CHAPTER 4

Chapter 4: The Mask of Devotion

The heavy oak doors of the Vane estate closed with a final, echoing thud. I leaned against the wood, my legs shaking so violently I thought I might collapse. The perfume of the gala—cloying lilies and expensive sweat—still clung to my skin like a second layer of filth.

I touched the bodice of my dress. The spot where Sterling had gripped my arm felt cold. A safe house. Canada. Freedom. The words should have been a lifeline. Instead, they felt like a lead weight in my stomach. I looked down the long, shadowed hallway toward Dante’s study. He was already inside, the thin line of light under the door the only thing cutting through the gloom.

He had saved me from Moretti. He had wiped blood from my face with the gentleness of a lover. But he had also held me like a prisoner while his sister fed me to the wolves.

I walked toward the light. My heels clicked against the marble, each sound a heartbeat. I reached the door and pushed it open.

Dante was sitting behind the massive desk, but he wasn't looking at ledgers. He was staring at a glass of amber liquid, his jaw tight enough to snap bone. He didn't look up when I entered.

"Sit," he muttered.

I stayed by the door. "Sterling talked to me."

Dante’s head snapped up. His eyes burned with a sudden, sharp intensity. He didn't ask what was said. He just looked at me, his nostrils flaring as he took in my disheveled state. "He’s a vulture. He picks at the carcasses of things better men have built. If you listen to him, you’ll end up in a ditch."

"And what will I end up as if I listen to you?"

Dante didn't answer. He stood up and walked around the desk. I braced myself, expecting a snarl or a grip on my throat. Instead, he knelt.

He reached out and took my right foot in his hand. I gasped, trying to pull away, but his grip was like iron—warm, steady iron. He unbuckled the strap of my stiletto and tossed the shoe aside.

"You’re bleeding," he said softly.

He reached for a small medical kit on the low table. I looked down at my heel. The silver strap had sliced into my skin, leaving raw, weeping blisters. Dante took a cotton ball soaked in antiseptic and pressed it to the wound.

I hissed, my fingers digging into the velvet upholstery of the chair behind me.

"Hush," he murmured. He blew on the sting, his breath cool against my skin.

The contrast made my head swim. This man had murdered a room full of people forty-eight hours ago. Now, he was tending to my feet as if I were made of glass. He looked up, his face inches from mine. The scent of sandalwood and bourbon was intoxicating.

"Why do you care?" I whispered. "I'm just property."

Dante’s thumb traced the line of my ankle, his touch sending a jolt of electricity straight to my core. He leaned in, his eyes dropping to my lips. For a second, the air in the room vanished. The tension was a living thing, pulling us together until I could feel the heat radiating off his chest.

"Because," he growled, his voice a low vibration in his throat. "Nobody gets to hurt you but me."

He stood up abruptly, the moment shattering like dropped crystal. He walked back to his desk, his back to me. "Go to bed, Bianca. We have work tomorrow."

I stood on my shaking legs, my heart hammering against my ribs. I turned to leave, but my hip brushed against the edge of his desk, knocking a stack of papers to the floor.

"I've got it," I said quickly, reaching down to gather the scattered documents.

My hand stopped mid-air.

There, tucked under a heavy bronze paperweight, was a small, tarnished silver coin on a leather cord. A lucky charm. My breath hitched.

I knew that charm. My father had carried it for twenty years. He called it his "Last Chance."

I reached out and picked it up. The metal was sticky. I pulled my hand back, my heart dropping into my throat. My palm was smeared with a thick, dark crimson. The blood was so fresh it still felt warm.

I looked at Dante. He hadn't turned around, but his shoulders were rigid.

"Dante?" my voice was a ghost. "Where is he?"

Dante turned slowly. The "Hidden Light" I thought I saw moments ago was gone, replaced by a cold, predatory vacuum. He looked at the blood on my hand, then back to my eyes.

"I told you, Bianca," he said, his voice devoid of any emotion. "Thieves lose hands."

Outside, a car door slammed. A muffled, guttural scream echoed from the basement level, cutting through the silence of the house like a serrated blade.