Chapter 1 - The Shadow of the Past
I opened my dry mouth,
struggling to find the breath to speak,
struggling to find the courage to repeat the words.
My chest burned with a fierce agony,
the cracked ribs protesting against every slight movement,
screaming in a chorus of physical torment.
But I knew I had to speak,
I had to tell him exactly what happened.
The words were heavy,
like toxic lead sitting on my swollen tongue,
poisonous and incredibly dark.
I looked into Dante's eyes,
seeing nothing but a bottomless abyss,
a void that promised absolute destruction.
"He said,"
I whispered,
my voice cracking in the quiet hospital room,
"that Victor sends his deepest regards,
and that the blood spilled on the harbor snow will never truly wash away."
Dante stopped breathing,
his broad shoulders going completely rigid under his expensive suit,
his posture turning into carved stone.
He did not blink,
he did not flinch,
he did not make a single sound.
The silence in the room stretched out,
becoming a tangible entity,
a monster lurking in the harsh fluorescent lighting.
For three long years,
I had stood by his side in countless meetings,
I had watched him dismantle rival corporations,
I had seen him destroy wealthy men with just a pen,
but I had never seen this expression on his face.
It was not anger,
it was not sorrow,
it was pure,
unadulterated murder.
"Victor,"
Dante finally repeated,
the name slipping past his lips like a cursed spell,
chilling the very air around us.
I nodded slowly,
wincing as the cervical collar pressed painfully against my bruised jaw,
reminding me of the brutal reality of the night.
"Yes,"
I breathed out,
"he specifically told me to make sure you heard that exact name,
and he laughed when my head hit the concrete."
Dante slowly stood up,
his tall frame towering over the sterile medical bed,
casting a long,
dark shadow across the white sheets.
He reached into the inner pocket of his charcoal overcoat,
pulling out a sleek black phone,
his movements deliberate and terrifyingly calm.
He did not look at me as he dialed,
his eyes fixed on the blank wall opposite the bed,
calculating a thousand different ways to end a life.
"Lock down the hospital,"
Dante said into the phone,
his voice dropping an octave,
vibrating with a lethal authority.
"I want twenty men on this floor in five minutes,
I want the security cameras seized,
and I want a secure transport ready at the loading dock."
He paused,
listening to the panicked voice on the other end,
his jaw clenching so hard a muscle feathered in his cheek.
"No,"
Dante commanded,
"she is not staying here,
this place is a glass house,
and I am taking her home."
He hung up,
the click of the phone sounding like a gunshot in the suffocating quiet.
I stared at him,
my heart hammering against my fractured ribs,
panic rising in my throat like bile.
"Home?"
I asked,
my good eye widening in sheer confusion,
"Dante,
I have a small apartment,
it has practically no security,
you cannot take me there."
He finally turned his gaze back to me,
the coldness in his eyes softening for a fraction of a second,
replaced by a possessive intensity that terrified me even more.
"You are not going to your apartment,"
he stated,
stepping closer to the edge of the mattress,
his large hand resting on the metal railing.
"You are going to my estate,
where no one can touch you,
where no one can even breathe the same air as you without my permission."
I tried to shake my head,
forgetting the restrictive collar,
and a sharp spike of pain shot down my spine,
making me gasp loudly.
"I am just your secretary,"
I managed to say,
tears welling in my eyes from the sudden burst of pain,
"I do not belong in your world,
I just handle your schedule,
I book your flights."
Dante leaned down,
his face coming inches from mine,
his expensive cologne mixing with the smell of hospital antiseptic.
"You ceased being just my secretary the moment they put their hands on you,"
he whispered,
his voice a dark promise that sent shivers down my spine,
"you are mine to protect now,
and God help the men who thought they could use you to get to me."
The door to the hospital room suddenly burst open,
and a frantic doctor rushed in,
followed closely by three massive men in dark suits.
The men were armed,
their weapons bulging noticeably under their tailored jackets,
their eyes sweeping the room for threats.
"Mr. Moretti,"
the doctor stammered,
his face pale with absolute terror,
"you cannot move this patient,
she has severe internal trauma,
she needs monitoring."
Dante did not even turn around to face the doctor,
he kept his eyes locked on mine,
holding my fearful gaze with an unwavering dominance.
"Pack her medications,"
Dante ordered the doctor,
"prepare the discharge papers,
or I will buy this hospital and fire you before you can draw your next breath."
The doctor swallowed hard,
May you like
nodding frantically before rushing back out into the hallway,
leaving me entirely at the mercy of the most dangerous man in Chicago.
