Chapter 1 - The Blood on the Mountain
The rain poured down in sheets, turning the dark mountain asphalt into a mirror of reflective glare and blinding shadow. My breath came in ragged, hyperventilating gasps as I knelt in the mud and crushed pine needles, my hands slick with Dante Moretti’s blood. Just feet away down the sheer ravine, the wreckage of his luxury sedan groaned as it settled into the black void below, smoke hissing into the damp night air.
Dante was half-lying against my chest, his broad shoulders heaving, his face pale under a smear of mud and crimson. The sound of dozens of heavy combat boots pounding onto the tarmac above us cut through the howling wind.
Car doors slammed in rapid succession. Then came the unmistakable, bone-chilling metallic clicks of automatic weapons being unholstered and primed.
A dozen laser sights painted the dark trees around us in bright red dots.
“Don't shoot her!”
Dante's voice was gravelly, strained, but it carried an absolute, terrifying weight that commanded instant obedience. Every single armed man froze mid-stride.
Slowly, Dante turned his head. His sharp gray eyes, fierce even through the haze of a concussion and severe shock, locked onto my face. He didn't blink. The rain plastered my dark hair to my cheeks, and my cheap waitress uniform was completely ruined, soaked through with mud, sweat, and his blood.
“Now tell me, waitress,” his voice turned terrifyingly calm, slicing through the storm like a scalpel. “How did you know my brakes were going to fail?”
The question hung in the air, heavier than the wreckage waiting below us. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I was twenty-seven years old, a girl who spent twelve hours a day carrying heavy trays of pasta and wine at Bellini’s just to make rent. I wasn't supposed to know about cut brake lines. I wasn't supposed to be on a private mountain pass at midnight, dragging a notorious mafia boss out of a sinking death trap.
“I heard them,” I whispered, my voice trembling as the adrenaline began to wear off, leaving a cold, hollow ache in my bones.
Dante’s eyes narrowed, studying every micro-expression on my face, looking for deception, looking for a wire, looking for anything that would betray me. “Who?”
“Your wife,” I breathed, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. “Vanessa. In the private booth. She was with a man. He said it was done... that the brakes were cut just enough for the mountain pass, and by midnight, she’d be a grieving widow.”
A dead silence fell over the clearing. Even the armed men standing around the rim of the road seemed to hold their breath. The temperature around Dante dropped ten degrees. The grey in his eyes turned to winter ice.
Footsteps crunched on the gravel above. A tall, heavily built man in a bespoke black overcoat stepped past the ring of guards, holding a flashlight down into the ravine. It was Luca, Dante’s right-hand man, his face a mask of cold fury and disbelief.
“Boss,” Luca called down, his gun still raised before recognizing the situation. “Are you alright? We found your car off the rail. Who is—is this the assassin?”
“No,” Dante growled, wincing as he tried to sit up. I immediately shifted my weight to help him, sliding my hands beneath his arm to steady his torso. He looked down at my bleeding hands—raw and torn from dragging him up the rocky embankment—and then back up at Luca. “This is the woman who just saved my life.”
Luca’s eyes widened slightly in shock. He holstered his weapon and scrambled down the muddy slope, sliding the last few feet to reach us. He grabbed Dante’s other arm, helping me hoist the heavy mafia boss up onto the solid tarmac of the road.
As soon as we reached safety, two burly guards wrapped a heavy woolen blanket around Dante’s shoulders. He didn't sit in the waiting SUV. Instead, he stood rigidly beside the open door, staring down at me as I stood shivering in the freezing rain, hugging my arms to stop my teeth from chattering.
“Get her inside the lead car,” Dante ordered Luca, his voice flat, emotionless, and laced with a quiet fury that promised absolute destruction for whoever had ordered his execution. “And someone bring her a dry coat. We’re going home.”
I froze, panic flaring in my chest. “Home? No, please—Mr. Moretti, I just need to go back to my car. I have to get home, I have work tomorrow—shift starts at noon—!”
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Dante turned slowly, his grey eyes pinning me in place with a look that brooked no argument whatsoever.
“You don't have a job at Bellini’s anymore, Cara Fields,” he said, his voice dangerously soft. “And you certainly aren't safe walking the streets of Chicago tonight. The people who tried to kill me know you were here. Which means, whether you like it or not... you belong to me now.”
