a college party once—short, tight, the kind Dad would’ve hated.

My phone buzzed on the bed.

Sophia: You there yet? Spill. Is the brooding king waiting with open arms?

I smiled a little and typed back.

Me: House is empty. He's "out on business." Guess he doesn't care I'm back.

Sophia: Ouch. Told you he's a ghost. Come out tonight? Drinks? Hot guys? Escape that tomb?

Me: Tempting. But I just got here. Tomorrow?

Sophia: Deal. You deserve fun, Lil. He's not your jailer.

I tossed the phone down and sighed. She was right. Dante wasn't my dad. He was just... Dante. The guy Dad had pulled off the streets when he was a teenager. Trained him. Trusted him. Loved him like a son.

And now he was stuck with me.

I needed to freshen up. The flight had left me gross—sweaty, makeup smudged. I grabbed a towel from the bathroom and stripped down, taking a quick shower. The hot water felt good, washing away the travel grime.

My mind wandered as I dried off. Back to that night. The night everything changed.

I was seventeen. Home from a party early because Sophia had dragged me out, but I wasn't feeling it. Dad was away on "business"—always business. Dante was supposed to be watching the house, but he was out too.

Then the call came.

Gunshots. Blood. Dad gone.

I remembered sitting on my bed, phone in my hand, tears streaming. Sophia texting nonstop.

Sophia: Lil, answer me. Are you okay?

Sophia: I'm coming over.

Sophia: Please, talk to me.

I couldn't type back. Couldn't move.

The door had flown open that night. Dante stormed in, covered in blood—Dad's blood. His face pale, eyes wild. He'd dropped to his knees in front of me, pulled me into his arms like I was breaking.

"He's gone," he'd whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

I shook off the memory, wrapping a towel around myself. The steam fogged the mirror. I wiped it clear and stared at my reflection. Curvy, long dark hair, eyes like Dad's. Not a kid anymore.

Dante hadn't seen me in years. Maybe that's why he didn't bother showing up. To him, I was still the crying teenager he had to comfort.

I opened the bathroom door, ready to change and crash.

My bedroom door creaked open.

I froze, clutching the towel.

And there he was.

Dante.