2. Dante
Dante
The armored doors slam shut. Reinforced deadbolts engage with a hollow thud.
That sound is a barricade. It separates the violence of the outside world from the pressurized, secure cabin of my vehicle.
I shift the transmission into drive. My combat boot slams onto the accelerator.
The engine roars. The tires scream against the broken asphalt of the alley.
We tear away from the curb. The vehicle lurches forward, swallowing the distance between us and the main thoroughfare.
The smoke from the wreckage of her food truck fades in the rearview mirror as we leave the cleanup to my crew.
La Diosa. A vibrant, colorful emblem of her independence, now reduced to a twisted cage of blackened steel and shattered glass.
Flames lick the brick walls of the narrow alleyway.
Plumes of acrid black smoke billow into the night sky.
The Bellanti family did that. They sent a hit squad to spray this block with automatic fire.
They did not care about the collateral damage.
They did not care who caught the shrapnel. They missed her by sheer, dumb luck.
Luck is a fickle, useless concept. I do not rely on it. I rely on Kevlar and hollow-point ammunition. Most of all, I rely on ruthless paranoia.
I calculate the angles of the intersection ahead.
I map the sightlines. My jaw locks. The muscles in my neck pull tight.
I scan the pedestrian traffic, the parked cars, the shadows between the streetlights.
My mind operates at maximum capacity, cycling through threat assessments and exit strategies.
The watch on my wrist catches the glare of the streetlamps as we pass beneath them.
The steel glint is a cold reminder of the time ticking away.
The Bellantis will realize they missed a witness. They will come back to finish the job.
Then the scent hits the air circulators.
Orange and cumin.
The scent floods the confined space of the SUV.
It slices through the harsh, metallic tang of residual cordite clinging to my tactical vest. It burrows straight past my armor.
My concentration breaks. The scent is overwhelming.
It is rich, vibrant, and alive. It smells like warmth and salvation. It smells like her.
I cut my eyes toward the passenger seat.
Gemma Torres.
She sits rigidly against the dark leather upholstery.
Her breathing is erratic. Her chest rises and falls in rapid, uneven hitches.
She is a vivid contrast of soft curves against the lingering smoke.
She is soft where I am hard, a brilliant flash of color against the sterile, violent world I just dragged her into.
Her dark hair cascades over her shoulders in wild, tangled waves.
Dust and soot smear her cheekbone, but it does nothing to hide her features.
She stares straight ahead from the passenger seat. She is terrified and furious, her body vibrating with a fierce, combative energy, that defies the destruction she just witnessed. She is the most magnificent creature I have ever encountered in my miserable, blood-soaked life.
I’ve never seen anything so vital. Mine.
The word drops into the center of my brain like a lead weight dropping.
It is not a rational conclusion. It is not a strategic calculation.
It is a certainty. She belongs to me. I do not know her favorite color.
I do not know her history. I have only known of her existence for twenty minutes.
None of that matters. The cold focus that has kept me alive for twenty years breaks.
I feel the sudden shift in my gut. The protector instinct roars to life.
It demands blood. It demands violence against anyone who dares to look at her, let alone point a weapon in her direction.
The Bellantis just signed their own death warrants. They aimed at what is mine.
I take a hard left onto a deserted one-way street in the West Loop.
The chassis of the SUV absorbs the sharp turn.
I check the side mirrors again. Empty. No headlights tracking us.
The city blurs past in streaks of neon and shadow.
The silence in the vehicle is charged enough to choke on.
I need to break it, but I do not know how to speak to civilians.
I only know how to give orders. I only know how to neutralize threats.
My entire existence is built on hard angles and defensive perimeters.
The secure phone in the center console buzzes. A harsh, vibrating demand for attention. I hit the speaker button without taking my eyes off the road.
Matteo's voice fills the cab. Crisp. Professional. Edged with impending violence.
"Status."
"Secured the package. Route is clear. Secondary sweep showed negative for a tail."
"The alley?" Matteo asks.
"Burned. Bellantis sent a crew to shoot up a silver car. Collateral damage wasn't a concern for them. They left a mess."
"Bring her to the compound."
"No."
The word leaves my mouth before I even process the decision.
I grip the steering wheel until the leather creaks in protest. The Costa family compound is heavily fortified.
It has impenetrable stone walls, iron gates, and twenty-four-hour surveillance.
It is a fortress. But it also has my brothers.
It has foot traffic. It has variables. I do not want variables around her.
I want control and isolation. I want to be the only man looking at her.
The thought of another man laying eyes on her right now makes my blood run hot.
Matteo pauses. The silence on the secure line is absolute. He is the boss. He is calculating my sudden insubordination.
"Dante." A warning tone creeps into his voice.
"I'm taking her to the Grand Continental. The fourteenth floor. It's secure. I'll lock it down."
"Turi is double-checking the perimeter at the compound right now," Matteo argues smoothly. "He's bringing the boys inside. We have the manpower to house her. Bring her home."
"I said no." My voice drops to a guttural rasp. The predator in my gut snaps his teeth. at my brother's suggestion. "I'm keeping her at the hotel. Send a cleanup crew to the alley. Scrub the security footage from the surrounding traffic cams. Do not let anyone know she survived."
Matteo exhales sharply. The sound crackles through the speaker. "Keep your head, Dante. We're at war."
"My head is exactly where it needs to be."
I cut the connection. The green light on the console dies. I am officially operating off the books. I am breaking protocol. I do not care. Protocol will not keep her safe.
No one else touches her. No one else keeps her safe.
The vehicle plunges into the subterranean tunnel network beneath Wacker Drive.
Yellow sodium lights flash rhythmically through the windows, casting long, moving shadows over Gemma's face.
She turns her head slowly. Her dark eyes lock onto mine.
The anger in her gaze is spectacular. She isn't cowering.
She isn't weeping into her hands. She is practically vibrating with an electric, defiant rage.
"You don't get to just kidnap me," she snaps. Her voice is a rich alto. "Pull this car over right now. I need to call the police. I need to talk to my insurance company. My truck is gone."
"The police on the South Side are bought by the Bellantis. Your insurance company will drop you the second they find nine-millimeter bullet holes in the chassis. You go back there, you die."
I state the facts flatly. My tone is a shield against the chaos she’s stirring up.
It is the cold detachment I wear every second of every day to keep the monsters at bay.
But beneath that armor, a terrifying possessiveness is thrashing.
I want to pull the SUV over to the side of the dark tunnel.
I want to yank her across the center console and bury my face in the soft curve of her neck, breathing in that sweet orange and warm cumin until it overwrites the metallic smell of blood in my memory.
I need to map every lush curve of her body with my rough hands. My teeth grind.
"I'm not a target!" she yells. She throws her hands up in frustration. The movement draws my eyes to the curve of her breasts beneath her shirt. "I sell tacos! I'm not part of whatever mob war you're fighting!"
"You are now."
"I have a life!" she protests, her voice cracking slightly. The tough exterior wavers for a second, exposing the raw, bleeding devastation underneath. "That truck was everything I had. It was my independence. It was my whole life."
"Your safety is my only directive now." The words slip out. Dark. Unyielding.
She blinks. The sheer, unapologetic arrogance of my statement stuns her into a brief silence.
She opens her mouth to fire back a sassy retort, but the tunnel gives way to the darkened streets of the financial district.
I cut the wheel hard. We dive into a narrow side street, approaching the dark silhouette of the Grand Continental.
The hotel has been a Costa asset since before the murders.
A relic of a bygone era. Abandoned. Forgotten by the city's developers.
The building is a shell of cold marble and tarnished brass.
The fourteenth floor has been sealed since 1987.
It is my primary fallback safehouse. No one comes here. No one except Matteo knows I use it.
I pull up to the hidden subterranean entrance.
The iron gate groans in protest as I trigger the remote access.
The metal teeth retract into the ceiling.
I guide the armored SUV down the steep concrete ramp into the cavernous, pitch-black space below.
The headlights cut through decades of undisturbed dust. Motes dance in the bright white beams. I navigate the maze of concrete pillars until I reach the back corner.
I cut the engine. The silence is a physical weight, cold and airless.