Chapter 1 - The Trap Beyond the GlassThe afternoon sunlight filtering through my studio's floor-to-ceiling windows suddenly felt cold.
Outside, on the quiet west-side street, two dark sedans with tinted windows idled near the curb. Through the sheer white curtains of my dance floor, I watched four broad-shouldered men in dark coats step out, their posture stiff, their hands tucked suspiciously inside their jacket pockets.
Gabriel Moretti didn't flinch. He didn't rush toward his coat or draw a weapon. The easy, unarmored smile that had briefly touched his lips vanished, replaced by an absolute, terrifying stillness that made the air inside my maple-floored studio feel thin and dangerous.
"Nana," Gabriel spoke, his deep baritone smooth, low, and devoid of emotion. "Step into the back office with Claire."
Eighty-year-old Rose unwrapped another caramel, completely unbothered, though her sharp hazel eyes hardened into dark stone. "I paid for forty-five minutes, Gabriel. Don't let these rude fools ruin my investment."
"They won't, Nana," Gabriel replied quietly.
His security chief, Leo, unbuttoned his suit jacket, his hand resting flat against his holstered sidearm. "Boss, it's the Moretti family's rogue faction—Uncle Dominic's men. They tracked your grandmother's credit card payment to this address three days ago. They think you're vulnerable here without a full escort."
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. "Dominic? Your uncle?"
Gabriel turned his dark, storm-gray eyes toward me. Up close, his tall, six-foot-three frame seemed to fill the entire room, but he didn't look at me like an obstacle or a liability. He reached out, his long, broad fingers gently, reverently tucking a loose copper-red curl behind my ear—a gesture so unexpectedly soft it made my breath hitch in my throat.
"I apologize, Claire," Gabriel murmured, his baritone thick with an unspoken, fierce protectiveness. "My grandmother didn't pay for twelve ballroom lessons to help me relax. She bought them because she knew Dominic was planning an ambush at my corporate offices today. She brought me here to keep me out of the line of fire."
I blinked, looking from Gabriel to Rose, whose mischievous smile held eighty years of unyielding mafia survival.
"You used my dance studio as a safe house?" I asked, my voice trembling slightly, though my copper-red hair threw back the amber afternoon light with a stubborn, quiet defiance.
"It was a safe house until three minutes ago," Gabriel corrected, stepping between me and the window as the heavy glass front doors swung open with a sharp, iron chime.
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Four armed men stepped onto my polished maple floor, their heavy leather boots leaving dirty water streaks across my clean boards. Standing in the center was Dominic Moretti—a bitter, fifty-eight-year-old man with silver hair, a scarred jawline, and eyes filled with greedy, desperate ambition.
"Gabriel," Dominic sneered, pulling a silenced pistol from his coat. "Hiding behind an old woman and a curvy dance teacher? How low the Don of Chicago has fallen."
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