Chapter 2 - The Ride into the Dark
The leather seat of Dante Vale’s Maybach was warm, a sharp contrast to the biting October wind that had just grazed my bare shoulders.
I didn’t look back at the grand hotel steps until the heavy door shut with a muffled, expensive thud. Through the tinted glass, I saw the double brass doors burst open. Roman stood at the threshold, his black tuxedo unbuttoned, his jaw set in that rigid, terrifying line I had spent four years learning to fear. Vanessa trailed behind him, clutching the skirt of her gown in one hand and the blue sapphire ring in the other.
Roman’s eyes scanned the pavement, locking onto the car just as Dante rounded the hood and slipped into the driver’s seat.
For a heartbeat, the two men stared at each other through the windshield. Roman looked wild, his predatory composure shattered into jagged pieces. Dante, on the other hand, rested one forearm casually on the steering wheel, his dark eyes impassive, almost bored.
“He looks like he’s about to tear the city apart,” Dante remarked, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated through the quiet cabin.
“Let him try,” I replied, staring straight ahead. My hands were folded neatly in my lap. I was shaking, but only on the inside—the tremors of a caged animal that had finally found the latch unbolted. “He doesn't own the city. He only thinks he does.”
Dante shifted the car into drive. The engine purred like a sleeping beast woken for a hunt, and the Maybach pulled smoothly away from the curb. In the rearview mirror, I watched Roman break into a stride down the marble steps, shouting something lost to the cold night, but Dante didn’t accelerate in a panic. He drove with deliberate, agonizing slowness, daring Roman to chase a car that was already out of his reach.
“You left your coat,” Dante said as we merged onto Michigan Avenue, the city lights painting streaks of gold and crimson across the polished dashboard.
“I left four years of my life. A coat is the least of it.”
Dante glanced sideways at me. His gaze lingered on my bare collarbone, where Roman’s diamond pendant had hung until an hour ago, when I tore it off and dropped it into a champagne bucket.
“You did quite a show back there, Evelyn. Handing his mistress your wedding ring in front of two hundred of Chicago’s most ruthless men.” A faint, razor-sharp smile touched the corner of his lips. “They’ll be talking about it before sunrise. The Castellano empire just bled credibility on national social feeds.”
“I didn’t do it for them. I did it for me.” I turned to look at him, taking in the sharp silhouette of his profile—the straight nose, the shadow of stubble along a jawline that could cut glass, the calm lethality of a man who didn't threaten people because he didn't need to. “Why were you waiting outside, Dante? Don’t tell me you happened to be parked by the curb on my twenty-sixth birthday.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences,” he said smoothly, making a sharp left toward the lakefront. “I had a contact inside the catering staff. I knew Roman brought the girl. I knew what kind of man he is—the kind who believes humiliation is a display of power. I also knew you weren't the type of woman to cry into your napkin.”
“You expected me to walk out.”
“I hoped you would,” Dante said, meeting my gaze in the rearview mirror. His eyes were the color of smoke over a battlefield. “Because as long as you were his wife, I couldn't touch you. And Roman Castellano has stolen far too many things that should have belonged to me.”
My pulse kicked against my ribs. “I’m not a prize to be traded between mob bosses, Dante.”
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“Good,” Dante replied, his tone chillingly soft. “Because I don't collect trophies, Evelyn. I build alliances. And tonight, you just gave me the key to Roman’s ruin.”
***
