By morning, New York had disappeared beneath snow.

The windows showed nothing but white rooftops and a furious gray sky.

I had slept badly, dreaming about my father's voice.

Alive. The word kept circling my thoughts.

I wanted to confront Dante immediately.

Instead, Mr. Bell informed me that the boss had left before dawn.

"Business?" I asked.

"Almost certainly."

"Is that the household's official answer to everything?"

"Only the questions I cannot answer."

He handed me a breakfast tray.

"Eat. You're pale."

I wasn't hungry, but I obeyed.

Lily called while I was finishing toast.

Her face appeared on the screen, framed by the tiny apartment Dante's lawyers had arranged.

"Jamie! You look tired."

"I'm living in a palace with terrible management."

"Is the job okay?"

I glanced at my uniform hanging behind the door.

"It's weird."

"Weird how?"

"The boss thinks marble has feelings."

She laughed, and for one blessed second, everything felt normal.

"The tuition payment went through," she said. "Thank you."

My throat tightened.

"Don't thank me. Just keep studying."

"Have you heard from Dad?"

I stared at the snow.

"Not yet."

I almost told her what I'd overheard.

But one sentence through a doorway wasn't proof, and I couldn't bear giving her false hope.

After the call, I searched the mansion for Marco.

He wasn't there. Neither was Dante.

By afternoon, the storm had worsened.

The heating system began making an alarming metallic noise.

A maintenance worker arrived, frowned at the control panel, and announced a problem in the west wing.

Naturally, Dante's bedroom occupied the west wing.

"We can repair it tomorrow," the worker told Mr. Bell. "If the roads reopen."

I enjoyed that news far too much.

"The mighty Mafia King defeated by a radiator," I said.

Mr. Bell gave me a look.

"Please don't say that when he returns."

"I intend to say it twice."

Dante returned after dark.

His coat carried melting snow. His expression looked carved from stone.

I spotted a dark stain near his shoulder.

Blood.

He saw me looking and pulled the coat closed.

"Jamie."

"Dante."

"You're supposed to call me Sir."

"You're supposed to have functioning central heating."

A corner of his mouth twitched.

"Still charming."

"Still insufferable."

I followed him toward the stairs.

"I need to ask you about my father."

He stopped.

For a heartbeat, the guards behind him seemed to hold their breath.

"Tomorrow," Dante said.

"No. Now."

"I'm waiting on confirmation. I won't give you a location I can't verify."

"You know he's alive."

Dante's jaw tightened.

"I believe he is."

My chest hurt.

"Then why didn't you tell me?"

"Because belief won't bring him home. Evidence might."

I wanted to argue, but his face looked exhausted.

"Tomorrow," I repeated bitterly.

"Tomorrow," he promised.

At nine, Mr. Bell appeared at my door with a folded blanket.

"Mr. Moretti requests your assistance upstairs."

"Tell him to buy another radiator."

"He requests assistance with his bedding."

I stared at him.

"His what?"

Mr. Bell's mouth barely moved.

"I believe he is being deliberately difficult."

That sounded accurate.

I marched upstairs carrying the blanket like a weapon.

Dante's bedroom was colder than the rest of the house.

He stood beside the window, unbuttoning his cuffs.

"Your royal heating service has arrived," I announced.

"Excellent. Warm the bed."

I blinked.

"Excuse me?"

"The sheets are cold."

"Then put a hot-water bottle in them."

"I prefer a person."

"I am not a heating appliance!"

Dante turned, studying my furious expression.

"You can say no, Jamie."

"I know that."

"Then why are you still here?"

That was a very good question.

I looked at the snow hammering the windows.

I looked at his pale face and the stiffness in his injured shoulder.

"Because apparently nobody else in this house can manage you."

I kicked off my slippers and climbed beneath the heavy duvet.

The sheets were freezing.

"This is cruel," I muttered. "Your bed is an ice rink."

"You complain beautifully."

"I learned from living with you."

Dante sat in an armchair beside the bed and opened his laptop.

For twenty minutes, he worked while I slowly warmed the sheets.

The room grew quiet except for the storm.

I noticed his fingers occasionally pressing against his left shoulder.

"You're hurt," I said.

"I'm fine."

"That's not what your shirt says."

A thin line of blood had seeped through the fabric.

I climbed out, grabbed the first-aid box from his bathroom, and returned.

"Sit still."

Dante raised an eyebrow.

"Giving orders now?"

"Someone has to be the adult."

He let me clean the shallow cut.

It wasn't serious, but the bruising around it looked ugly.

"Who did this?" I asked.

"A man who made a poor decision."

"That's terrifyingly vague."

"It's also true."

I pressed a fresh dressing over the wound.

His skin felt warm beneath my fingertips.

Dante watched my face with an expression I couldn't understand.

"What?" I asked.

"You could have left me to handle it."

"I considered it."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because bloodstains are difficult to remove from expensive sheets."

He laughed softly.

The sound surprised me. It sounded nothing like the man downstairs giving orders.

I packed away the supplies.

"There. Try not to get shot before breakfast."

"I'll do my best."

I returned to the bed. Dante closed his laptop and approached.

"Move over," he said.

I sat up so quickly the blanket fell from my shoulders.

"What?"

"It's my bed."

"Then I'll leave."

He stepped back, clearing the path.

I could have gone. Instead, I hesitated.

The hallway was cold. His shoulder was injured. And I wasn't ready to end this strange conversation.

"You stay on your side," I warned.

"Understood."

Dante climbed beneath the duvet, leaving a careful distance between us.

The mattress dipped under his weight.

I stared at the ceiling, listening to his breathing.

"Are you afraid of me?" he asked quietly.

"I'm afraid I'll murder you in your sleep."

He chuckled.

"That would be inconvenient."

A minute passed.

Then his fingers brushed mine above the blanket.

"Your hands are shaking," he said.

"It's cold."

"Is that the only reason?"

I turned my head. He was much closer than I'd expected.

"Dante," I whispered, "what exactly do you want from me?"

He looked at my mouth, then met my eyes.

"More than I should."

I thought about the odd way he had looked at me while I bandaged his shoulder.

Nobody had looked at me like that since the bankruptcy.

Most people saw a scandal, a cautionary tale, or an opportunity to feel superior.

Dante looked as though I were a question he couldn't solve.

That should have frightened me more than it did.

I knew what his men called him when they thought I wasn't listening.

The King. The Butcher. The man nobody crossed twice.

Yet he had let me scold him about a cut, and he'd followed my instructions without argument.

I wondered whether anyone else ever spoke to him that way.

I wondered whether he liked it.

Then I caught myself wondering and immediately stared harder at the ceiling.

He was my employer. A criminal. The man holding my family's future in his hands.

He was also warm beside me, painfully real, and impossible to ignore.

I pulled the duvet closer to my chin.

Tomorrow I would demand the truth about Dad.

Tonight, I needed to remember how to breathe.

The storm rattled the windows.

Neither of us moved.