Chapter 7 - The Shadows of Brooklyn
The victory at the Plaza Hotel established our dominance, but the underworld does not accept defeat gracefully.
By mid-December, a brutal winter had descended upon New York. Snow blanketed the Bedford estate in three feet of pristine white, turning the sprawling grounds into a silent, frozen kingdom.
Marcus had remained in London, terrified into silence. Judge Sterling had resigned in disgrace.
Yet Sal Moretti had become a desperate, cornered rat.
Stripped of his political protection and facing bankruptcy as Dante systematically seized his trucking routes, Moretti had turned to outside mercenaries—rogue elements from the Eastern European cartels operating out of Brighton Beach.
I was working in the estate’s sunroom, surrounded by architectural sketches for the art gallery I was planning to open in SoHo with my trust fund, when Dante entered.
He wore a dark tactical turtleneck beneath a heavy charcoal wool coat. His face was grim, lines of strain etched around his mouth.
“You’re leaving,” I said, setting my charcoal pencil down. My heart seized with that familiar, cold anxiety.
“A routine matter at the Brooklyn Navy Yard,” Dante said, walking over to the drafting table. He reached out, his fingers gently brushing my cheek. His touch was warm against the cold glass of the window. “A shipment from Palermo arrived. I need to oversee the transfer personally.”
“Marco isn't with you?” I frowned, noticing that Marco had not appeared at his flank.
“Marco is coordinating the perimeter defense here at the estate,” Dante replied smoothly. “You are the priority, Mia. Always.”
I stood up, closing the distance between us, grabbing the lapels of his heavy coat.
“Don't lie to me, Dante,” I whispered, looking into his dark eyes. “Sal Moretti has hired men from Brighton Beach. I heard Giuseppe talking on the phone yesterday. You’re walking into an ambush to draw them out, aren't you?”
Dante stared at me for three long heartbeats. A faint, admiring smile broke through his grim mask.
“You are too observant for your own good, tesoro,” he murmured.
“Then don't go!” I pleaded, tears burning my eyes. “Send your captains! Let the police handle it!”
“The police cannot handle men who carry military-grade explosives, Mia,” Dante said, his voice dropping into that deep, resolute timbre. “In my world, if an underboss challenges your authority and you hide behind your soldiers, you invite every scavenger in the city to tear your throat out. I must end this myself. So that you and I can live without looking over our shoulders.”
He leaned down and captured my mouth in a fierce, demanding kiss.
It was not gentle; it was desperate, consuming, and tasted of winter air and unyielding possession. I wound my arms around his neck, holding him with everything I had, terrified that this might be the last time I felt the thunderous beat of his heart against my ribs.
When he finally pulled back, both of us were breathing heavily.
He unclasped a small platinum chain from his neck and fastened it around mine. Hanging from the link was a heavy, blackened iron key—the key to the private vault beneath the Bedford estate.
“If I am not back by midnight, Mia,” Dante whispered, his eyes blazing with fierce urgency, “Marco will escort you and Rosa to the private airstrip in White Plains. A Gulfstream is fueled and waiting to take you to our villa in Lake Como. You will be safe there forever.”
“I’m not leaving without you, Dante,” I sobbed, clutching the cold iron key. “Do you hear me? I spent two years trapped in a cage. I will not live in another one without you.”
Dante smiled—that rare, breathtakingly beautiful smile that transformed his ruthless face into something divine.
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“Then I suppose I have no choice but to survive,” he whispered.
He turned and walked out of the room, his long coat billowing behind him, descending into the gathering winter storm.
