Chapter 1 - The Blood on the Tiles
The little boy's tiny voice broke through the deafening ringing in my ears.
Dante Salvatore did not look down at his son.
His dark, terrifying eyes remained completely fixed on my pale face.
He issued a sharp, guttural command in Italian to the armed men standing behind him.
I tried to push myself off the floor, but agonizing pain immediately shredded through my back.
Dante scooped me into his arms as easily as if I weighed absolutely nothing.
His tailored suit instantly soaked up my blood, ruining thousands of dollars of fine charcoal fabric.
He did not seem to care about the mess at all.
"Keep your eyes open, little bird," he ordered.
His voice was a low, terrifying rumble vibrating directly against my ear.
I watched the opulent gold lights of the Lumina restaurant blur into a chaotic, spinning streak.
His bodyguards formed a human wall around us, their hands resting ominously inside their jackets.
I blacked out just as the cold, unforgiving night air hit my face.
When I finally woke up, the smell of cheap restaurant bleach was completely gone.
It was replaced by the sterile, incredibly expensive scent of a private medical facility.
I was lying gently on my stomach, my shoulder heavily bandaged and totally numb with painkillers.
Dante was sitting in a leather chair beside the bed, watching me like a predator observing its captive prey.
"You saved my son," he stated, his dark eyes entirely unreadable.
I swallowed hard, my throat feeling dry and scratchy from the trauma.
"I just did what anyone would do," I whispered weakly.
He leaned forward, the dangerous aura around him suffocating the small hospital room.
"Nobody does anything for free in my violent world," he replied softly.
I tried to push myself up, sudden panic overriding the heavy drugs circulating in my system.
"I just want to go home to my apartment," I pleaded with him.
Dante stood up slowly, adjusting his immaculate, blood-free cuffs with terrifying calm.
"That is unfortunately impossible," he said without a single shred of empathy.
"My men went to retrieve your personal belongings an hour ago."
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He pulled a charred, melted piece of my grandmother's necklace out of his pocket and set it on the nightstand.
"Your apartment building was blown up ten minutes after I carried you out of that restaurant."
