Chapter 6: Dante's Empire

The elevator climbed so high that Elena's ears popped.

She pressed her palm against the polished chrome wall, watching the floor numbers tick upward with nauseating speed. Forty. Fifty. Sixty. The Salvatore Industries building pierced the Chicago skyline like a gleaming blade, all glass and steel and ruthless ambition made architectural. And she was rising toward its crown, toward the private executive floor where Dante Salvatore ruled his empire.

Marcus Chen stood beside her, silent and imposing in his perfectly tailored suit. He'd arrived at the community center that morning with a car that probably cost more than her building and a polite but firm insistence that Mr. Salvatore wanted to discuss the details of his proposal in person.

At his office.

Elena had refused. Then she'd looked at the stack of bills on her desk, thought about Miguel recovering in a hospital room his mother couldn't afford, and swallowed her pride.

Now she was here, wearing her only professional dress and shoes that pinched her feet, about to walk into the den of a man who made her instincts scream danger.

The elevator doors whispered open onto a reception area that looked like it belonged in a museum. Floor to ceiling windows offered a view of the entire city sprawling below, reduced to a miniature model of itself. The furniture was minimalist and expensive, the art on the walls probably worth more than she'd earn in a lifetime. Everything gleamed with the cold perfection of wealth beyond measure.

"This way, Miss Moretti." Marcus gestured toward a hallway that seemed to stretch into infinity.

Elena followed, her heels clicking against marble that reflected her image like dark water. They passed conference rooms with walls of glass, offices where people in expensive suits moved with purposeful efficiency, all of it humming with the quiet power of money making more money.

This was Dante's world. Technology. Innovation. Global markets and billion dollar deals. What did a man who commanded this kind of empire want with a struggling community center in South Chicago?

Marcus stopped before a massive door of dark wood. "Mr. Salvatore is expecting you."

He opened the door, and Elena stepped into an office that stole her breath.

It was enormous, dominated by windows that turned the entire city into Dante's backdrop. But what struck her wasn't the view or the sleek furniture or the technology that looked like something from a science fiction film. It was the man standing at those windows, hands clasped behind his back, looking out over his domain like a king surveying his kingdom.

Dante Salvatore turned, and Elena forgot how to breathe.

The photos didn't do him justice. They captured his sharp features, his dark hair, the aristocratic lines of his face. But they missed the intensity in his eyes, gray like storm clouds, that seemed to see straight through her carefully constructed armor. They missed the way he moved, controlled and precise, like a predator who'd learned to walk among prey. They missed the scar that cut a thin line through his left eyebrow, the only imperfection on an otherwise flawless canvas.

He looked at her for a long moment, and Elena felt exposed, analyzed, measured against some invisible standard she couldn't name.

"Miss Moretti." His voice was different from yesterday, deeper, with an edge that made her spine straighten. "Thank you for coming."

"You didn't exactly give me a choice." Elena lifted her chin, refusing to be intimidated by the wealth and power radiating from every corner of this room. "Your man made it clear this wasn't optional."

Something flickered across Dante's face. Amusement? Approval? It vanished before she could identify it.

"Marcus can be... persuasive." Dante moved toward his desk, gesturing to the chairs across from it. "Please, sit."

Elena remained standing. "I'd prefer to keep this brief. You said you wanted to help the center. I'm listening."

Dante's mouth curved slightly, not quite a smile. "You don't trust me."

"I don't trust billionaires who show up out of nowhere offering money with no strings attached. In my experience, there are always strings."

"Smart." Dante leaned against his desk, crossing his arms. The movement pulled his shirt tight across his shoulders, and Elena forced herself to focus on his face. "I saw the news yesterday. The boy who was stabbed at your center. Miguel Rodriguez, sixteen years old. He's stable, recovering. The doctors say he'll be released in a few days."

Elena's chest tightened. "How do you know that?"

"I make it my business to know things, Miss Moretti. Especially when they matter." Dante's eyes never left hers. "I also know your center is hemorrhaging money. You're three months behind on rent. Your funding was cut by forty percent last quarter. You're running on credit cards and praying."

Heat rushed to Elena's face. "You investigated me?"

"Due diligence. If I'm going to invest in something, I need to understand what I'm investing in." Dante pushed off the desk and moved closer, close enough that Elena caught the scent of expensive cologne and something else, something darker. "Your center serves two hundred kids. You have a ninety percent high school graduation rate in a neighborhood where the average is thirty. You've helped sixty young people get into college. Twenty more into trade programs. You've saved lives, Miss Moretti. But you're drowning."

The truth of his words hit like a physical blow. Elena had spent months pretending everything was fine, that she could hold it all together through sheer force of will. Hearing it spoken aloud, laid bare by this stranger, made her feel naked and vulnerable.

"What do you want?" She hated how her voice shook. "Why do you care about my center?"

Dante was silent for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he moved to a shelf lined with photos and picked up a frame. He handed it to Elena.

A girl smiled out from the picture, maybe seventeen, with dark hair and eyes that sparkled with life. She stood next to a younger version of Dante, both of them laughing at something outside the frame.

"My sister, Isabella." Dante's voice went flat, empty. "She was murdered eight years ago. Wrong place, wrong time. Caught in a gang crossfire three blocks from a community center not unlike yours."

Elena's throat closed. She looked at the girl in the photo, so young, so full of promise. Then at Dante, and saw the carefully controlled grief beneath his perfect mask.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"I don't want your sympathy." Dante took the frame back, but his fingers lingered on the glass, tracing his sister's face. "I want to make sure other kids don't end up like Isabella. Or like your brother."

Elena's head snapped up. "What did you say?"

"Antonio Moretti. Fifteen years old. Killed in a drive-by shooting five years ago. That's why you opened the center, isn't it? That's why you can't let it fail."

Rage exploded through her. "You had no right to dig into my life. No right to—"

"I had every right." Dante set the frame down and turned to face her fully, and the intensity in his eyes pinned her in place. "Because I recognize grief when I see it, Miss Moretti. I recognize the desperation of someone trying to save the world because they couldn't save the one person who mattered most."

The words hit too close, cut too deep. Elena wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold despite the warm office. "This was a mistake. I should go."

"I'm offering you five million dollars."

Elena froze halfway to the door.

"Five million," Dante repeated, his voice matter of fact, like he was discussing the weather. "For your center. No publicity. No strings. Anonymous donation if you prefer. Enough to cover operations for five years, expand your programs, hire more staff. Enough to actually make a difference."

Elena turned slowly. "Why?"

"Because I can. Because Isabella would want me to. Because there are too many kids like Miguel and Antonio, and not enough people willing to fight for them." Dante moved closer, and Elena had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. "Take the money, Miss Moretti. Save your center. Save those kids."

It was everything she needed. Everything she'd been praying for. But every instinct screamed that this man was dangerous, that accepting his money would cost her something she couldn't yet name.

"What do you really want from me?" Elena searched his face, looking for the catch, the hidden agenda. "Nobody gives away five million dollars without wanting something in return."

Dante's expression shifted, became something darker, more intense. "Maybe I want to know that something good can come from all this wealth. Maybe I want to believe that money can actually save lives instead of just making more money." He paused, his eyes holding hers. "Or maybe I want to work with someone who reminds me that not everyone in this world is motivated by greed and self interest."

The air between them felt charged, electric. Elena's heart hammered against her ribs.

"I'll need to think about it," she managed.

"You have twenty four hours." Dante reached into his desk and pulled out a folder. "Everything you need is in here. Contract terms. Bank information. Timeline for fund disbursement. Read it. Consult a lawyer if you want. But I need your answer by this time tomorrow."

Elena took the folder with trembling hands. It was heavy, substantial, real.

"Why the deadline?"

Dante's smile was sharp, humorless. "Because kids like Miguel don't have time for you to agonize over your pride, Miss Moretti. And because I'm not a patient man."

Elena clutched the folder to her chest and turned toward the door. She'd made it three steps when Dante spoke again.

"One more thing."

She looked back.

"I'll be personally overseeing this project. You'll be working with me directly. Weekly meetings, progress reports, complete transparency." His eyes gleamed with something that made her pulse race. "If you accept my offer, Miss Moretti, you and I are going to be spending a lot of time together. Can you handle that?"

The question hung in the air between them, loaded with implications Elena didn't want to examine.

"I can handle anything," she said, lifting her chin.

Dante's smile grew, becoming almost predatory. "We'll see."

Elena fled before he could say anything else, before she could analyze the way her body had responded to his proximity, the heat that had nothing to do with anger. She made it to the elevator, stabbed the button, and waited for the doors to close on Dante's empire and the man who ruled it.

As the elevator plunged downward, Elena opened the folder.

On top of the contracts and documents was a photograph. Miguel, in his hospital bed, smiling weakly at the camera. And beside him, sitting in a chair, was Dante Salvatore, dressed casually, talking to the boy like they were old friends.

Elena's hands shook. When had Dante visited Miguel? Why hadn't the hospital mentioned it? Why was he really doing this?

Her phone buzzed. An unknown number.

Tick tock, Miss Moretti. Twenty four hours. Choose wisely.