Chapter 4 - The House With No Locked Doors
I did not want to go home after that.
Admitting it made me angry.
Dante did not celebrate the victory.
He simply offered his hand.
“Come somewhere secure.”
I stared at his palm.
“Your house?”
“Yes.”
“That sounds like the beginning of every terrible decision in history.”
A tired smile touched his mouth.
“Then you may have your own floor.”
“I don’t need an entire floor.”
“Good. I only have one guest room prepared.”
I almost smiled.
Almost.
Twenty minutes later, Boston disappeared behind iron gates.
Dante’s home was not what I expected.
No marble lions.
No gold staircase.
It was an old brick estate overlooking the harbor, renovated with dark wood, warm lamps, bookshelves, and enormous windows.
It felt lived in.
Quietly.
A woman in her sixties met us.
“Teresa,” Dante said, “this is Emma Bennett.”
Teresa looked at my torn stocking and dirty dress.
Then at Dante.
“What did you do?”
“I did nothing.”
“That is never true.”
I laughed before I could stop myself.
Dante looked offended.
Teresa smiled at me.
“Come.”
She found antiseptic for the scrape on my knee.
Dante waited outside the kitchen.
Not hovering.
Not commanding.
Waiting.
That distinction mattered.
After Teresa went upstairs, I found him in the library.
He had removed his jacket.
His sleeves were rolled to his forearms.
A bruise was forming near his shoulder from hitting the pavement.
“You’re hurt.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
His eyebrow lifted.
I realized I had repeated his own words.
“Sit.”
He obeyed.
I found ice.
When I pressed it against his shoulder, his breath caught.
“Sorry.”
“You’re very aggressive for a caterer.”
“I used to draw buildings.”
“Terrifying.”
I smiled.
Then silence settled.
My hand remained against his shoulder longer than necessary.
His gaze dropped briefly to my mouth.
The air changed.
Slowly.
Not dramatically.
I felt it before I understood it.
I lowered my hand.
“Who wants me dead?”
His expression closed.
“I don’t know.”
“Marcus?”
“No.”
“You sound certain.”
“Marcus is cruel. Reckless. Greedy. But tonight required planning he doesn’t possess.”
“Comforting.”
Dante stood.
He walked to a desk and returned with a folder.
Inside were copies of contracts.
Bank transfers.
Corporate registrations.
My signature.
Some real.
Some not.
One shell corporation received $3.8 million after acquiring my father’s property interest.
Its beneficial owner was hidden.
“Marcus?”
“We thought so.”
“Thought?”
“Yesterday we learned the account belongs to someone else.”
“Who?”
Dante’s jaw tightened.
“Richard Vale.”
The name was familiar.
Then I remembered.
“Sterling Hotel?”
Richard Vale owned it.
Among many other properties.
He had hosted last night’s gala.
“Yes.”
“Why would a billionaire steal from my father?”
“Because the South Boston parcel is worth much more than fourteen million if combined with three neighboring properties.”
“How much?”
“Potentially two hundred million.”
I stared.
Suddenly the car made sense.
I wished it didn’t.
“So I’m not being targeted because of you.”
“No.”
The answer was immediate.
Then Dante added quietly, “But being seen beside me may have accelerated things.”
I sat down.
“Great.”
He crouched in front of me.
Not touching.
Just close enough that I could see the silver in his eyes.
“You can leave tomorrow if you choose.”
“Can I?”
“Yes.”
“Even if you think it’s dangerous?”
His jaw moved.
“Yes.”
That answer mattered more than he knew.
Marcus had called control love.
Dante, apparently, was willing to let fear tear him apart before taking my choice away.
“Why are you helping me?”
He looked down.
“Your father helped mine.”
I froze.
“What?”
“Twenty-two years ago.”
Dante told me something my father never had.
Carlo Caruso had arrived in Boston with money, enemies, and almost no legitimate business connections. Bennett Design had been a small firm.
My father took a chance on him.
Designed his first legal warehouse conversion.
When banks refused financing, my father introduced him to someone who did not.
“My father remembered that loyalty until he died,” Dante said.
“And you inherited the debt?”
“No.”
His gaze returned to mine.
“I inherited the memory.”
Something inside me softened.
Then I noticed a photograph on the shelf behind him.
A younger Dante stood beside an older man.
Between them was my father.
I crossed the room.
My fingers trembled as I touched the frame.
Dad looked happy.
Healthy.
Alive.
“You knew him?”
“Briefly.”
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
“He wanted you away from my family’s world.”
I laughed softly through sudden tears.
“That sounds like Dad.”
Dante came closer.
He did not touch me.
I wished he would.
“Emma.”
I turned.
He lifted his hand, paused, giving me time to move away.
I didn’t.
His fingertips brushed one tear from my cheek.
Slowly.
Carefully.
The intimacy of it hurt.
“Dante.”
His gaze lowered to my lips again.
Then—
Glass shattered downstairs.
Dante turned instantly.
A gunshot cracked through the house.
He pushed me behind the wall.
Men shouted.
Footsteps thundered.
Then silence.
A minute later, one of Dante’s guards appeared.
“We caught him.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
The guard looked at me.
Dante noticed.
“Say it.”
“He had identification.”
The man swallowed.
“Marcus Bennett.”
My heart stopped.
May you like
But the guard continued.
“And he says Emma’s mother hired him.”
