Chapter 2 - The Shadow of Dante Moretti
The crack of a single silenced shot broke the damp South Side air.
The gunman who had threatened Brielle didn't have time to scream. A hole bloomed cleanly in the center of his forehead, and his body collapsed backward like a marionette with its strings severed, hitting the pavement with a dull, wet thud.
Brielle flinched, but she did not drop the chair leg. Adrenaline kept her muscles locked in an iron spasm. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She stared at the men surrounding the alley, their weapons raised, their movements precise and ruthless.
The man in the cashmere coat walked past the dead gunman without sparing him a downward glance. He stepped into the dim neon light of the alleyway.
“*Mamma*,” he said. The voice was deep, cultured, but carrying an undercurrent of raw, suppressed fury that made the hair on the back of Brielle's neck stand on end. “Mia.”
“Dante!” The elderly woman broke into tears, rising unsteadily to her feet. The little girl let out a wail of recognition and launched herself forward.
“Papa!”
Dante Moretti dropped to one knee on the filthy, wet pavement without a second thought for his bespoke trousers. He scooped the little girl into his arms, burying his face in her dark curls. His massive shoulders trembled imperceptibly as he held her against his chest, one large hand cradling the back of her head with fierce, reverent tenderness.
“I’m here, *piccola*,” Dante murmured, his voice softening into something almost fragile. “I’m here. You’re safe.”
His mother placed a shaking hand upon his shoulder. “They came out of nowhere, Dante. Carlo and Marco were taken out at the traffic light two blocks back. They dragged us in here...” She paused, her breath catching as she turned her eyes toward Brielle. “If it weren't for this girl... Dante, they would have taken Mia. They would have killed us both.”
Dante stood up slowly, still holding his daughter securely against his chest with his left arm.
For the first time, his gaze settled fully upon Brielle.
Brielle felt pinned beneath the weight of his stare. His eyes were the color of dark espresso, cold and analytical, assessing every detail: the blood drying on her forehead, the split lip, the torn polyester of her black uniform apron, and the heavy iron chair leg held firmly in her bloodied, trembling hands.
He looked at the two men she had incapacitated—one still groaning in agony with a shattered knee, the other unconscious in the garbage.
“You did this?” Dante asked. His tone was impossible to read—neither angry nor grateful, simply dangerously calm.
“They were trying to force her into a van,” Brielle managed to say. Her voice sounded thin, distant to her own ears. “The little girl was screaming. Nobody was helping.”
“Who are you?” Dante stepped closer. The scent of expensive cologne—bergamot, cedar, and gunpowder—drifted toward her.
“Brielle,” she whispered. “Brielle Dawson. I... I work at the diner.”
“You fought three armed operatives with a piece of furniture, Miss Dawson.”
“I didn't have anything else,” she muttered.
Suddenly, the world tilted. The adrenaline that had sustained her through the terror and the violence began to drain out of her limbs like water through a sieve. The cold South Side air felt impossibly heavy. Her knees buckled beneath her.
The iron chair leg slipped from her numb fingers, clattering loudly against the pavement.
She expected to hit the concrete. She expected the cold water of the gutter to welcome her.
Instead, a pair of strong, gloved hands caught her before she could touch the ground. One of Dante's lieutenants held her upright by the shoulders, while Dante stepped forward, handing his daughter gently to his mother before turning back to Brielle.
“She’s losing blood from a head wound, Boss,” the lieutenant reported quietly.
Dante reached out, his bare thumb lightly lifting Brielle’s chin. His touch was warm, startlingly gentle against her chilled skin, contrasting sharply with the aura of lethal power radiating from him.
“You saved the only things in this world that matter to me,” Dante said, his dark eyes boring into hers. “Chicago will burn for what happened here today, Miss Dawson. But you... you will survive.”
May you like
Brielle wanted to tell him that she just wanted to go back to her shift, that her apron was ruined and Lou would deduct it from her paycheck. But the darkness encroached rapidly from the edges of her vision, dragging her under into a heavy, dreamless sleep.
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