From Mob Princess to Mugshot Photographer novel Chapter 36

**Chapter 9**

Dante slipped into the narrow alleyway, his gaze fixated on the woman standing a mere ten meters away.

There was no mistaking it. She was the same height he remembered, and he could see her habitual gesture of tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear—slow and purposeful, as if she were preparing for a moment that would never arrive.

But the fierce, intimidating presence that once made grown men instinctively retreat was conspicuously absent.

Instead of the sleek black tactical gear that had once defined her, she now wore a cotton dress the color of river stones, its hem brushing against her calves.

In the past, she had often insisted that wearing dresses would lead to her demise; the fabric could snag, hindering her movements, slowing the sweep of her hair to the small of her back.

Now, however, she stood on her toes to pull down the shutters over a bookshop window, her dress fluttering lightly in the evening breeze. No one paid her any mind, their eyes skimming over her as if she were just another passerby.

Dante’s boot lifted instinctively, then hesitated, caught in a moment of indecision.

A young man in worn sneakers jogged up to her, a college student by the looks of him, his backpack slung casually over one shoulder.

“Vesper, sorry I’m late,” he said, his voice bright and carefree.

The words landed like a punch to Dante’s gut, expelling the air from his lungs.

The smile she offered the boy was soft and unguarded, a warmth that Dante had never received from her.

He slipped deeper into the shadows, pressing his back against the cool brick wall, his heart racing.

Count heartbeats, not regrets, he told himself, trying to regain some semblance of control.

Tomorrow, her people would own this street.

One “gas leak,” two “roadworks,” three cafés closed for “fumigation.”

Anyone who might have intended to visit the bookshop would find far better places to linger.

He watched as her gaze flicked over the empty block, her eyes lingering for just a second too long before she dismissed it, as if the instinct to be wary still resided within her, albeit without the ammunition to act upon it.

As dusk settled in the following evening, Dante felt a restless urgency. He could no longer wait.

—

A solitary courier approached, hands visible, voice devoid of emotion.

“Miss Vesper. Why did you ignore the recall? Mr. Corsaro burned the Elders to the ground for you.”

Dante stood across the street, his pulse pounding in his throat, bracing himself for anger, for tears, for any emotion that could prove he still existed in her world.

She frowned, her expression polite yet puzzled.

“I’m sorry. I had a memory wipe at eighteen. Who’s Mr. Corsaro?”

The words pierced through him like an ice pick, chilling him to the core.

Three years prior, intelligence had flagged a full neural scrub; he had tried to convince himself it was merely a ruse, a decoy.

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