Chapter 2 - The Six-Year LieThe silence that followed my words was heavy, suffocating, and absolute.
Dante slowly lowered his hand onto the sheets, his dark eyes holding mine with an intensity that felt like a physical touch.
"I know what you think of me, Claire," Dante spoke quietly, every word sounding painful as his cracked ribs expanded. "You think I woke up six years ago, packed my bags, and decided you weren't worth staying for."
"I don't think that, Dante," I let out a dry, bitter laugh that held zero humor. "I know that. Because I woke up at six in the morning to an empty bed and a note beside the coffeemaker telling me to build a life without you. You didn't even have the courage to say goodbye to my face."
"I left to keep you breathing!" Dante rasped, his baritone cracking with a sudden, violent emotion that caused his telemetry monitor to spike wildly. Beep-beep-beep-beep.
"Control your heart rate, Mr. Moretti," I ordered automatically, stepping half an inch closer to check the monitor.
"Listen to me," Dante demanded, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an unyielding, desperate intensity. "Six years ago, my father was assassinated in a warehouse strike in Tacoma. Within twelve hours, three rival syndicates put a bounty on the Moretti bloodline. They didn't just want the territory, Claire. They wanted to execute every person connected to me."
My breath hitched in my throat.
"I stood in our kitchen while you were sleeping," Dante continued, his voice trembling with a profound, agonizing regret. "I looked at you sleeping under that yellow blanket, and I knew that if anyone in this city linked your name to mine, you would be dead before the end of the week. I had to choose between letting you hate me... or letting you die."
I stared at him, my mind spinning into a dark, chaotic vortex.
For six years, I had believed I was a temporary distraction in the life of a wealthy man who got bored and walked away. I had built a fortress of anger around my heart to protect myself from the humiliation of being abandoned.
"You should have given me a choice, Dante," I whispered, my voice breaking as tears finally welling in my eyes. "You decided what was best for me without asking. You left me alone."
"I know," Dante confessed, his head falling back against the pillows as a single, clear tear cut down his scarred cheek. "It was the single greatest mistake of my life."
"You don't know the half of it," I breathed, taking two steps back toward the door.
Dante frowned, his sharp eyebrows knitting together in sudden, guarded confusion. "What do you mean?"
Before I could answer, the heavy glass door was pushed open.
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Stepping into the room was Leo—Dante’s chief security director, a six-foot-three veteran enforcer with a scarred face and a tactical holster beneath his wool coat.
"Boss," Leo reported crisply, ignoring me entirely. "We just intercepted a private detail on the third floor. Marcus Vance knows you survived the shooting at the docks. His men are moving toward the hospital perimeter."
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