"Under the bed, Gemma. Now. Do not make a sound." He racks the slide of his weapon. The sharp, metallic click is the loudest sound in the world.
The elevator bell chimes a dull, rusted ding out in the hallway.
The Bellantis have found us.
6
Dante
The grindingscrape of metal on metal tears through the silence of the fourteenth floor. The rusted cables of the service elevator snap and groan. It is a sound that should not exist. This floor is a tomb. The power to that shaft was cut off decades ago. Someone bypassed the mainframe. Someone forced the car upward.
My focus narrows. I am moving before the thought even fully forms. My muscles lock. The feral, possessive haze of claiming my woman sharpens into something equally dangerous—not cold, not clinical, but precise. The guard does not replace the man. It arms him.
The monster is loose.
"Under the bed," I command. My voice is a gravel pit. Barely human.
Gemma scrambles backward on the mattress. Her dark eyes are wide. The blanket falls away from her bare shoulders. She opens her mouth to argue. Sassy to the bitter end. I do not have time for it.
"Now, Gemma."
I grab her by the hips and drag her off the mattress. I shove her onto the dusty hardwood floor. The space beneath the king-sized bed is tight. Rotted velvet dust ruffles conceal the gap. I push her under the frame until she is hidden in the darkness.
"Do not make a sound," I growl, crouching down to look into the shadows. "Do not move. Do not come out until I tell you."
She nods once. A quick, jerky movement. The scent of her skin spikes with fear. It hits my nostrils and fuels the roaring inferno in my chest. The sudden spike of adrenaline in her scent betrays her terror. They brought violence into her sanctuary. They interrupted the only peace I have known in twenty years. They will die for that alone.
I stand up. I drag my jeans up my legs and yank the zipper closed. I do not bother with a shirt. My bare chest is still slick with sweat. The skull in dark roses on my left arm flexes as I reach for the nightstand. I grab my Glock 19. I check the chamber. A full magazine. One in the pipe. I reach down and pull the six-inch combat knife from my discarded boot. Cold steel against my palm. The familiar weight of death.
The elevator screech grows louder. They are passing the eleventh floor. The dead zone. They are forcing the ancient machinery through the rusted tracks. Three floors away. Two floors.
I move through the suite without a sound. I scan the room. The main door to the hallway. The adjoining doors to the neighboring suites. The shattered windows leading to a sheer drop to the Chicago streets below. No fire escape. No secondary stairs. The only way down is the main stairwell at the end of the hall, or the elevator shaft itself.
I position myself by the oak door of the penthouse. The wood is warped. The brass hinges are tarnished. I press my ear to the cracked panel.
The elevator shudders to a halt. A resounding clang echoes through the corridor. The rusted doors pry open with a metallic shriek.
Footsteps. Tactical boots crushing the decaying carpet. I count the treads. One. Two. Three. Four. Four men. Bellanti foot soldiers. They do not move with the precision of trained operators. They are clumsy. They breathe too loudly. Their gear clinks. They think they have the element of surprise. They think they are hunting a trapped animal.
They do not realize they stepped into the hunting ground of a starving apex monster.
This hotel is my territory. The Grand Continental is my fallback. I know every rotting floorboard. I know which shadows hold the deepest darkness. I know the blind spots. I know the layout of the interconnected suites like the veins in my own forearms.
"Check the rooms," a voice mutters in the hallway. Rough, South Side accent. "Boss says they're up here. Boss says burn the whole floor if we have to."
Boss. The Bellantis. They came for her. They came to finish the job they started at the food truck.
My jaw grinds. Teeth threatening to crack under the pressure. A murderous heat spikes in my blood, but I ruthlessly force it down, letting cold calculation take the wheel. Four hostiles. Armed with assault rifles. Probably suppressed. Body armor. Night vision is unlikely. The ambient light from the streetlamps outside provides enough illumination to navigate the hall.
I cannot let them reach the penthouse door. I cannot let them spray bullets into the room where Gemma is hiding under the bed. The drywall is too thin. The risk of a stray round finding her soft flesh is unacceptable.
I must take the fight to them. I must draw their fire away from her.
I grip the handle of the adjoining door leading to room 1402. I twist it silently. The hinges moan slightly, but the sound is masked by the boots in the hallway. I slip into the neighboring suite. The air is filled with dust and the smell of ancient water damage. I move through the darkness, bypassing rotting armchairs and shattered lamps. I reach the door leading out to the main hallway from 1402.
I press my back against the wall. I crack the door open half an inch.
The four men are moving down the corridor in a staggered formation. They are checking doors. Finding them locked or jammed. The lead man carries an M4 carbine. The others have shotguns and submachine guns. Significant firepower for a simple sweep. They expect resistance. They expect Dante Costa.
