Chapter 1 - The Blood on the MountainThe rain did not fall in drops; it hammered down on the winding serpentine of Blackwood Ridge like a physical assault, turning the steep mountain tracks into slick ribbons of mud and grease. In the glare of my headlights, the twisted remains of Dante Moretti’s car were already invisible down in the ravine, swallowed entirely by the dense pine forest and the howling blackness of midnight.
My breath came in ragged, hyperventilating gasps. My hands—crawling with raw scratches from the brambles and soaked in Dante’s warm, metallic blood—shook so violently I could barely keep my balance on the steep slope.
Above us, the high beams of half a dozen heavy black SUVs cut through the downpour, casting long, monstrous shadows across the asphalt. The doors slammed simultaneously with the heavy, military-grade thud of men who lived and breathed violence. Footsteps crunched frantically over gravel.
“Boss!” a deep, gravelly voice roared above the din of the storm. “Boss, where are you?!”
Dante Moretti lay sprawled against my knees in the mud. Despite the wreckage, despite the blood trickling from a deep laceration across his temple and soaking his bespoke wool coat, he did not look like a man on the brink of death. As the first flashlight beam lanced down the embankment, illuminating his pale, chiselled face and the sharp angle of his jaw, his gray eyes were wide, alert, and terrifyingly cold.
He didn’t wince. He didn’t cry out. He just stared up at me with an intensity that burned right through the chill of the rainy night.
“Don’t shoot her!” Dante barked, his voice carrying an iron authority that could slice steel.
The half-dozen armed men who had rushed the guardrail froze mid-stride. Heavy-caliber pistols hovered inches from my face, their black barrels gleaming wickedly in the strobe-like flashes of police and vehicle lights. For a heartbeat, time stopped. The wind shrieked through the pines, and the scent of gasoline and scorched rubber hung heavy in the air.
Slowly, the men lowered their weapons, their eyes darting between their bleeding boss and the terrified, soaking-wet waitress kneeling in the mud beside him.
Dante shifted his weight, wincing slightly as a bruised rib protested. With a slow, deliberate motion, he reached up and gripped my wrist. His fingers were like steel bands—warm, heavy, and inescapable.
“Now tell me, waitress,” Dante whispered, his voice dropping into a register that made the hair on the back of my arms stand up. “How did you know my brakes were going to fail?”
I swallowed hard, the taste of rain and copper flooding my mouth. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.
“I—I didn’t just guess,” I stammered, my teeth chattering from the cold. “I heard them. At Bellini’s. In the private alcove behind the kitchen partition.”
Dante’s eyes narrowed, a dangerous spark flashing in the deep gray. “Who?”
“Your wife,” I breathed. “Vanessa. And a man with a ring bearing a serpent crest. He said the brakes were cut just enough to fail on the mountain road. He said by midnight, she’d be a grieving widow.”
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the group of enforcers. The lead guard—a massive man with a jagged scar running down his neck named Rocco—stepped closer, his hand resting menacingly on his holster.
“Boss, should we put her in the back unit?” Rocco asked, eyeing me with naked suspicion. “Could be a setup. Could be working with the hit crew.”
Dante didn’t look at Rocco. He kept his gaze locked onto mine, his thumb slowly brushing against the blood-smeared skin of my wrist. He weighed every word I had spoken, searching my face for deceit, for fear, for anything that didn't ring true.
Instead, he found only the stark, shivering truth.
“No,” Dante said finally, pushing himself up with a grimace of pain, leaning half his weight against my shoulder. “She pulled me out of a burning wreck before it went over the ledge. She didn't have to follow me. She didn't have to climb down into this hellhole.”
Dante turned his head toward Rocco, his expression hardening into pure, unadulterated ice.
“Get the cars turned around. We’re going home. And call Dr. Hayes. Tell him to meet us at the estate.”
Rocco nodded sharply. “And Mrs. Moretti?”
May you like
Dante paused, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. The temperature around us seemed to drop ten degrees.
“Leave her at the house,” Dante whispered, his voice like the grinding of millstones. “Let her practice being a grieving widow. Because by sunrise, she’s going to find out I’m very, very hard to kill.”
