“You fucking bitch. I was going to get this over quickly for you, but now I’m going to take my time with?—”
Everything stops when the light in his eyes disintegrates in less than a nanosecond.
He slumps to the floor with a thud, his expression as lifeless as the uncomfortable fold of his body.
I dart my eyes to the left when a crash follows the panicked shriek of a woman in fear. The hostess is on her knees, begging to be spared. A man with inky-black hair and eyes as dark as death pays her pleas no attention. He takes her out with a direct kill shot to the head, ending her life as swiftly as someone did the groom’s.
Then, just as fast, the man holding my right ankle gargles through the blood flooding his esophagus from the large gash running from one ear to the next.
I know who’s standing behind him before my vision clears enough to see through the madness.
I can sense him.
Every line of Dante’s face is carved with fury as he and the four men behind him move through the room with the tenacity of a storm breaking loose.
The drunk men barely have time to react before a brutal fight erupts.
It’s fast and violent. Bodies slam into tables, glass shatters, and more than fists fly.
One of the men who arrived with Dante swings a baseball bat like he’s in the batter’s box, seeking a homerun.
Even though Dante and the men I assume are his brothers, since they have similar features, are outnumbered one to twenty, they gain the advantage almost instantly. They bring the room to heel brutally and bloodily, like they’ve been waiting for the prime excuse to unleash hell on these men.
I don’t have time for an official head count before Dante reaches me. After draping his blood-dotted jacket over my trembling thighsand chest, he gathers me in his arms. His hold isn’t rough, but it’s firm enough to announce how much adrenaline he still has left to disperse.
Don’t get me started on his raging heart. It’s pumping with a fury I’m not sure even a complete massacre could subdue.
As he carries me through the chaos without a hint of strain on his face, I cling to him. My fingers curl around his crinkled dress shirt as my lungs fight for oxygen. I’m so shaken that my breaths aren’t visible in the cool night air when he pushes through the back door of the residence and heads to the first SUV in a line of many.
He doesn’t speak, not when he puts me in the back of an SUV or when he slams the door after climbing in behind me. He stays silent the entire drive home. The only noises are the occasional crack of his knuckles as he flexes and unflexes his fists, and the grinding of his teeth when no number of “I’m safe” mantras stop me from uncontrollably shaking.
“Thank you,” I huskily murmur when Marco hands me my backpack once we reach the underground garage of my building. He must have gathered it from the broom closet when Dante and his brothers stormed the event.
With atskthat signals to Marco he shouldn’t follow, Dante tugs me out of the SUV and walks me to the elevator. We ride to the twelfth floor in silence. Dante’s jaw is clenched so tightly I’m surprised it doesn’t crack, but he doesn’t say a word.
His silence scares me more than anything I faced tonight.
We enter his apartment, and he steers me straight toward the bathroom. I feel a bruise forming on my hip when he lifts me to sit on the vanity, but I act nonchalant. There’s enough torment in his eyes; he doesn’t need more.
I don’t wince when he presses his thumbs to each side of my nose to make sure it isn’t broken. It’s not, but you wouldn’t believe that if you could see his expression. You’d swear I was bruised head to toe.
He drinks in every inch of my face before his focus shifts to my wrists. They’re a little achy but thankfully bruise-free.
When I take in my reflection in the full-length mirror, I don’t look any different than I did in the broom closet thirty minutes ago.
Well, except that one gleam. But now isn’t the time to discuss that.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.
“I’m fine,” I assure Dante when his assessment shifts to my scuffed elbows. They’re not bleeding. They’re a little rough from thrashing against the carpeted floor as I attempted to fight off my attackers.
When Dante continues to fuss, I place my hands over his, stilling them, then silently coerce eye contact. My heart thumps erratically when he finally grants my request. His eyes are utterly broken, and they tug at my heartstrings.
“I’m fine,” I repeat, my voice subdued but honest.
Only once he authenticates the honesty in my tone does his voice shake with fury. “Name your price.”
Lines scour my forehead. “What?”
