Chapter 1 - I’m Still a Man
“I’m still a man, Anna.”
Anna Foster froze with Dante Moretti’s tuxedo jacket in her hands.
For a moment, the enormous dressing room inside the Moretti estate seemed to lose every sound.
The grandfather clock beyond the open doors continued ticking. Rain whispered against the tall windows overlooking Lake Washington. Somewhere downstairs, one of the housekeepers rolled a silver cart across marble.
But Anna heard none of it.
She heard only Dante.
And the hurt hidden underneath those five words.
She slowly turned toward him.
Dante Moretti sat several feet away in his black wheelchair, one hand resting against the wheel rim. At thirty-eight, he still possessed the physical presence that had once made newspaper photographers instinctively step backward when he entered a courthouse or charity event. His shoulders were broad beneath his white dress shirt. Dark hair swept away from his forehead. Black-and-gray tattoos disappeared beneath his collar and sleeves.
He looked powerful.
Dangerous, according to half of Seattle.
Broken, according to his family.
Anna had learned during the past six weeks that Dante hated the third description most.
Three days remained before the Moretti Foundation gala, his first major public appearance in nearly a year.
Anna had entered the room that afternoon for what should have been another ordinary rehabilitation session.
She saw his charcoal tuxedo hanging beside the mirror.
Dante reached for the jacket.
Anna reached it first.
“I’ll help.”
His hand caught her wrist.
Not hard.
Never hard.
But quickly enough to stop her.
Then came those words.
“I’m still a man, Anna.”
Her chest tightened.
Dante released her wrist.
“Do you think I can’t put on my own jacket?”
“No.”
“Then why are you holding it?”
Anna looked down.
That was when she understood.
She had become everyone else.
Six weeks earlier, when she first arrived at the Moretti estate, she had been warned about Dante by nearly everyone.
His previous physical therapist called him impossible.
His physician called him noncompliant.
His younger cousin Vincent described him as proud, temperamental and unwilling to accept reality.
Even Marco Bellini, Dante’s security chief and oldest friend, had quietly told Anna that four therapists had already left.
But Anna discovered something different within twenty minutes of meeting Dante.
Everyone helped him.
Constantly.
Without asking.
If Dante approached a door, somebody opened it.
If he moved toward the dining table, somebody pulled out a chair that he did not need.
If something sat slightly beyond comfortable reach, an assistant immediately handed it to him.
Guards touched his wheelchair handles without permission.
Housekeepers rearranged furniture because they believed it would be easier for him.
His family discussed accessibility renovations while he sat in the same room.
Nobody was cruel.
That was what made it unbearable.
They loved him.
They wanted to protect him.
And piece by piece, their kindness had taken decisions away from him.
Anna had promised herself she would never do that.
Now she stood holding his jacket.
She could have apologized.
Instead, she crossed the room and carefully returned the jacket to exactly where Dante had placed it.
Then she dragged an upholstered chair across the marble floor.
Dante watched her suspiciously.
Anna sat.
She folded her hands in her lap.
“Then show me.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“You’re serious?”
“Completely.”
“You were about to help me.”
“I changed my mind.”
Something almost resembling amusement appeared in his eyes.
Almost.
Dante wheeled toward the jacket.
Anna remained perfectly still.
He reached up.
His fingers closed around the collar.
Getting the first arm into the sleeve was easy.
The second was not.
The fabric twisted behind him.
Dante tried to rotate his shoulder.
The jacket caught.
He swore quietly.
Anna’s muscles reacted before her mind did.
She nearly stood.
Then she remembered his face when he had said those words.
She stayed seated.
Dante tried again.
The jacket slipped.
His jaw tightened.
Thirty seconds passed.
Then a minute.
The silence became uncomfortable.
Anna understood why everyone helped him.
Watching somebody struggle when you could end that struggle in seconds was painful.
But perhaps that discomfort belonged to the observer.
Perhaps helping was not always kindness.
Sometimes kindness meant enduring your own discomfort long enough to let another person succeed.
Dante tried again.
Sweat appeared along his temple.
Anna dug her fingernails lightly into her palm beneath her folded hands.
He glanced at her.
She did not move.
“Enjoying yourself?” he asked.
“Immensely.”
His eyes narrowed.
Then Anna smiled.
The corner of his mouth betrayed him.
“Cruel woman.”
“You fired the nice therapists.”
“I didn’t fire all of them.”
“How many?”
“Three.”
“There were four.”
“One quit before I had the opportunity.”
Anna suppressed a laugh.
Dante returned his attention to the jacket.
Another attempt.
This time, his hand found the sleeve opening.
He pulled.
The fabric slid over his shoulder.
And suddenly—
the jacket was on.
Crooked.
Wrinkled.
The left lapel folded inward.
But on.
Neither spoke.
Dante turned his wheelchair toward the full-length mirror.
Anna watched his reflection.
She had expected satisfaction.
Instead, she saw something far more intimate.
Recognition.
As though the man in the mirror had been missing for years and had suddenly returned.
Anna rose.
She walked toward him but stopped before touching the jacket.
“May I?”
Dante’s gaze met hers through the mirror.
Several seconds passed.
Then he nodded.
“Yes.”
Only then did Anna reach forward.
She straightened the lapel.
Smoothed the collar.
Her fingertips accidentally brushed the warm skin at his throat.
Dante inhaled.
Anna’s hand stopped.
Their eyes met in the mirror.
Something had been changing between them for weeks.
Neither had named it.
Anna was his rehabilitation nurse and physical therapy specialist.
Dante was her patient.
Those facts should have been sufficient boundaries.
But boundaries became complicated at two in the morning when pain kept him awake and she was the only person he allowed into his room.
They became complicated when he made coffee for her after learning she hated the expensive machine downstairs.
They became complicated when Anna discovered that beneath Dante’s intimidating reputation lived a man who remembered every employee’s birthday.
And they became especially complicated when Dante looked at her the way he was looking at her now.
“You did it,” Anna whispered.
“Yes.”
“No help.”
“Yes.”
Dante’s hand rose.
His fingers gently closed around hers.
Anna could have moved away.
She didn’t.
“I’ve spent six years being told what I can’t do,” he said.
The bitterness in his voice had disappeared.
What remained was exhaustion.
Anna lowered her gaze toward their joined hands.
“They call it kindness,” Dante continued.
“I know.”
“They mean well.”
“I know.”
“That almost makes it worse.”
Anna finally looked at him.
“Then stop letting them decide what you need.”
A faint smile touched his mouth.
“Is that a professional recommendation?”
“Absolutely.”
“And if I ignore it?”
“I charge extra.”
Dante laughed.
It was quiet and brief.
But Anna realized she had rarely heard him laugh.
Her heart responded before she could stop it.
His thumb moved once across the back of her hand.
Neither remembered the tuxedo.
Then someone knocked.
The door opened almost immediately.
Marco Bellini entered.
He normally moved with the calm confidence of a man who had spent twenty years anticipating trouble before trouble knew where to find him.
Today, his expression was different.
“Boss.”
Dante released Anna’s hand.
The warmth vanished from his face.
“What happened?”
Marco carried a tablet.
“There’s a problem.”
Dante held out his hand.
Marco gave him the device.
Anna watched Dante read.
One second.
Two.
Three.
His expression became completely still.
Anna had learned that stillness was dangerous.
Anger made Dante speak.
Fear made him sarcastic.
But when something truly threatened him, his face became unreadable.
“What?” Anna asked.
Dante said nothing.
He turned the tablet toward her.
A news website filled the screen.
At first, Anna saw only Dante’s photograph.
Then the headline.
CONFIDENTIAL FILES REVEAL MORETTI HEALTH CRISIS.
Her stomach dropped.
She scrolled.
Medical evaluations.
Medication records.
Neurological reports.
Private notes.
Documents that should never have left the secure medical system.
Anna felt sick.
“Who did this?”
Marco answered.
“We’re trying to find out.”
Anna continued scrolling.
Then she stopped.
At the bottom of one document was an access history.
A name appeared beside the final download.
ANNA FOSTER.
Her blood turned cold.
“That’s impossible.”
Dante stared at her.
“Dante, I didn’t—”
“I know.”
She blinked.
“You know?”
“I know you didn’t do it.”
Marco stepped forward. “We don’t know anything yet.”
Dante looked at him.
“I do.”
“Boss—”
“She didn’t do it.”
Marco’s jaw tightened.
Anna stared at Dante.
He had not hesitated.
Not even for a second.
That should have comforted her.
Instead, it frightened her.
Because somebody had not merely stolen Dante’s medical records.
Somebody had deliberately placed Anna’s name inside the evidence.
Someone wanted Dante humiliated.
And Anna blamed.
Marco’s phone vibrated.
He checked the screen.
His expression darkened further.
“What now?” Dante asked.
Marco looked toward Anna before answering.
“The leak was sent directly to every member of the Moretti family.”
Dante became motionless.
“And?”
Marco hesitated.
“They’re coming here.”
“When?”
Marco looked toward the driveway beyond the windows.
“Now.”
Outside, black vehicles began turning through the estate gates.
Anna counted one.
Then another.
Then another.
Dante looked at her.
For the first time since she had met him, she saw something beneath his control that resembled fear.
Not fear for himself.
Fear for her.
May you like
“Anna,” he said quietly, “whatever happens downstairs, stay beside me.”
And before she could ask why, the first car stopped outside the mansion.
