I slide my hands flat against his chest. Granite-hard muscle meets my palms. A small, jagged scar peeks out above the collar of his shirt on his right upper chest. My fingers twitch with the absurd urge to trace it. I lock my wrists instead and push.
He does not budge a single inch.
"If you are going to burn the city down, start by buying me a new food truck," I snap. My voice is steady. A miracle, considering the adrenaline crashing through my system.
Dante blinks. The raw, territorial rage in his expression fractures. Confusion flashes across his rugged features. His messy beard twitches as his jaw clenches.
"Your truck," he repeats. His voice turns to a jagged rasp.
"Yes. My truck.La Diosa. The one your little mafia war just turned into shredded aluminum." I glare up at him. "Three years of my life. Two loans. Three different city permits. Gone. So excuse me if your dramatic declarations of protection are not exactly sweeping me off my feet right now."
He stares at me. His gaze tracks the line of my jaw before lingering on my mouth. The tactical register tries to slide back over his features. He steps back. The loss of his body heat leaves me freezing.
"The truck is gone," he states flatly. "You are alive. That is the only metric of success tonight."
"Success." I push off the wall, swiping angry hands down my jeans. They are covered in soot and grease. "You call dragging me out of my life and locking me in a haunted hotel a success."
"I call keeping bullets out of your skull a success, Gemma."
The way he speaks my name sends a localized tremor straight to the bundle of nerves between my legs. It sounds like a threat and a promise.
I turn away from him, forcing my legs to move. The penthouse is vast, shadowed, and frozen in time. Rotting velvet drapes hang limply over tall windows. The hems are black with decades of grime. A layer of dust coats every surface. The air smells of old money and total abandonment.
A gilded mirror leans against the far wall, the glass cloudy and speckled with age. A mahogany bar cart sits in the corner, holding a row of empty crystal decanters. Two king-sized beds dominate the center of the room, stripped down to yellowed mattresses, the comforters tossed onto the floor. The safehouse feels like a concrete crypt.
"Where are we, exactly?" I ask, wrapping my arms around my waist. The adrenaline is fading fast. The cold reality of the night is sinking its teeth into my bones.
"The Grand Continental. Fourteenth floor." Dante paces toward the windows. He does not step into the moonlight. He stays flush against the wall, peering out through a slit in the rotting velvet. "Costa property. Sealed since 1987. No service elevator access past the eleventh floor unless you have the override key. No cell signal. No active landlines."
"A dead zone."
"A safehouse." He drops the curtain. He begins pacing the perimeter of the room. His boots make soft thuds against the threadbare carpet.
I watch him move. He paces with the coiled lethality of a predator seeking a kill-strike in a cage that is too small for him. His eyes track every shadow while his head tilts at the slightest floorboard creak. Doors and vents are cleared with a professional, rhythmic efficiency. The space itself seems to be under tactical assessment.
But there is something else under the surface. A tightness in his shoulders. A frantic edge to his pacing. He pauses near the bathroom doorway, his chest expanding as he takes a sharp breath. His jaw locks so tight the muscles jump beneath his beard. He is scanning for threats that are not there.
"Why me?" I ask softly. The silence in the room is too loud. I need to fill it.
Dante stops. He slowly turns to face me. The oversized gold watch on his wrist catches the pale moonlight filtering through the gap in the curtains.
"You were in the alley," he says. The tactical tone is back. "The Bellantis do not leave loose ends. They were aiming for my men.Your truck was collateral. You saw the shooters. You saw the vehicles. They will come back to scrub the scene."
"Scrub the scene. You mean kill the witnesses."
"Yes."
The word lands with the finality of a casket closing. My knees feel weak. I walk over to the edge of the nearest bare mattress and sit down. Dust puffs up around my jeans. I stare at my hands. They are trembling.
La Diosa. The bright pink paint. The smell of sizzling cumin and orange marinade on the flat top. The line of loyal customers stretching down the block every Tuesday. He’s stripped away my identity and my independence in a single afternoon. I built that business from zero. I worked eighteen-hour days until my feet bled and my hands burned. I finally got out from under the weight of my neighborhood's expectations. I was free.
Now I am sitting on a dirty mattress in an abandoned hotel, a target in a war I know nothing about.
A raw sound escapes me—half-choke, half-sob. before I can stop it. I clamp a hand over my mouth, furious at my own weakness. I do not cry in front of men. I definitely do not cry in front of armed, terrifyingly handsome mafia enforcers who kidnap me for my own good.
Footsteps cross the room. The mattress dips hard as Dante sits beside me. He is too close. The heat radiating off his body is a presence.
I keep my hand clamped over my mouth. I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting the hot tears burning my lashes.
