8. Dante #2
She searches my eyes. "Dante. I don't belong in a mafia compound. I'm a chef. I serve tacos and cumin rice. I don't know anything about your world."
I drop my hands to her hips. I grip her curves. The lush, perfect flare of her thighs. The soft dip of her waist. I squeeze, branding her through the denim of her jeans.
"You belong with me."
"You're a terrifying man, Dante Costa."
"I am." I lean down. My face is inches from hers. "I am a killer and a weapon, completely fucked up in the head, and I check corners before I walk into rooms. But I am yours. Fully. Completely. You own every violent instinct in my body."
She shivers, but not from the cold.
"I don't need a guard," she whispers, her sassy edge softening into something deeply vulnerable.
"Good. Because you don't have one anymore." I brush my thumb across her lower lip. "You have a man. You have me. I'm not bringing you to my family as a problem to be solved. I'm bringing you as my fucking queen."
Her breath hitches. Her dark eyes shine in the dim light of the dock.
"Dante..."
"Say you're mine." The command rips out of me. Primal. Urgent. The need to hear it from her lips is a physical ache in my chest.
She doesn't hesitate.
"I'm yours."
I crash my mouth down on hers.
It isn't a gentle kiss. It's a branding.
My tongue sweeps into her mouth, tasting the sweetness of her, the fire of her.
She groans, her hands fisting in my shirt, anchoring herself to my chest. I devour her.
I consume her. I pour every ounce of twenty years of silence and pain and newly found devotion into the kiss.
I grind my hips against hers. The aching erection pressing painfully against my zipper reminds me of what is coming. When we get to the compound. When we are behind locked doors. When the war is outside and the world is shut away.
I will worship every inch of her.
I pull back, breathing hard. Our foreheads rest together.
"We're going to rebuild your truck," I murmur against her lips. "Better than before. Bulletproof glass. Stainless steel everything."
She lets out a wet laugh. "Bulletproof food truck?"
"Non-negotiable."
Headlights sweep across the frosted glass of the loading dock windows. The low rumble of V8 engines vibrating through the concrete floor.
Extraction.
I step back, drawing my Glock again. Old habits die hard, but the tactical coldness is gone. The fire in my blood is for her.
The steel door groans and rolls upward.
Two black sedans idle in the alleyway. Armed Costa soldiers step out, forming a perimeter.
One of them steps forward. A younger guy. He takes one look at the blood on my clothes and pales.
"Dante. Boss sent us."
I nod. I keep Gemma tucked behind my left shoulder. Shielding her from the wind. Shielding her from the world.
We walk out of the Grand Continental. The abandoned hotel behind us holds twenty years of my ghosts, but I am leaving them there to rot with the velvet drapes.
We reach the back door of the lead sedan. I open it for her.
She slides onto the leather seat. I climb in beside her, slamming the armored door shut. The world goes quiet inside the cabin.
The driver puts the car in gear. The convoy moves out, speeding through the dark streets of Chicago, heading north toward the stone walls and iron gates of the compound.
Gemma rests her head on my shoulder. Her hand slips into mine.
I look out the window at the passing city lights. The Bellantis started a war tonight. They took her livelihood. They tried to take my life.
They will burn for it.
I pull out my phone one last time. I send a text to Turi.
Clear a secure wing. No interruptions.
The reply comes instantly.
Done, figlio. Welcome home.
I put the phone away. I look down at the beautiful, curvy, fierce woman sleeping against my arm. The scent of sweet orange and warm cumin fills the car.
I am Dante Costa. I am thirty-six years old. For the first time in my life, I am awake.
Mine.
That's all there is to it.
I spend the entire ride watching her. Protecting her. Protecting our future.
She lived on the South Side. Exposed. Vulnerable. Running a business on a corner where stray bullets fly.
Never again.
I will build her a fortress. If she wants to cook, she will cook. But she will do it under my protection.
The iron gates of the Costa compound loom ahead.
Towering stone walls topped with razor wire.
Cameras tracking our approach. The gates swing open smoothly, revealing the sprawling restored limestone mansion.
The floodlights illuminate the training yard, the chapel in the east wing, the fortified garage.
The car rolls to a stop.
I don't wait for the soldiers to open the door. I shove it open myself.
The cold air hits us again. I step out, pulling Gemma with me. She blinks against the harsh security lights, taking in the sheer scale of the operation. Armed guards patrol the perimeter.
The front doors of the mansion open.
Matteo walks out onto the portico.
He is flanked by two capos. He looks exhausted. The dark circles under his eyes speak of the endless war. But as he looks at me, his shoulders drop a fraction of an inch. Relief.
I walk up the steps, keeping Gemma firmly at my side.
Matteo stops in front of us. He looks at the blood drying on my black undershirt. He looks at my bruised knuckles. Then, he looks at Gemma.
Usually, a stranger brought into the compound is subjected to an interrogation. They are stripped of phones, patted down, thrown in the basement war room.
Not her.
Matteo extends a hand to her. A sign of profound respect.
"Miss Torres," Matteo says, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "I am Matteo Costa. I apologize for the destruction of your property tonight. You have my word, the family will compensate you fully."
Gemma looks at his hand, then looks up at his eyes. She doesn't shrink away from the Underboss. She takes his hand and shakes it firmly.
"Thank you," she says. "But I don't want compensation. I want my truck back."
Matteo's lips twitch. A ghost of a smile. He glances at me.
I give him a single, hard nod.
"It will be handled," Matteo says. He turns his attention to me. The brotherly bond stretches between us, solid and unbreakable. The conversation we had on the phone hangs in the air, a silent pact of healing.
"Turi has the west wing prepped," Matteo tells me. "Secure. Quiet. Nobody goes past the second-floor landing."
"Good."
"The war room is running hot. Bellanti is mobilizing. When you're ready, we need to plan the counter-strike."
"Give me until morning," I say.
Matteo nods. "Take the night, Dante."
I guide Gemma past him, walking into the grand foyer of the mansion. The scent of Matteo's industrial kitchen lingers in the air—garlic, roasting meat, old wood. It smells like family.
We move up the sweeping mahogany staircase.
My hand rests on the small of her back. The possessive hum in my veins is a constant roar now. The cold, unfeeling enforcer is a dead thing of the past.
We reach the west wing. Double oak doors.
I push them open.
The suite is vast. A king-sized bed. A marble bathroom. Blackout curtains drawn tight. It is a bunker masquerading as a luxury bedroom.
I shut the doors behind us and turn the deadbolt. Click.
The world is locked out. The war is locked out. The Bellantis, the past, the alley, the rain. All of it is gone.
There is only this room.
There is only this woman.
Gemma turns to face me. The adrenaline crash saps the tension from her frame, leaving her posture soft and completely vulnerable.
She steps toward me. She reaches up, her hands sliding over my broad chest, feeling the thud of my heart.
"We're safe," she whispers.
"We're safe," I confirm.
I wrap my arms around her, burying my face in her neck, breathing her in. The scent of my future.
The broken parts of me finally settle, claiming her.
Tomorrow, I will go to war. Tomorrow, I will tear the Bellanti family apart piece by piece for daring to shoot at my woman.
But tonight. Tonight, I am going to show her exactly what it means to be worshipped by a monster who has finally learned how to love.
She belongs to me. Completely and utterly.