Chapter 3 - The Sanctuary of the Pack
By three in the morning, the penthouse had settled into a fragile, medicated quiet. Dr. Bianchi had administered an IV drip containing a strong cocktail of painkillers and anti-inflammatory medication. Fortunately, the ultrasound had shown no significant internal bleeding, though her body was severely dehydrated and suffering from acute malnutrition.
Emma lay propped up against a mountain of down pillows, her breathing finally shallow and regular. The dark velvet room was warm, heated by a quiet fireplace in the corner.
The door creaked open, and Dante entered, carrying a small silver tray with a bowl of clear, steaming broth and a glass of water. He had changed into a simple black cashmere sweater, though the lethal aura surrounding him hadn't faded one bit.
He set the tray on the nightstand and sat in the leather armchair beside the bed, watching her with a strange, analytical intensity.
"You should be asleep," he said.
"The medicine makes my head spin," Emma whispered, her voice rough. She looked down at the silk blanket covering her. "I don't belong here, Mr. Moretti. The sheets... they cost more than my mother's chemotherapy cycles."
"Then consider them a loan from the Moretti estate," Dante said, leaning forward to stir the broth. "Your mother is at the South Side Oncology Clinic, correct?"
Emma’s eyes flew open, a sudden spike of panic cutting through her chemically induced fog. "How do you know that? Please... leave her out of this. She doesn't know anything about... about Jake. She thinks I’m just clumsy."
"Jake," Dante repeated, the name tasting like poison on his tongue. "Jake Vance. Thirty-two years old. Works the late shift at the railyards when he’s sober enough to show up. Has two priors for domestic assault that mysteriously vanished from the precinct records because his uncle is a precinct captain on the city’s payroll."
Emma pulled the blanket up to her chin, her knuckles whitening. "He... he has a very bad temper. But if he finds out I’m here, he’ll come for me. He always finds out. He knows the transit schedules, he knows the guys at Marello’s—"
"He won't be finding out anything tonight, Emma," Dante interrupted, his voice steady as iron. "Because right now, Jake Vance is sitting in a basement in Cicero, learning what happens to men who touch things that do not belong to them."
Emma stared at him, a cold dread washing over her. "What are you going to do to him?"
Dante lifted the spoon of broth, holding it patiently near her lips. "I am going to remove a cockroach from my city. But before I do that, I am going to make sure you eat this entire bowl of soup. Open."
The authority in his tone left no room for negotiation. Emma reluctantly opened her mouth, the warm, rich liquid instantly soothing her raw throat. As he fed her, spoonful by spoonful, she realized with a shuddering jolt that the man sitting beside her wasn't just a regular customer from Table Seven. He was the apex predator of the city, and for some incomprehensible reason, he had chosen to throw his massive, terrifying shield directly over her broken life.
"Why?" she managed to ask between swallows. "You don't know me. I’m just a girl who dropped a tray."
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Dante set the empty bowl down, his dark eyes fixed on her face with a gravity that made her breath hitch. "My mother died in a room that looked exactly like the one you live in, Emma. She worked three cleaning jobs until her fingers bled, and her husband spent her wages on whiskey and fists. I was ten years old when I promised myself that if I ever built an empire, no woman under my protection would ever have to count coins for bread or hide a bruise under a uniform."
He stood up, tower-tall in the dim light of the fireplace. "You are under the Moretti flag now. That means your debts are erased, your mother’s clinic bills are settled, and the man who put those marks on your skin has just run out of time."
