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Clearly, I've had a type this whole time.

I move the pins around until something inside the mechanism clicks into place, giving me access to the forbidden room.

Except the door doesn't open into a room. It opens into a magnificent library.

Oh my god.

I stand in the doorway, my breath leaving in a rush as I try to take it all in.

The space is enormous. High ceilings. Vast wooden floors. Every wall is lined with bookshelves, their deep shelves crammed with thousands of books.

I step inside and gaze around me in awe. No windows and no other doors makes the room feel sealed off from the rest of the world. It also feels vastly different from the rest of the penthouse, which feels cold and unlived in. This room is warm and inviting, almost magical.

This room feels lived in.

I walk to the fireplace across the room, where the mantel is lined with framed photographs.

The first photograph is of a woman with dark hair and dark eyes. She's beautiful. The kind of beauty that doesn't need makeup, lighting, or a filter.

In the second photograph, she's standing next to a man, and I see the resemblance in him immediately. He has Dante's jaw and eyes, and he's looking at her with a face full of affection.

They have to be Dante's parents.

The third photo shows the same woman sitting on a bench in a garden with two boys, one on either side of her. Dark-haired, blue-eyed twins, maybe seven or eight years old. One is serious, staring at the camera with an intensity no child should possess. The other is grinning, missing a front tooth, his arm hooked around his mother's neck.

Dante and John Marco.

The fourth and final photo is smaller. It's a close-up of the woman, her head thrown back in laughter. Around her neck is a fine gold chain with a pendant that spells her name.

Eileen.

Dante's mother's name was Eileen.

My common sense tells me to leave, lock the door behind me, and pretend I never got in. I realize I’ve just invaded Dante’s most personal space, and I don’t think he’ll be very happy with me if he finds out.

Besides, I need to remain furious with him, because furious is easy. Knowing about this room and who it makes him makes it harder to be mad at him.

I move toward the door, but curiosity gets the better of me, and instead of leaving, I start looking at the bookshelves.

A shelf at knee height grabs my attention because it is full of children's books. Battered ones, their covers frayed at the corners, some of the spines so worn they are almost disintegrating.

I pull one out and open it, and inside the front cover, someone has written a dedication in flowing handwriting.

For my boys. Read to each other. — Mamma

It’s from Dante’s mom.

Seeing it reminds me he was a little boy once. A little boy who loved his mom. This room tells me he carries that loss with him. That beneath the ruthlessness is a heartbroken man and not a monster.

I slide the book back into its place on the shelf and turn toward the leather armchair in front of the fireplace. I sit down and sigh because the leather is butter-soft and comfy. In fact, this whole room feels cozy and warm.

On the side table beside it are an empty wine glass and an empty bottle of red wine. Next to them is a gold necklace, the chain coiled like it's been looked at and then put down.

The Eileen necklace.

I pick it up and stare at the intimate piece of jewelry that used to grace his mom’s throat. The pendant is small and delicate, the letters carved in a flowing script.

Dante keeps it here. Next to his reading chair where he can see it.