Chapter 3 - The Woman on Dante Varga’s Arm
By eight the following morning, Khloe had learned three things about Dante Varga.
He owned the top four floors of the building.
He drank coffee strong enough to dissolve metal.
And apparently half of Seattle was afraid of him.
She stood barefoot in his enormous kitchen wearing borrowed sweatpants while watching the morning news.
A photograph of Dante appeared briefly during a segment about Varga Maritime acquiring a shipping terminal.
The television called him a “private logistics billionaire.”
Khloe looked at Paulie.
“Imports?”
Paulie bit into toast.
“He imports things.”
“Such as?”
“Things people pay him to import.”
“That clears everything up.”
Dante entered.
Black shirt. Dark trousers. No tie.
His gaze moved to Khloe.
“You’re sarcastic before coffee.”
“I’m being held in a penthouse by a criminal.”
“You can leave.”
She looked toward the elevator.
“Can I?”
“Yes.”
“And Kane’s men?”
“They can also leave pieces of you in Puget Sound.”
Khloe glared.
“Your hospitality needs work.”
“So does your survival instinct.”
He placed a folder on the counter.
Inside were photographs.
Victor Kane.
Jared.
Executives from Northstar.
Politicians.
Dock supervisors.
Khloe recognized one immediately.
“Dennis Wolfe.”
“Your CFO.”
“He approved the Evergreen payments.”
Dante nodded.
“Tomorrow night, Wolfe attends the Bellweather Foundation gala.”
Khloe looked up.
“And?”
“You’re attending too.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Dante took a drink of coffee.
“I admire the consistency.”
Khloe folded her arms.
“I’m not walking into a room filled with people who may want me dead.”
“That’s why you’ll walk in with me.”
Somehow that sounded worse.
By the following evening, Khloe barely recognized herself.
A stylist had arrived with six dresses.
Khloe rejected five before discovering a simple midnight-blue gown with long sleeves.
When she entered the living room, Paulie whistled.
Dante turned.
Then stopped.
Khloe noticed.
That irritated her.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“I’m observing.”
“Creepily.”
Paulie coughed to hide a laugh.
Dante ignored him and approached.
He held out a velvet box.
Khloe stepped backward.
“I’m not wearing diamonds.”
“It contains a microphone.”
“Oh.”
“Disappointed?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He opened it.
Inside rested a delicate pendant.
Dante moved behind her.
Khloe’s body stiffened when his fingers brushed her neck.
He immediately stopped.
That mattered.
“You can put it on yourself.”
Her embarrassment arrived quickly.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize for reflexes somebody else gave you.”
The sentence landed harder than she expected.
Khloe took the necklace.
At the gala, cameras exploded around them.
“Why are they photographing us?”
“Because I never bring women to these things.”
“You could have mentioned that.”
“You might have refused.”
“I did refuse.”
“Repeatedly.”
Reporters shouted questions.
Dante placed one hand lightly against Khloe’s back.
Not possessive.
Guiding.
Giving her room to step away.
She didn’t.
Inside, the ballroom glittered beneath chandeliers.
Khloe spotted Dennis Wolfe almost immediately.
He saw her.
His champagne glass stopped halfway to his mouth.
“Got him,” she murmured.
Dante did not look.
“Let him come to us.”
Twenty minutes later, Wolfe did.
“Khloe.”
“Mr. Wolfe.”
His smile looked painful.
“We were worried when you stopped coming to work.”
“You fired me.”
“Administrative misunderstanding.”
Dante finally turned.
“Dennis.”
Wolfe paled.
“Mr. Varga.”
Khloe watched the exchange.
These men knew each other.
Dante offered no handshake.
Wolfe looked at Khloe again.
“You’ve made interesting friends.”
“She has excellent taste,” Dante said.
Khloe almost choked on champagne.
Wolfe lowered his voice.
“You should be careful.”
“Is that advice?” Khloe asked.
“A warning.”
Dante stepped closer.
Wolfe immediately retreated.
But before leaving, he whispered:
“Ask him what happened to Elena.”
Khloe felt Dante’s hand become still against her back.
Later, on the terrace, she confronted him.
“Who’s Elena?”
Dante stared across the city.
“My wife.”
Khloe’s stomach dropped.
“You’re married?”
“Widowed.”
She softened slightly.
“What happened?”
“She died.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting tonight.”
Khloe turned away.
Then Dante’s hand shot out.
He pulled her backward.
A champagne flute shattered where she had been standing.
Khloe gasped.
Dante covered her body with his.
Across the neighboring rooftop, something flashed.
“Gun!”
Chaos erupted.
Dante dragged Khloe through the terrace doors while Paulie and two guards moved around them.
Guests screamed.
Dante shoved her behind a marble column.
“Stay down.”
Instead, Khloe grabbed his jacket.
“Your shoulder.”
Blood darkened the fabric.
“I’m fine.”
“You were shot!”
“Grazed.”
Another shot shattered glass.
Paulie returned fire toward the rooftop.
Dante grabbed Khloe’s hand.
They ran.
Thirty seconds later, they were inside an armored SUV.
Khloe pressed a napkin against Dante’s shoulder.
His face remained infuriatingly calm.
“You knew this could happen.”
“Yes.”
“You used me.”
“Yes.”
She slapped him.
Paulie’s eyes widened in the mirror.
Dante slowly turned his face back toward her.
Khloe’s hand trembled.
“You could have gotten me killed.”
“I wouldn’t have allowed it.”
“You’re not God.”
“No.”
His gaze hardened.
“But tonight I was close enough.”
Khloe moved away from him.
Then her phone vibrated.
A message from an unknown number.
There was a photograph attached.
It showed Khloe and Dante entering the gala.
Beneath it were six words.
HE KILLED ELENA. ASK HIM WHY.
Khloe silently turned the screen toward Dante.
For the first time since meeting him, she saw genuine fear in his eyes.
May you like
Not fear for himself.
Fear of what she was about to learn.
