Chapter 2 - THE LOCKED CAR AND THE COLD CURE
The leather seat smelled of stale cigar smoke and fear.
My forehead throbbed against the tinted window.
Outside, the Chicago rain blurred neon signs into bleeding streaks of red and blue.
Marco Vitelli sat in the front passenger seat, not even bothering to look back.
“Drive to the north safehouse,” Marco ordered the driver.
“You’re making a mistake,” I whispered, my voice shaking in the dark.
“Mistakes are for amateurs, Miss Chase,” Marco replied smoothly.
The car accelerated sharply, throwing me against the door handle.
My fingers searched blindly for the lock.
It was jammed from the inside.
Panic clawed at my throat, cold and suffocating.
I thought of my mother’s final warning before she passed away.
“Never trust a man wearing a silver ring in Chicago, Emma.”
Marco wore three.
The car turned abruptly into a narrow industrial alleyway.
Shadows loomed like prison bars against the brick walls.
The engine idled with a low, threatening purr.
“Get out,” the driver grunted, yanking my door open.
Rain lashed across my face, freezing my skin.
Before I could scream, a heavy arm wrapped around my waist.
They dragged me across wet concrete toward a rusted steel door.
Inside smelled of damp earth and old iron.
They shoved me down onto a wooden chair and tied my wrists behind my back.
“Dante Moretti will come looking for you,” Marco smiled, stepping close.
“And when he does, he walks straight into our trap.”
He walked out, slamming the heavy iron door shut.
The lock clicked with a finality that made my stomach drop.
I was completely alone in the dark.
My heart pounded a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
Suddenly, a metallic scrape echoed from the ventilation shaft above.
A shadow dropped silently onto the concrete floor.
The intruder moved like a ghost in the dark.
A cold hand clamped firmly over my mouth before I could gasp.
“Be quiet if you want to live,” a deep voice whispered against my ear.
The scent was unmistakable.
May you like
Sandalwood and gunsmoke.
Dante Moretti.
