4. Dante
Dante
Gemma is on the bare mattress. I am on the floor by the door. She is swallowed by my oversized henley, her knees pulled tight to her chest, and the sight of her wearing my clothes in my space cracks something loose in my chest.
My back rests against the oak door. The wood is cold. The combat knife sits ready on my thigh.
I need to return to a tactical baseline.
Perimeter secure. Only one way in. The rusted service elevator is dead unless I call it. No signal. Fourteen floors above the Chicago pavement. Safe. We are safe.
But my blood thrums with a different kind of war.
She curls into the center of the king bed. The mattress is bare, stripped to the ticking twenty years ago. The springs groan under her weight. Every shift of her hips sends a jagged spike of arousal straight to the root of my cock.
My shirt covers her. Black cotton against golden skin. It hangs off one shoulder. The hem rides up, exposing a gorgeous thigh.
My responsibility. My obsession.
The word hangs in the empty suite, reflected in the endless gilded mirrors. and sinks into the rotting velvet drapes. She belongs to me.
My professional distance has been decimated the second she looked at me in that alley.
Her scent cuts through the stale, dusty air of the room. The need for her bypasses logic and chokes the very air from my chest. A brutal, possessive ache carves through my ribs.
I shift my stance. The hardwood bites into my boots. My discipline is a thin shield against the pulsing heat of my erection. The friction of denim against my erection is a constant, grinding reminder of what I want. What I need.
I am a specialist in violence, a guard forged in the fire of the Costa-Bellanti war.
That was me yesterday.
I’ve turned this suite into a fortress, and I’m the jailer who refuses to let his prize go.
My jaw aches from grinding my teeth. The silence in the suite is a low-frequency vibration, charged with everything we aren't saying. Outside, the wind howls against the reinforced glass of the penthouse windows. The cold draft sneaks through the cracks, stirring the velvet drapes.
She shivers on the bed.
My muscles lock. The urge to abandon my post and cover her with my body is a gnawing, physical ache.
I shove it down. This is my post. My purpose.
I have a job to do. The Bellantis are hunting her.
They destroyed her food truck. They fired rounds into her life.
The men who did this are already ghosts.
I’ll ensure their end is as slow as it is certain. With my bare hands.
I’m supposed to be her shield, but my own hunger is becoming the primary danger in this room.
I rub the knotwork compass tattooed on my right arm. The ink is a shield. It doesn't work. The skull and dark roses on my left arm flex as I grip the handle of my combat knife. Lock it down. Focus.
Two decades of bloodshed have led to this moment.
Matteo's voice breaks over the phone line. The memory tries to claw its way out of the dark box in my head. Sixteen years old. Standing in the hallway of the old house. The receiver cold against my ear. Rain pouring outside. Matteo finding our father in the alley. The blood. The water.
No. Box it up. Shove it down.
I snap my eyes open. The dust motes dance in the faint moonlight filtering through the dirty glass.
She sits up.
The mattress groans under her weight, a sound that vibrates through my own tethered restraint.
"You're awake," I say. My voice is gravel. Rough. Unused to the softness required for a woman like her.
She pulls her knees to her chest. The oversized shirt rides higher. A sliver of lace. Black lace.
Fuck.
The atmosphere between us tightens until every breath feels like a choice.
"I can't sleep," Gemma says. Her voice is defiant. Angry. Good. I want her angry. I want her fighting. Because if she softens, I will break.
She swings her legs over the edge of the bed. Her bare feet hit the dusty floorboards.
"Stay on the bed." The command is a low growl.
She ignores it. Of course she does. She is a force of nature. A woman who built a business from scratch on the South Side. She doesn't take orders from men who kidnap her into abandoned hotels.
"It's freezing," she mutters, rubbing her arms. The oversized shirt slides down her arm, revealing the smooth curve of her shoulder. "And the bed smells like a crypt."
She walks toward the gilded mirror leaning against the far wall. The glass is spider-webbed with cracks. The silver backing is flaking off.
I track her every movement. My vision narrows. The sway of her hips. The perfect curve of her ass hidden beneath my cotton shirt. The need to claim, to anchor her to me, drowns out the tactical layout of the room.
I stand up.
My boots are solid on the floor. The sound makes her stop. She turns to face me.
Her dark hair is a wild, beautiful mess around her face. Her eyes blaze with defiance, though the slight tremble in her hands betrays her fear.
"Don't pace around me like I'm a problem to solve," she snaps. "I'm not one of your tactical operations."
"You are a target," I rumble, closing the distance between us. Five steps. Four.
"I am a chef with a destroyed truck!"
Three steps. Two.
"You’re under my protection. Entirely." The words tear out of my throat. No filter. No restraint.
She backs up. Her shoulders hit the wall next to the cracked mirror.
I plant one fist against the rotting wallpaper beside her head. A single anchor point. My other hand stays locked at my side. My control is fraying, the professional instinct to protect warring with the urge to dominate before he destroys it.
She gasps. Her chest heaves. My shirt stretches across the swell of her breasts. The nipples are tight, pressing against the fabric. Begging for my mouth.
I lean in. The scent of sweet orange and warm cumin engulfs me. It destroys the last functioning brain cell I possess.
"You belong to me," I whisper. My lips are a fraction of an inch from her ear. "The Bellantis come for you, they die. The city comes for you, it burns."
Her hands come up. Palms flat against my chest. She tries to push me away, but the touch is a match thrown into a powder keg.
Her heat radiates against my chest. The friction of her palms over the small, jagged mark on my upper right chest. She traces it. Her fingers tremble.
"You're insane," she breathes.
"Yes."
I crush my mouth down on hers.
Our mouths collide with a desperate, violent hunger.
There is no gentleness. I don't know how to be gentle. I am built for war, and she is the only soft thing I’ve ever touched. I consume her gasps, my tongue claiming her mouth with authority.
Her lips part on a surprised gasp. I plunge my tongue into her mouth. Tasting her. Claiming her. She tastes like adrenaline and sugar.
She stiffens for a split second before her hands slide up from my chest to wrap around my neck. Her fingers tangle in my short, dark hair. She pulls me closer. The resistance shatters. She kisses me back with the same desperate, furious energy.
The kiss is a brutal exchange of territory, my teeth grazing her lip before my tongue forces its way inside. I angle my head, deepening the invasion. I want to devour her. I want to crawl inside her skin and stay there.
I press my body flush against hers. The solid wall of my chest against the soft, yielding curves of her breasts.
My wide build traps her against the vintage, peeling wallpaper. My watch catches the moonlight, pressing cold metal against her warm neck as I frame her jaw with one hand.
My need surges, trapped against the denim. I press it directly into the soft notch between her thighs.
She whimpers into my mouth. The sound is a drug. I need more.
I grind my hips forward. The friction of denim against the thin cotton of my shirt, against the black lace beneath.
"Dante," she moans against my lips.
"Say it again." I tear my mouth away from hers and drag my teeth down the column of her neck. The skin is hot. Tastes like salt and cumin. "Say my name."
"Dante." Her back arches. She presses her hips back into mine. Seeking the friction. Demanding it.
My control snaps. The professional distance is gone. There is only the need.
I drop my hands to her thighs. Luscious curves. I grip the backs of her legs and lift.
She wraps her legs around my waist instinctively. The oversized shirt bunches up around her waist, exposing her lower half. The tiny scrap of black lace.
I groan, a guttural sound that vibrates in my chest. The visual of her exposed, wrapped around me in this decaying, abandoned hotel. The contrast of her vibrant, living heat against the rotting velvet and dust.
I slam her back against the wall. Hard enough to rattle the cracked mirror.
"Mine," I snarl.
I press my hardened cock directly against her wetness through the layers of our clothes. The pressure is shattering. I rotate my hips, grinding the ridge of my arousal against her swollen folds.
She cries out. Her fingernails bite into my shoulders.
"Please," she gasps, her head falling back against the wall. Exposing the long, elegant line of her throat.
I attack it. Sucking, biting, laving the skin. Marking her. Leaving bruises that will tell the world she belongs to a Costa.
The slide of her wet silk against my denim is a blazing inferno. I thrust my hips forward, dragging my denim-clad cock against the wet heat of her pussy. The dampness seeps through the lace, soaking into my jeans.
She’s drenched, her pussy creaming as it prepares for the intrusion of my weight.
The scent of her arousal mixes with the sweet orange and cumin. It drives the urge inside me into a fever.
I reach down between our bodies. My large, calloused hand covers her sex. The heat radiates through the thin fabric of her panties.
I press the heel of my palm against her clit. Firm, relentless pressure.
She bucks against my hand. A ragged scream tears from her throat.
"Shh," I say against her lips, swallowing her cries. "Let me take care of you. Let me."