Chapter 3 - Scars and Stitches
The master wing of the Moretti estate was forbidden territory for the domestic staff. We cleaned the lower halls, the ballrooms, and the subterranean vaults, but the third floor was Dante’s fortress.
Yet, here I was, sitting on an emerald-velvet chaise lounge in his private study while Dr. Henderson, Dante’s personal surgeon, threaded a curved suture needle under the bright halogen lamp.
“Six stitches across the trap muscle,” Dr. Henderson murmured, swabbing the split flesh with iodine. “The edge of that crop was sharpened. It wasn't an accident. It was modified to slice.”
Dante stood by the roaring limestone fireplace, a glass of amber scotch resting untouched in his hand. He hadn't changed out of his ruined suit. His eyes remained fixed on the white cotton of my undershirt, which Dr. Henderson had cut away to expose the wound on my shoulder.
Camila burst through the double doors, flanked by two guards who looked terrified for having failed to stop her.
“Dante, this is insane!” she wailed, tears carving black trails through her eyeliner. “Julian is being held in the cellar like an animal! The guests are leaving! My father is on the phone from Milan demanding an explanation, and you’re up here playing nursemaid to a fat, thieving—”
*CRACK.*
Dante smashed his tumbler against the hearth. Glass rained across the hardwood.
Camila froze, her mouth open, the insult choking in her throat.
“The chemist confirmed potassium cyanide,” Dante said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “Three hundred milligrams. Enough to kill four men within two minutes of ingestion. The bottle was injected through the wax seal with an ultra-fine veterinary syringe.”
Camila blanched. “Julian wouldn't... he was framed! This maid framed him! She’s trying to sabotage our wedding!”
“She’s been in the cellar since six this morning,” Dante whispered, stepping closer to Camila until she was forced to crane her neck to see his eyes. “Julian arrived at five this afternoon carrying the decanter himself. He insisted on pouring my glass personally.”
Dante reached out, taking Camila’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. He squeezed just hard enough to turn her skin white. “Your family thought they could eliminate me before the contract was signed, inherit the eastern shipping ports through your widow’s claim, and bury the truth under a lavish funeral.”
“No, Dante... I swear, I didn't know!” Camila sobbed, genuine terror finally breaking her arrogance. “I had nothing to do with it! Please!”
“Take her to the east guest suite,” Dante commanded without looking at the guards. “Strip her of her phone, her jewelry, and her shoes. Lock the iron gate. If she screams, gag her.”
“Dante! You can’t do this to me! I am a Sterling!”
The guards dragged her out, her heels scuffing uselessly across the floor until the heavy doors slammed shut, cutting off her hysterical cries.
Silence reclaimed the room, save for the crackle of the fireplace.
“Hold still, Miss Vance,” Dr. Henderson said softly, pulling the final knot tight and snipping the thread. “That should hold. Keep it dry for forty-eight hours.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” I whispered.
As Dr. Henderson gathered his supplies, he pulled the surgical drape away, exposing the back of my right shoulder and the base of my neck to the firelight.
Dante stepped forward to inspect the doctor’s work. But his eyes didn't stop at the fresh black sutures.
They stopped three inches lower.
There, spanning from the base of my neck down over my shoulder blade, was a thick, pale, jagged mass of scar tissue—the unmistakable mark of a third-degree chemical burn that had healed without proper medical attention.
Dante’s breath caught. It was a sound so slight that Dr. Henderson didn't notice, but I felt the sudden shift in the room's atmospheric pressure.
Dante’s hand moved. His rough, calloused fingers brushed against the edge of the old scar. A jolt of electric heat shot straight down my spine, making me flinch.
“Where did you get this?” Dante asked, his voice suddenly hollow, stripped of all its icy cruelty.
I pulled my torn shirt up over my shoulder, ducking away from his touch. “An industrial accident, Mr. Moretti. Years ago.”
Dante grabbed my wrist. His grip wasn't violent, but it was unbreakable. His slate-gray eyes were burning into mine with an intensity that terrified me more than Camila’s riding crop ever could.
“Five years ago,” he whispered, his thumb pressing against the rapid pulse point in my wrist. “The docks at Pier 42. An explosion in the chemical warehouse. The rival syndicate locked the security gates from the outside.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. I tried to look away, but his gaze pinned me like a butterfly under glass.
“A woman broke the padlock with an iron crowbar,” Dante continued, his voice trembling with an emotion I had never heard in a man of his reputation. “She pulled three of my men out through the fire. And when the structural beam collapsed... she threw herself over me to shield my face from falling burning resin.”
He reached up with his free hand, touching the faint, faded white line along his own jawline.
“I woke up in the hospital three days later,” he whispered. “My men said a plus-size woman in a dockworker’s jumpsuit carried me two miles to the emergency clinic and disappeared into the night before anyone could ask her name. They only found one thing left in the snow.”
Dante reached inside his suit pocket, pulling out a tarnished, silver chain with a dented brass token attached to it—a worker’s badge stamped with the number: **#408**.
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“I searched five years for the owner of this badge,” Dante said, his voice thick with a ferocious, possessive wonder. “And she was scrubbing my floors for fourteen dollars an hour.”
***
