Chapter 2 - The Swelling Truth
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The pain woke me at four in the morning like a match struck against bone.
My left ankle had doubled in size, the skin stretched tight and purple beneath my wool sock.
I did not have ice, so I pressed a bag of frozen peas against the swelling until my skin went numb.
Rent was five days away, and the four hundred dollars Tony Brandt demanded every Friday sat like an anvil on my chest.
I wrapped the joint in two layers of elastic bandage, pulled on flat leather shoes, and left my apartment before sunrise.
Walking to the bus stop took twenty minutes instead of seven.
Every step sent a sharp, sickening ache straight up into my hip.
By eight thirty, I reached the glass-and-steel headquarters of Moretti Hospitality.
The basement stairs were steeper in the morning light.
I grabbed the brass banister, gritted my teeth, and took the first step down.
My heel caught on the edge of the riser.
My left ankle gave out completely with a wet, grinding pop.
I gasped, my hands slipping on the polished railing as gravity pulled me forward.
A heavy, calloused hand clamped around my upper arm like an iron vice.
The momentum jerked to an immediate halt before my knees hit the concrete.
"I told you yesterday that nobody needs to lie in this building," Dante Moretti’s voice said quietly above me.
I looked up, breathless, my vision blurring around the edges from the sudden shock of pain.
Dante stood on the step above me, wearing a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms.
His dark hair was slightly mussed, and his dark eyes were locked on my face.
Two security guards in dark suits stood at the top of the landing, watching in silence.
"I’m fine, Mr. Moretti," I lied automatically, trying to stand upright.
The moment I put weight on my left foot, a whimper escaped my throat before I could choke it down.
Dante did not argue with me.
Without asking permission, he slid one arm behind my shoulders and the other beneath my knees.
He lifted me off the stairs as effortlessly as if I were a child’s coat.
"You are not going to the basement," he said.
"Put me down, please," I whispered, mortified by the proximity of his broad chest and the faint scent of cedar and espresso.
"No," he said, turning around and carrying me back up the marble steps toward the private elevator.
The guards parted instantly, pressing the button for the penthouse floor without being told.
"This is inappropriate," I murmured, clutching the folder of invoices tightly against my ribs.
"What is inappropriate is an employee fracturing a bone because she refuses to sit down," Dante answered calmly.
The elevator doors opened directly into his corner office, where morning sunlight cut sharp diagonals across the polished hardwood.
He carried me across the Persian rug and set me gently into the deep leather armchair beside the bay windows.
He did not return to his desk.
Instead, Dante dropped down onto one knee directly in front of me, right onto the hard floor.
His black trousers stretched tight across his thigh as he reached out with steady, deliberate hands.
"What are you doing?" my voice trembled.
"Looking at what you tried to hide yesterday," he said.
His fingers gently unclasped the buckle of my shoe.
He slid the leather shoe off my foot with painstaking care, his touch surprisingly warm against my freezing skin.
He rolled down the black sock.
The deep, ugly purple hematoma covered my outer ankle bone, dark as an ink stain and swollen to the size of a lemon.
Behind Dante, the two bodyguards stood by the door, their expressions hardening into stone.
Dante’s thumb brushed the edge of the discoloration, feather-light, testing the heat radiating from the tissue.
His dark eyes rose from my ankle to meet mine.
"A slip on the ice leaves scrapes and gravel burns," Dante said softly, his voice dropping into a register that made the hair on my arms stand up.
"This is blunt trauma from a heavy boot or a hard fall against concrete."
Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, but I refused to let them spill.
"Who touched you, Miss Hale?" he asked.
The room went so still I could hear the second hand ticking on his luxury wristwatch.
"Nobody," I whispered.
Dante did not pull away.
His thumb remained against my skin, grounding me in a way I had not felt in three years.
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"Try again," Dante said.
"And remember that in this room, you are protected."
