Chapter 7 - A Taste of Fire in the Midnight Rain
The armored SUV sped through the deserted, snow-covered avenues of Seattle, heading north toward the private coastal bluffs.
Inside the reinforced cabin, the silence was heavy, charged with the lingering smell of cordite, adrenaline, and unspoken desires. Khloe sat huddled beneath Dante’s heavy wool overcoat, which he had wrapped around her trembling shoulders the moment they climbed inside.
Dante was on his satellite phone, issuing rapid, lethal directives to his captains across the city.
“Freeze all assets tied to the Falcone shipping lines in Tacoma. Have the harbor patrol seize docks four and seven under maritime code violations. If any Falcone lieutenant steps outside his residence tonight, put him in a cell or in the bay. I want Marco isolated by sunrise.”
He snapped the phone shut and tossed it onto the leather seat beside him.
He turned to Khloe. His eyes softened in the amber interior light. “You held your ground back there. Most women of your background would have collapsed in hysterics.”
Khloe pulled the coat tighter around her chest, breathing in the rich scent of cedar and tobacco. “When you’ve lived with a monster for two years, Mr. Varga, you learn that crying doesn't stop the fists. Only strength does.”
“Dante,” he corrected softly.
Khloe looked up, meeting his intense gaze. “What?”
“My name is Dante. If we are to survive the next five months as husband and wife, you will call me by my name.”
“Dante,” she whispered, testing the weight of the syllables on her lips. It felt intimate, dangerous, and intoxicating.
They arrived at the penthouse thirty minutes later. The building was under total lockdown. Triple the usual guard detail patrolled the perimeter, armed with automatic rifles and thermal scopes.
Inside the warmth of the grand penthouse, Mrs. Gable was waiting with a silver tray bearing hot tea, honey, and a decanter of twenty-year-old Scotch.
“Are you both unhurt?” the housekeeper asked, her face tight with worry.
“We’re fine, Mary,” Dante said, untying his bow tie and unbuttoning the top two buttons of his dress shirt. “Get some rest. We won't be sleeping much tonight.”
Once the housekeeper retreated to her quarters, Dante poured two fingers of Scotch into a heavy crystal glass and walked over to the massive floor-to-ceiling glass wall. Outside, the storm had turned from snow to a driving, midnight rain that streaked down the glass like molten silver.
Khloe kicked off her painful Louboutin heels, walking barefoot across the plush Persian rug until she stood beside him. The city below was shrouded in mist.
“Does it ever stop?” she asked quietly.
Dante took a slow sip of the amber liquor. “What?”
“The violence. The paranoia. Looking at every shadow and wondering if tonight is the night someone puts a bullet in your back.”
Dante looked down at her, the amber light catching the sharp, masculine angles of his jaw and the pale scar over his brow. “In my world, peace is an illusion between wars. My father tried to make peace with the Falcones twenty years ago. They repaid his mercy with a car bomb outside our home in Bainbridge Island.”
Khloe’s breath caught. “Your father died in that explosion?”
“My father, my mother, and my eight-year-old sister,” Dante said, his voice flat, completely devoid of emotion, which made the tragedy infinitely more terrifying. “I survived because I was in the library practicing piano. That was the day I learned that mercy is a disease that gets everyone you love slaughtered.”
A deep, painful ache bloomed in Khloe’s chest. For all his wealth, power, and terrifying authority, Dante Varga was just as scarred, lonely, and haunted as she was.
Without thinking, she reached out and gently laid her small hand over his scarred knuckles where he held the glass.
Dante went completely still.
He looked down at her hand, then slowly raised his eyes to meet hers. For the first time, the cold, impenetrable wall he kept around himself cracked, revealing a deep, burning hunger that took Khloe’s breath away.
“Khloe,” he warned, his voice dropping an octave, thick with restraint. “Do not touch me out of pity.”
“It isn't pity, Dante,” she whispered, her hazel eyes locking onto his obsidian gaze. “It’s gratitude. And maybe... understanding.”
Dante set the glass down on the side table with a slow, deliberate movement. He stepped closer, eliminating the space between them until his chest brushed the silk of her gown. He reached up, his large, rough hand cupping the side of her neck, his thumb tracing the soft curve of her jawline.
Khloe’s breath hitched. Her heart hammered against her ribs, not with the sickening terror Jared had always caused, but with an electric, overwhelming anticipation.
“You are playing with fire, little mouse,” Dante murmured, his dark eyes dropping to her lips.
“Then let me burn,” Khloe breathed.
Dante’s restraint snapped. He lowered his mouth, capturing her lips in a deep, possessive, and devastatingly tender kiss.
The heat of his mouth was like a wildfire after a lifetime in the freezing cold. Khloe let out a soft sigh into the kiss, rising on her tiptoes, her fingers tangling into the thick, dark hair at the nape of his neck. Dante groaned low in his throat, his arm wrapping around her waist and lifting her flush against him, claiming her with an intensity that made her head spin.
May you like
When he finally pulled back, resting his forehead against hers, both of them were breathing hard in the dim, rain-streaked light.
“You belong to me now, Khloe,” Dante whispered, his thumb brushing her swollen lower lip. “Not because of a contract. Not because of the council. But because I will tear this entire city down to ash before I ever let anyone take you from me.”
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