Chapter 2 - The Cage at Blackwood EstateThe iron gates of the Blackwood Estate swung open like the jaws of a tomb.
Stretching across fifty acres of secluded woodland on the northern cliffs of New York, the sprawling stone mansion was a fortress of wealth, gothic architecture, and terrifying secrets. As Dante’s black Lincoln Navigator rolled up the grand gravel drive, I stared out the rain-streaked window, clutching my soaked waitress apron tightly around my waist.
I was twenty-seven years old. Ten hours ago, my biggest problem was scraping together three hundred dollars for overdue rent and dealing with a manager who docked my pay for dropped plates. Now, I was sitting in the back of a bulletproof luxury vehicle beside the most feared mafia boss on the East Coast, wearing a badge of mud and blood, driving straight into the lair of the woman who had tried to murder him.
“Dr. Hayes is waiting in the west wing, Mr. Moretti,” Rocco announced from the front passenger seat as the car glided under the massive stone portico.
Dante didn’t answer immediately. He sat in the center of the leather seat, staring straight ahead, his tailored suit ruined by mud and dried blood. He turned his head slowly and looked at me.
“You’re shivering,” he noted flatly.
“I’m fine,” I lied through chattering teeth.
“You’re not fine. You’re soaked, freezing, and you just jumped into a ravine for a man you’ve only ever served coffee to.” Dante’s gray eyes softened by a fraction, though the shadows remained deep behind them. He looked at Rocco. “Get her a clean change of clothes from the guest quarters. Something warm. Then bring her to my study.”
“Boss, are you sure?” Rocco frowned, glancing back at me in the rearview mirror. “She’s a civilian. Bringing her into the inner circle—knowing what she knows—it changes things.”
“She already saved my life, Rocco,” Dante said coldly. “The rules changed the moment she pulled me out of that tree.”
Ten minutes later, I found myself standing in a guest suite that was larger than my entire apartment. The clothes laid out for me—a thick cashmere sweater, soft wool trousers, and plush slippers—fit with surprising accuracy, as if someone had guessed my measurements by simply looking at me once.
After towelling my tangled auburn hair dry, I followed the sprawling, dimly lit corridors down to Dante’s private study.
The room was a library of leather-bound books, dark mahogany, and a roaring marble fireplace that threw dancing orange flames across the floor. Dante sat behind a massive desk, his wounds bandaged, a crystal tumbler of amber whiskey resting near his right hand.
As I pushed the heavy oak door open, he looked up.
“Sit down, Cara,” he said, using my first name for the first time.
I hesitated, then took a seat in the velvet armchair opposite his desk. The fire crackled softly in the silence.
“How do you know my name?” I asked quietly.
A faint, humorless smirk touched the corner of Dante’s mouth. “Cara Fields. Twenty-seven. Born in Brooklyn. Outstanding student in high school, dropped out of NYU sophomore year when your mother fell ill with medical debt. You’ve worked at Bellini’s for fourteen months. You always pick up the double shifts on Tuesday because your rent is due on the first.”
My blood ran cold. “You investigated me?”
“In my world, everyone is investigated. Constantly,” Dante replied smoothly, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “What I didn't know—what my intelligence missed—was that you possess a spine made of titanium.”
“I didn't do it to be brave,” I whispered, looking down at my bandaged hands. “I heard someone plotting murder. I couldn't just pretend I was deaf.”
“Most people do. Most people look away because survival is easier in the dark,” Dante said, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the desk. His gray eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that made it difficult to breathe. “You chose the light, Cara. And in doing so, you stepped directly onto a battlefield.”
The door behind me suddenly clicked open.
Footsteps echoed softly on the Persian rug—light, expensive, arrogant footsteps.
“Dante?”
A voice drifted into the room—silvery, musical, and dripping with calculated panic.
Vanessa Moretti stepped into the firelight.
She wore a breathtaking silk emerald robe, her blonde hair cascading in perfect waves over her shoulders, her eyes wide with what was supposed to be shock and overwhelming grief.
She stopped dead in her tracks.
The color drained from Vanessa’s face so fast it looked as though someone had wiped it with a white cloth. Her manicured hand flew to her throat, her lips parting in a silent, horrified gasp as she stared at the man sitting alive and breathing across the desk.
“Dante...” she breathed, her voice trembling with genuine terror. “Thank God... they told me... they said your car went off the cliff...”
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Dante didn’t stand up. He didn’t shout. He simply watched her with the chilling stillness of an executioner examining his target.
“They were right, Vanessa,” Dante said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “My car did go off the cliff. But fortunately for me... someone decided to pull me back from hell.”
