I had never hated a floor before.

By ten the next morning, I hated every square inch of Dante Moretti's bedroom.

The marble gleamed beneath my knees. My bucket smelled of lemons and humiliation.

My stupid white apron kept catching under my hands.

"You're missing a spot," Dante said.

He sat on a leather sofa, reviewing documents with the concentration of a man planning somebody's funeral.

"Then come clean it yourself."

"I'm supervising."

"You're sitting."

"Efficient supervision."

I scrubbed harder than necessary.

He had placed a small cushion beside the bucket for my knees.

I refused to use it for twenty minutes, then quietly pulled it underneath me.

Dante didn't comment. That irritated me too.

At eleven, I reached the final corner.

"Finished," I announced.

Dante closed his folder and put on white cotton gloves.

I watched in disbelief as he inspected the floor beside the windows.

"Do you have an actual life?" I asked.

"Several. This is my favorite one today."

He crouched, then raised two fingers.

Between them hung a single black hair.

"One hair."

"It's yours."

"Mine is shorter."

"Then one of your terrifying bodyguards is shedding."

Dante straightened. "The agreement says work must pass inspection."

"The agreement doesn't say I must perform miracles."

"No miracles required. Just cleaning."

He pointed toward the missed corner.

"Again."

I threw the cloth into the bucket.

Water splashed over my stockings.

"You're doing this because you enjoy watching me lose my temper."

"That is one reason."

At least the monster was honest.

I folded my arms. "What happens if I refuse?"

"You can stop. Mr. Bell will assign the task elsewhere."

"And then?"

"Your shift ends early. You won't be paid for the unfinished hours."

That was annoying. It was also far less dramatic than I'd expected.

Dante studied my expression, then opened a drawer.

He placed a small, soft leather paddle on the table.

My eyes widened.

"What the hell is that?"

"Something you mentioned yesterday."

I remembered my furious joke about giving him a taste of his own discipline.

Dante tapped the paddle with one finger.

"You keep challenging me, Jamie. Do you actually want to play?"

My stomach flipped. "Play what?"

"A punishment game. Separate from your employment. No debt involved. No consequences if you say no."

I stared at him.

"You're seriously asking?"

"Yes."

"You are the strangest man alive."

"That isn't a refusal."

He explained the boundaries without joking. I could end the game with one word: red.

No gagging. No restraint. No surprises. And he would stop whenever I asked.

I should have walked out.

Instead, my pride whispered that I could handle anything he could invent.

"Fine," I said. "One round. And I get to insult you."

"You already do."

"More than usual."

Dante smiled. "Agreed."

I leaned forward against the padded arm of the sofa, cheeks burning.

"This is ridiculous," I muttered.

"Still your choice."

"I know!"

The first light smack startled me more than it hurt.

I slapped a hand over my mouth on instinct.

"Mmph!"

Dante stopped immediately.

"All right?"

I nodded, then lowered my hand.

"Don't look so pleased with yourself."

"You made a very dramatic sound."

"I made a perfectly normal sound."

"Of course."

I covered my mouth again, mostly to hide my embarrassed smile.

"You are unbearable," I said through my fingers.

Dante set the paddle down.

"Enough?"

I straightened, relieved and disappointed by how quickly the moment ended.

"Enough," I said.

He handed me a glass of water.

That simple gesture made me feel stranger than the whole absurd game.

"You don't get to act considerate now," I complained.

"I can be considerate whenever I like."

"Try doing it before making me scrub an entire room."

"Noted."

He removed the gloves. I noticed a fresh scrape across his wrist.

"What happened to your hand?"

"Business."

"Do you answer every question like a bad movie villain?"

"Only the personal ones."

I took the water and sat on the edge of the sofa.

Dante didn't order me to move.

For several minutes, he read while I recovered my dignity in silence.

Then I noticed the folder on his lap.

A Sinclair company logo appeared on its cover.

My heart jolted.

"That's my father's company."

Dante closed the folder.

"Yes."

"What are you investigating?"

"Transactions."

"Which transactions?"

"Jamie."

I hated how my name sounded like a warning in his mouth.

"You promised me access to information."

"Selected information. Not everything before it's verified."

"Convenient."

He met my eyes. "I won't feed you rumors about your father."

"Rumors are all I have."

His expression changed. For a moment, the amusement vanished completely.

"I know."

I wanted to ask what that meant.

Instead, his phone rang.

Dante glanced at the screen and stood.

"Mr. Bell will bring lunch. Your afternoon is free."

"Because I passed inspection?"

"Because you worked hard."

That should have pleased me.

It didn't. He was still keeping secrets.

Later, I found Rosa in the kitchen slicing tomatoes.

"Does he always keep company files in his bedroom?" I asked.

"Mr. Moretti keeps everything important close," she said.

"Like a paranoid dragon."

"Like a man with enemies."

I helped her carry groceries into the pantry.

For the first time since arriving, I felt useful without being watched.

At sunset, I went upstairs to return a borrowed cleaning cloth.

Voices drifted through the half-open library door.

Dante stood inside with Marco, his broad-shouldered second-in-command.

I should have kept walking.

Then Marco said my surname.

"Sinclair's old accounts are moving again," he reported.

Dante replied too quietly for me to hear.

Marco lowered his voice further.

"Boss, the Sinclair boy's father is still alive."

My hand tightened around the cloth.

The corridor seemed to tilt beneath me.

Alive.

My first impulse was to burst into the library and demand answers.

Then I remembered Dante's warning about unverified information.

He could dismiss a question. He couldn't dismiss evidence I found myself.

I slipped into the adjoining alcove and pretended to straighten a vase.

The men continued speaking, but their voices fell too low to distinguish.

A drawer closed. Footsteps crossed the carpet.

I hurried toward the staircase before the library door opened.

My heart pounded so hard I could barely hear the storm gathering outside.

At the landing, I paused beside a portrait of a woman in pearls.

I had never felt so close to Dad, or so helpless to reach him.

For three days, I'd imagined hospital rooms, dark rivers, and nameless graves.

Now I imagined him waiting somewhere, believing his children had abandoned him.

That thought hurt worse than the ruined fortune.

I pressed my forehead against the cold window.

Whatever game Dante Moretti was playing, I would learn its rules.

I couldn't tell Lily yet.

If the information was wrong, I would be the one who broke her heart twice.

So I swallowed the news and made myself a promise.

Before this week ended, I would find something solid.

A name. An address. Anything.

The next time Dante tried to distract me with his ridiculous rules, I wouldn't forget what mattered.

And when I did, I would make him tell me everything.

My father was alive.

And Dante Moretti had known enough to look for him.