Chapter 4 - The Lion's Sanctum
The private elevator ascended eighty-four floors in near silence, the gentle hum of the motor doing nothing to calm the earthquake inside my chest.
I held the burner phone tightly in my fist. Before leaving Saint Jude’s, I had kissed Nell’s forehead. My little sister had looked so fragile beneath the thin hospital blanket, tubes snaking into her nose, but her small hand had squeezed mine with unexpected strength.
*"Don't be scared, Mari,"* Nell had murmured in her sleep. *"Mom said angels look like storms sometimes."*
Now, the elevator chimed, the brushed-steel doors parting smoothly to reveal a sprawling penthouse suite wrapped in floor-to-ceiling glass. Beyond the windows, the skyline of Chicago glittered like spilled diamonds against the ink-black expanse of Lake Michigan.
The interior was stark, masculine, and bathed in the low glow of recessed amber lighting.
Sitting in a high-backed leather armchair facing the balcony was Dante Moretti. He had discarded his suit jacket; his crisp white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal dark tribal tattoos winding across his muscular forearms.
A crystal tumbler of bourbon rested on the low table beside him. A heavy black handgun sat right next to the glass.
"Close the doors," he commanded without turning his head.
I stepped out onto the marble floor and let the elevator doors slide shut behind me. "Where are your guards?" I asked, my voice surprisingly steady despite the violent pounding of my heart.
"Downstairs. In the lobby. In the perimeter cars." Dante stood up smoothly, turning to face me. He stood well over six feet tall, broad-shouldered and commanding, an apex predator in his natural habitat. "Nobody comes up here without my explicit permission. Including Delia."
Hearing her name made the air in the room instantly colder.
"Why am I here, Mr. Moretti?"
Dante slowly closed the distance between us, his leather dress shoes clicking rhythmically against the stone. He stopped barely an arm’s length away, towering over me. His dark eyes searched my face, cataloging every detail—the dark circles beneath my eyes, the slight tremble of my chin, the damp tendrils of hair clinging to my cheeks.
"Four months ago, someone slipped digitalis into my drink at the hotel lounge," Dante said, his voice quiet, hypnotic, and lethal. "A lethal cardiac glycoside. Within twenty minutes, my heart rate spiked to two hundred. My vision blurred. I managed to reach the private elevator, bleeding from a superficial knife wound delivered by a waiter who vanished into the storm."
He reached out. His calloused fingers brushed against my jawline, lifting my chin. His touch was warm, sending a jolt of electricity straight down my spine.
"A woman found me," Dante continued softly. "She didn't know who I was. She didn't ask for my wallet or my watch. She held pressure on my shoulder with clean towels. When the doctor arrived and left, she stayed. She ate roast beef sandwiches on the floor. She told me about her little sister who loved painting sunbursts on hospital walls."
His thumb traced the outline of my lower lip.
"The next morning, she was gone. Two weeks later, Delia Marsh walked into my office. She had my gold signet ring—the one that went missing from my nightstand. She recited the exact details of that night. She claimed she was the girl who saved my life."
"And you believed her?" I choked out, staring into his dark, brooding eyes.
"I had no reason to doubt her," Dante replied, his gaze hardening. "Until tonight. When she stood beside me in the ballroom, barking orders at a cleaning girl, I watched her face. Delia didn't look annoyed. She looked terrified."
He stepped closer, his chest nearly brushing against mine. The scent of cedarwood, smoke, and expensive bourbon enveloped me, violently dragging my memory back to that stormy night.
"Delia doesn't smell like lavender," Dante whispered, his voice dropping into a dangerous rumble. "She doesn't flinch when blood is spilled. And when I touch her..." He leaned down, his lips hovering an inch from my ear. "...her pulse doesn't race at a hundred and ten beats per minute like yours is right now."
Tears pricked my eyes. The truth was burning on the tip of my tongue.
*It was me. I saved you. And the baby she claims is yours is growing inside me.*
Before I could form the words, Dante’s phone vibrated violently against the marble table.
Dante didn't break eye contact as he reached behind him and tapped speakerphone.
Delia’s voice filled the penthouse, sharp, breathless, and laced with hysteria.
*"Dante? Thank God you picked up. Sutton Vane just called me from the South Side docks. He intercepted that cleaning girl outside the Drake. She’s an operative sent by the Marcone cartel to assassinate our baby. Dante... she’s dangerous. Sutton has her cornered. You have to let him eliminate her."*
Dante’s eyes remained locked on mine. He didn't blink.
May you like
"Is that right?" Dante spoke into the speaker, his voice smooth and ice-cold. "Tell Sutton to bring her to the warehouse on Pier 42. I want to deal with the assassin myself."
***
