I wanted to see what he looked like when he stopped pretending.
Wanted to strip away the polish and the perfect manners and find out who Stefan Romano really was underneath the performance he'd been giving his whole life.
Wanted to know if that person would be as fascinating as I suspected.
At five AM, I gave up on sleep and went back to Inferno.
The club was closed. Silent except for the hum of HVAC and the distant sounds of traffic outside. I took the stairs to the second floor and walked down the hallway to Stefan's room.
I should leave him alone. Should give him space to adjust to captivity. Should focus on extracting information instead of indulging this obsession.
Instead, I swiped my keycard and opened the door as quietly as possible.
Stefan was asleep on the bed, still fully clothed in the t-shirt and sweatpants I'd given him. He lay on his side with one arm tucked under the pillow, the other curled against his chest. His face was relaxed in sleep, lips slightly parted, light brown hair falling across his forehead.
He looked younger like this. More vulnerable. Less like the defiant man who'd thrown a breakfast tray at me and more like the scared young man his father had sent into enemy territory expecting him to fail.
I should leave.
I walked to the chair by the window and sat down instead.
The room was dim, only the light from the hallway spilling through the small window in the door. Enough to see Stefan's face. The rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. The way his fingers twitched slightly in sleep like he was dreaming.
I watched him for ten minutes. Twenty. Lost track of time.
This was dangerous. This obsession growing in my chest like something with teeth and claws. I'd spent thirty years learning to control my violence, to channel it productively, to use it as a tool instead of letting it use me.
But this wasn't violence.
This was something else. Something darker and more complicated. Something that made me want to protect and possess in equal measure.
Stefan shifted in his sleep. Made a small sound—distressed, maybe. A nightmare.
His hand moved under the pillow, reaching for something.
Then his eyes opened.
For a second, he looked disoriented. Confused about where he was. Then his gaze found me sitting in the chair and his entire body went tense.
"You always been this stubborn?" I asked.
"I've always been underestimated."
"That won't be a problem here." I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. "I see exactly what you're capable of, Stefan. The intelligence. The planning. The courage it took to walk into enemy territory even if it was stupid as hell. You're not what your father thinks you are."
"And what does my father think I am?"
"Useless. Decorative. Too soft for the family business." I held his gaze. "He's wrong. You're clever and resourceful and brave in ways that have nothing to do with physical violence. That's why he sent you on a suicide mission. Because he's afraid of what you could become if you stopped playing the role he assigned you."
Something flickered in Stefan's eyes. "You don't know anything about my father."
"I know men like him. I've worked for them. Killed for them. They're all the same. They see people as tools. As weapons or shields or bargaining chips. Never as actual human beings with their own wants and needs. Giuseppe sees his sons the same way. Your brothers are his enforcers. You're his PR campaign. None of you are people to him. Just assets."
"And you're different?" Stefan's voice was sharp. "You're not keeping me here as an asset? As leverage against my family?"
"I'm keeping you here because I saw your face at that auction. Because I should've done something then and I didn't. Because you walked into my territory and now you're mine and I protect what's mine." I stood up. "That might not make sense to you yet. But it will."
I walked toward the door.
