Chapter 3
Dahlia
H is goons drag me into some kind of private elevator—luxury, glass, too clean for blood but not for power. My wrists are still bound. The gag’s gone, but my mouth is dry. I haven't said a word.
I won’t give him the satisfaction of my voice or my begging.
Dante O’Driscoll stands inches from me, tall and silent in his black-on-black suit, watching me the way a wolf might watch a dying deer: amused, lazily stretching out the time before delivering the death blow.
His presence is… overwhelming.
It’s not just that he’s gorgeous—though he is. More beautiful than any man should be, all sharp cheekbones and dark stubble and sinful lips that probably only curl when he’s breaking something. Or someone.
It’s the stillness that makes my pulse skitter. The contained threat.
Like he’s constantly calculating which bone to break first.
The elevator dings. We’re in a penthouse. His, if my research jibes with what I’ve seen of the interior. Walls of glass, city lights glittering like weapons outside, thrown back by the Hudson River. Clean modern furniture. Brutalist edges. Expensive, ill-gotten everything .
The burly men sporting terrifying bulges under their jackets drop me into a leather chair, tie me up again and leave.
He stays. Says nothing for a long time.
Just walks around me in a slow circle, the predator studying his prey. The silence is brutal. Designed to make me squirm.
I don't. But I want to.
I remind myself that I’ve dealt with a thousand variations of dark power and the evil it exudes.
Okay, so maybe not this level of concentrated power. The kind that urges me to celebrate my every breath because it may be my last.
He stops before me. Cants his head ever so fractionally.
Then he speaks again. Finally. “You’ve been very busy, little thief. Causing merry mayhem here, there and everywhere.”
His voice is low, dark honey with a razored edge. It scrapes down my spine like the strike of a match, setting little fires everywhere.
I clench my jaw as those black eyes drill into mine. “Do you know how many times I watched you?”
Shit . I say nothing.
I’m hot defiance and righteous rage and I’m not shy about announcing it. Non-vocally. I’ve found in the past that works like a dream.
He leans in, voice just for me. “Since your very first heist. The first time, you took down the Navarro family. I watched your livestream from my office. Thought it was a prank. By the third one, I started tracing your data. I knew your coding style. Sloppy in a charming way. Proud. Brash.”
Fuck you.
He smirks. “By the fifth, I started to dream about you.”
Umm. What? My skin prickles.
He crouches in front of me, eye level now. “Why do you do it, Specter?” His tone is curious, but his gaze never softens. “Or should that be Little Dahlia?”
I blink. Hard. My real name from his lips is like a slap.
Sharp. Puncturing. It makes me almost forget the little part.
That’s the third… fourth time he’s called me little.
I’m keeping score on the size-baiting. And absolutely not thinking about him breaking me in half.
Or about what else a man his size is packing. Nope nope nope .
“I see the way you rile up your followers. But I also sense your glee. So tell me, how much of this is a crusade?” he murmurs. “And how much is just rage you don’t know where to put?”
I look away.
“No?” His voice lowers. “Is it because of Mommy?”
My heart stutters.
He doesn’t know. He can’t know. I made sure to scrub her from every last corner of the internet. “Fuck you.”
That gets a smile. The devil, cracking open his box of toys. “Ah, she speaks. Hit a nerve, did I?”
I go cold. Silent. Exhale.
He circles again, slower this time. Deliberate.
“You wear your defiance like armor,” he murmurs. “It’s cute. But I wonder. What happens when I take that off? What do I find underneath?”
“You’re not touching me,” I spit.
He chuckles. Very much in a ‘like you have a choice’ way. “Not yet.”
Not fucking ever. I brace. Cycle through every martial art technique I’ve learned, which is sadly a necessity for a woman like me.
He comes behind me, leans down—his breath a whisper against my ear. ?“You know what fascinates me?” he says softly. “You didn’t ask where you are. Or why I’ve taken you. You didn’t ask who I am or what I want.”
His hand grazes the back of my chair. Not touching me.
But close enough that I feel his heat. I hate what it’s doing to my body.
Because he’s sharply observant, and it’s only a matter of time before he sees my diamond-hard nipples.
The pulse racing at my throat that’s a fraction of panic and more… other things.
“You’ve already guessed. Because you’re smart . Because you’ve seen me. And you know I’m not here to kill you. At least not yet.”
I say nothing. Because he’s right. Dante lives up to his name of bringing hell to those who wrong him. Slow. Excruciating. Hell. If the rumors bear out, this is just starting.
“You’re scared,” he whispers. “Not of me. Not really. You’re scared I’ll find what matters. Use it against you.”
My stomach turns to ice.
He knows too much.
He doesn’t , but he does .
“You left a trail,” he murmurs. “Just a thread. A forgotten data tag on an old charity. A recurring transfer that breadcrumbs to a little house in Maine.”
My heart kicks hard. He smiles like he hears it.
“A man living there. Older. Reclusive. Withdrawn. I wonder—would he survive a heart attack if the wrong people paid Dad a visit?”
I snap. “Don’t you fucking touch him?—”
Dante is in front of me in a flash, gripping the arms of the chair, caging me in with his body, his breath, his presence. So close I can feel heat roll off him in waves. Can smell the mint on his breath and the cold thunderstorm of his aftershave.
“Ah,” he murmurs. “There it is. Your fire. Your weakness. Thank you, little thief. It’s quite refreshing to see you’re not masquerading as a boring wimp of a keyboard warrior. That should make this much more interesting.”
He’s not triumphant. He’s not gloating. He’s curious. Like he just cracked open a lockbox and is cataloguing the contents.
I shove back fear. Clench my fists. Shake my head like it might undo the moment. Erase what he’s just threatened.
But he sees. He knows. “Don’t worry,” he says softly. “I won’t hurt him. Not if you play nice.”
I laugh, bitter and broken. “Is this the part where you break out the chains and call it justice?”
His smile goes dark. “Oh, Dahlia. You think I’m a monster? The devil even? Isn’t that what the other D stands for?”
“Aren’t you?”
He leans in close. “You stole from me. Seven-point nine mil in crypto. You livestreamed it. Mocked me. So yes, you’re going to pay. One way or another.”
“How? You’re going to shatter every bone in my body? Dangle me from my toenails over your penthouse balcony?”
His features crack with the smallest of grimaces. “How unoriginal.”
“What then? Because there’s no fucking way you’re getting your money back,” I snap with far too much of that glee he mentioned.
There are over six thousand people and thirty organizations out there tonight basking in Dante O’Driscoll’s unwilling largesse.
I’ll die before I take back even one cent of that.
“That’s what insurance is for, little thief. By tomorrow night I’ll barely have felt the loss of the money. But not the insult. That you will pay for. But I’m not interested in bruises. Not yet. I’m interested in surrender. Yours, so we’re clear.”
My breath catches.
He watches me. A cobra circling a mouse.
My vow not to speak lasts one revolution of my chair. “What does that mean?” I snap when he stops in front of me.
He doesn’t hesitate. “It means I want thirty days.”
“What?” My voice is barely there. “Thirty days of what?”
Hands shove into pockets. Eyes blacker than a wormhole. Mesmerizing. Coaxing me to my destruction. He waits a beat. Two.
“Thirty days of your life. Here. With me. You sleep in my bed. You wear what I give you. You obey my every demand. In return—you stay out of jail. Your father stays untouched. Safe. Oblivious to what his genius daughter has been up to. And,” he breathes out, “you do one final heist. With me.”
In my bed…
Heist…
In my bed.
Heist.
I swallow hard. Fight the stupid, giddy elation fizzling through my bloodstream.
This is madness. I absolutely should take my chances with calling his bluff, seeing what he does next. Probably torture. Definitely more threats. Would he be foolish enough to kill me when a few million followers know I planned to rob someone tonight?
I think not.
But… no one knows who I actually robbed. So Dante O’Driscoll could disappear me and no one would be the wiser until it was way too late?—
“Why?” I whisper, bypassing my own logic to satisfy the curiosity dancing beneath my skin.
He smiles. Cold and beautiful and lethal and terrifying. “Because you fascinate me, Dahlia. And because I want to know what it sounds like when you beg.”