Chapter 1 - The Weight of the Blood-Stained LetterThe floor of Osteria Vico was cold against my cheek, a smooth expanse of white and gray marble that smelled faintly of expensive floor wax and old wood. Somewhere above me, a chandelier hummed, a tiny, high-pitched vibration that seemed to match the erratic beating of my own heart.
Then the vibration on the floor changed. Heavy, purposeful steps. No hesitation.
The man crouching beside me didn't touch me immediately. He assessed me the way an experienced mechanic assesses an engine fire—looking for the source, the pressure points, the point of total failure.
"Dante," a voice spoke from somewhere above him. It was sharp, tight with nervous authority. "We need to clear the room. If she’s bleeding on the carpet—"
"Quiet," Dante said.
The single word didn't carry anger. It carried absolute finality. The man who had spoken—probably the restaurant manager, sweating through a custom-tailored suit—vanished back into the shadows of the dining room without another syllable.
Dante reached out, his gloved fingers sliding carefully inside my trench coat. He didn't grope or tear at the fabric. His touch was professional, almost surgical. His knuckles brushed against my ribs, where the cardboard envelope Marcus Webb had given me was taped securely to my skin with medical gauze.
"Got it," Dante murmured, his breath warm against my ear.
"Don't... don't let them take it," I whispered, my eyelashes fluttering against the marble. "Marcus... Marcus said..."
"Marcus is dead," Dante said.
The words hit me like a physical blow. Even though I had suspected it—even though I had spent seventy-two hours running from the black sedan that tailed my Honda Civic all the way down from New Hampshire—hearing it spoken out loud by a stranger in a restaurant made the nightmare real.
"They found him?" I managed, my voice cracking.
"In his office. Two hours before you crossed the state line," Dante replied smoothly, his fingers carefully peeling the envelope away from my skin without tearing the waterproof plastic casing Marcus had wrapped it in. "And now everyone in this city is looking for what was inside this coat. Which means, Miss Ashford, you've brought a very large storm into a very expensive room."
Before I could answer, darkness rushed up from the marble floor, swallowing the candlelight, the chandeliers, and Dante’s cold, assessing eyes.
When I woke up, the marble was gone.
Instead, I was lying on a leather sofa that smelled of old tobacco, rain, and cedarwood. The room was dark, illuminated only by the amber glow of a desk lamp and the heavy streaks of rain hammering against floor-to-ceiling windows. I tried to sit up, but a wave of nausea forced me back onto the cushions.
"Easy," a voice murmured from the shadows near the window.
Dante sat behind a massive mahogany desk. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket anymore; his white dress shirt sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, revealing lean, corded muscles and a jagged silver scar that ran from his wrist up into his cuff. On the corner of the desk sat the yellowed envelope, untouched, beside a heavy silver pistol.
"Where am I?" My voice was a dry croak.
"My office," Dante said, taking a slow sip from a heavy crystal tumbler of amber liquid. "Above the restaurant. Safe for the moment, though 'safe' is a relative term in my line of work."
"I need to go," I said, swinging my legs over the side of the sofa, though my knees trembled like dry reeds. "If they followed me to New Hampshire, they know I’m here. My car is parked three blocks away—"
"Your car has a tracking device bolted to the rear axle," Dante interrupted, his eyes locking onto mine. "And two of Silvio Moretti’s men are currently picking the lock on your apartment in Concord while we speak. If you walk out those doors, you won't make it to the end of the block."
May you like
I froze, my hands gripping the edge of the leather cushion. The reality of my situation—cut off, hunted, a fourth-grade teacher thrust into a world of syndicate executioners—settled over me like lead. "Who are you?"
"Dante Moretti," he said, rising slowly from his chair. "And before you panic, Miss Ashford—Silvio Moretti, the man whose men are looking for you, is my uncle. Which means you've either walked into the mouth of the wolf, or you've just handed me the key to destroy him."
