2. Dante #2
"Out." I command. I unbuckle my tactical harness.
She glares at me. She remains still. Her defiant glare tests my patience. She has no idea how completely she already owns me. I unlatch the door, step out into the stale, cold air of the underground garage, and walk around to the passenger side. I yank her door open.
"Do not make me drag you out of this vehicle."
"You are a terrifying asshole," she mutters. She slides out of the seat.
Her boots hit the concrete. She is close.
Too close. The top of her head barely reaches my chest. The urge to wrap my arms around her and crush her against my body is a physical torment.
I bite the inside of my cheek to ground myself.
The pain sharpens my focus. I place my large, calloused hand on the small of her back to guide her forward.
The contact sends a jolt of pure electricity straight up my arm.
Her spine stiffens beneath my palm, but she does not pull away.
The heat of her body bleeds through the fabric of her shirt, burning an imprint into my skin.
I guide her to the service elevator hidden in the dark alcove.
The metal doors are rusted at the edges.
I punch the sequence into the numeric keypad concealed behind a loose cinder block.
The gears grind loudly overhead. The steel cables groan with the effort of waking up.
The car slowly descends from the upper floors.
"This place looks like a tomb," she whispers. She wraps her arms around her waist, shivering in the damp basement air.
"It's a fortress. There is a difference."
The rusted doors rattle open. We step inside the cramped, dimly lit metal box.
I hit the button for the fourteenth floor.
The elevator lurches upward with a violent shudder.
The enclosed space forces us even closer together.
I take up too much room. My broad shoulders brush the scuffed metal walls.
My tactical vest is tight against my chest. My messy beard itches against the collar of my dark shirt.
The skull surrounded by dark roses tattooed on my left arm flexes as I cross my arms. The armor knotwork and compass on my right arm stretch tight over my biceps.
I am trapped in this elevator with a woman who looks like a miracle.
There is no cellular signal above the eleventh floor. The service elevator is a dead zone. I watch the floor numbers tick upward on the analog dial above the door. My breathing shallows. The sweet orange and cumin scent is concentrated in here. It is suffocating in the best possible way.
I study her profile. The elegant slope of her nose.
The lush fullness of her lips. The way her dark hair spills over her shoulders in chaotic perfection.
She bites her lower lip. A nervous habit.
The action draws my focus to her mouth. I want to bite that lip.
I want to taste it. I want to claim her against the steel of this rusted elevator car—to sink my teeth into her skin and leave a mark that never fades.
The elevator halts. The doors slide open.
The fourteenth floor of the Grand Continental.
I step out first. My hand drops instinctively to the sidearm holstered on my thigh.
The long corridor stretches out in both directions, swallowed by shadows.
The patterned carpet absorbs the sound of my boots.
Velvet drapes, rotting at the hems, cover the large windows at the far ends of the hall.
A layer of dust coats every surface. The air smells like old money and complete abandonment.
The walls are lined with disconnected brass phone banks.
It is a time capsule of luxury left to rot.
"Stay behind me."
I move down the hall with practiced, lethal precision.
I check the stairwell doors. Locked from the inside.
Welded shut. I did that three years ago.
I guide her toward the penthouse suite at the very end of the corridor.
The mahogany door unlocks with a specialized brass key I keep on a steel chain around my neck.
I push the door open. The suite is a sprawling relic of the late eighties.
Two enormous king beds stand in the center of the room, covered with dust-caked comforters.
Gilded mirrors lean against the faded wallpaper.
A huge brass bar cart sits in the corner, crowded with dozens of empty, crystal bottles.
"Stand right here." I point to a spot just inside the entryway. "Do not move an inch until I clear the rooms."
She opens her mouth to argue, but the sheer lethal intensity radiating from my gaze stops her cold. She crosses her arms under her breasts. The movement pushes her cleavage up. My mouth goes dry. I turn away sharply before I do something feral.
I draw my weapon. I sweep the main living area.
I check behind the rotting drapes. I clear the master bedroom.
I kneel to check under the beds. I move to the en-suite bathroom.
I kick the door open and sweep the corners.
I pull back the rotting silk shower curtain.
I check the walk-in closets. Every corner. Every shadow. Every blind spot.
My clinical detachment operates at peak efficiency during the sweep. This is my function. My entire identity. The guard. The protector. The weapon.
Then it hits me.
A phantom scent.
Cordite and wet copper—the unmistakable stench of blood mixing with rain.
The air in the bathroom feels cold. The walls warp inward.
My lungs seize. The smell of the dark alley on the South Side merges with a memory I do not even own.
Matteo's voice on the phone, breaking, shattering into a million pieces as he knelt in the freezing rain next to Carlo's ruined body.
The panic attack slams in without warning.
My chest caves in. My left hand—the one not holding the pistol—hangs rigid at my side.
And it shakes. Not a small tremor. A violent, uncontrollable vibration.
The adrenaline crash tearing through my nervous system.
Twenty years of buried carnage clawing its way up my throat.
The phantom phone call ringing endlessly in my ears.
I force the shake down. I grip the edge of the cold marble sink with that same hand.
The porcelain groans under the pressure.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Twenty years ago.
I wasn't there. I was sixteen years old.
I was sitting on the edge of my bed holding the plastic receiver of a landline phone.
I was completely helpless. The cordite smell in my nose right now is just a ghost. It isn't real.
The drive-by at the food truck brought the borrowed trauma clawing back to the surface.
It demands to be felt. It demands to paralyze me.
I force the stale air into my lungs. I lock the trauma back into its steel box at the bottom of my mind.
I cannot afford to break down. Not here.
Not now. I have a woman to protect. I shove the pistol back into the thigh holster.
I wipe a bead of cold sweat from my forehead.
I straighten my spine. The steel casing of my discipline slides back into place, cold and unyielding.
I walk back into the main living area.
Gemma is standing exactly where I left her. She is shivering, though the room is stiflingly warm. The adrenaline crash is finally hitting her. She shivers in the stifling heat of the room, looking exhausted and completely vulnerable.
"It's clear," I say. I walk over to the velvet drapes and pull them shut, sealing off the outside world and plunging the room into deep shadows. I flick a switch on the wall. A single, low-wattage lamp on the nightstand illuminates the space with a warm, amber glow.
She drops her arms. She looks around the room, taking in the dust, the gilded mirrors, the oppressive silence.
"How long do I have to stay here?" she asks. Her melodic voice is barely a whisper in the vast space.
"Until I say otherwise."
Her head snaps toward me. The spark of defiance reignites in her dark eyes. Good. I need her angry. Angry keeps her sharp. Angry keeps her fighting.
"You don't own me. You don't get to dictate my life. I have an apartment. I have friends. I have things I need to deal with."
"The Bellantis know your face now. You go back to your apartment, they will shoot you through the window before you even unlock the door. You go to your friends, you sign their death warrants and paint targets on their backs. You are staying here."
"For how long?!" she demands. She takes a step toward me. She tilts her chin up, exposing the long, elegant column of her throat. She is fearless.
I close the distance between us in three long strides. The clinical armor shatters entirely. The feral beast inside me rips the cage doors off the hinges.
I step directly into her space. I crowd her backward.
She retreats until her shoulders hit the wall next to the entryway.
My wide build eclipses her smaller frame.
I lean down. My face is mere inches from hers.
My fists lock at my sides. My rugged beard grazes the soft skin of her cheek.
The sheer heat radiating off her body is intoxicating.
Sweet orange. Warm cumin.
"You are staying here until the threat is neutralized," I growl. My voice drops a full octave, rumbling deep in my chest. "You are staying here until I decide it is safe for you to walk out that door. And even then, you are not leaving my sight."
Her chest rises and falls rapidly, brushing against my tactical vest with every panicked breath. Her warm breath ghosts over my lips. "Why do you care?" she whispers.
I stare down into her dark, furious eyes.
I do not have a logical answer. I do not have a tactical justification.
I only have the undeniable truth pounding through my veins.
The obsession. The possession. The sudden realignment of my entire universe around the curvy, defiant woman standing against the wall in front of me.
“Because I claim what enters my territory… and you are firmly inside it.”
She swallows hard. Her dark eyes widen. She does not push me away.
She does not know it yet, but her old life died in that fiery alley tonight. Her new life begins in this dusty, abandoned hotel. With me.
I will burn the entire city of Chicago to the ground before I let anyone take her from me.