Chapter 2 - The Black Fleet
The leather inside the SUV smelled like money, cedar, and gunpowder.
I sat in the middle row, flanked by the old man on my right and Dante Rossi on my left. My wet coat dripped onto the spotless black leather seat, leaving small pools of water that made me feel painfully out of place. Outside, the rain beat a steady rhythm against the armored glass.
“Dad,” Dante said, his voice dropping an octave, losing the harsh edge it had out on the street. “Where is your shoe?”
The old man, whose name I had gathered was Arthur, looked down at his sock-covered foot with genuine surprise. “I was speaking to Martha. The connection was poor.”
Dante squeezed his eyes shut for a second, rubbing the bridge of his nose. For a moment, behind the cold facade of a man who looked like he ran an empire with an iron fist, I saw a deep, exhausting pain.
“Mom passed away seven years ago, Dad,” Dante whispered gently.
Arthur stared at his loafer, his face faltering as the fog in his mind cleared just enough for reality to sting. “Right. Right… I forgot again.”
Dante looked across his father’s head and fixed his dark eyes on me. “Who are you?”
“Chloe,” I stammered, gripping my damp purse against my chest like a shield. “Chloe Wells. I… I was just walking to the bus stop.”
“You pulled him out of traffic,” Dante said. It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact.
“He was talking to a shoe in front of an oncoming box truck,” I replied, a sudden spike of nervous energy making me braver than I felt. “Your guards weren't around. Someone had to do it.”
The bodyguard in the front passenger seat—a broad-chested man with a scar running across his eyebrow—turned around. “Boss, we caught the tail two blocks back. It was Moretti’s scouts. They lost the old man’s tracker when he wandered out of the estate.”
Dante didn't take his eyes off me. “You saw the men following him?”
“I saw taxis laying on their horns,” I said, shivering as the high-powered heater in the SUV blew warm air over my soaked shoes. “Look, Mr. Rossi—or whatever your name is—you can just drop me off at 47th Street. I can take the local bus from there.”
Dante let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-growl. “47th Street at midnight? In that neighborhood? You’d be mugged before your shoes hit the curb.”
“I live there,” I snapped.
“Not tonight,” Dante said flatly. He tapped the glass partition. “Take us to the estate. Tell Dr. Vance to be ready to check my father.”
“Wait, no!” I leaned forward. “You can't just kidnap me! I have a job—well, a shift tomorrow morning. I have an apartment!”
“You saved my father's life,” Dante said calmly, leaning back into his leather seat, his long legs stretching out comfortably. “In my family, debts are settled immediately. You will stay at the house tonight, get clean clothes, a hot meal, and tomorrow morning my driver will take you wherever you want to go.”
“And if I refuse?”
Dante looked at me, his eyes dark, intense, and utterly unyielding. “I don't recommend refusing a Rossi, Chloe.”
May you like
Arthur reached over and patted my wet hand with his cold, trembling fingers. “It’s fine, my dear. Dante has terrible manners, but the chef makes a wonderful tomato soup.”
The SUV glided through the rain-slicked streets, leaving the neon lights of the city behind as we climbed into the dark, wealthy enclave of the northern hills. I looked out the tinted window, watching my ordinary, miserable life shrink into the distance, completely unaware that the man sitting beside me was the most feared mob boss in the Midwest.
