Chapter 4 — New Rules

Dante pov

I don’t lift the gun.

That matters.

The weight of it rests against my thigh, familiar, steady. I could tuck it away, slide it back beneath my jacket and soften the moment—but I don’t. Men like me don’t soften moments. We clarify them.

She sees it the second she gets into the car.

I watch the recognition flicker across her face. The way her body stills. Not panic. Calculation. She takes inventory fast—distance, posture, the angle of my arm. She notices everything. That’s the kind of woman she is.

She doesn’t scream.

She doesn’t ask questions.

She doesn’t beg.

Good.

The door shuts with a quiet finality, sealing us into the dim interior. The city glides past the tinted windows, blurred streaks of light and shadow. The car moves smoothly, like it’s done this a thousand times before.

She sits upright, back pressed slightly too stiff against the leather, knees together, hands folded in her lap. Her body takes up space—but she’s been trained to apologize for it, to contain it, to make it smaller than it actually is.

Up close, I see the truth of her.

She is not the caricature men like him reduce her to.

Her body is full, yes—hips rounded and solid beneath the fabric of her clothes, thighs strong, heavy in a way that speaks of gravity and presence. The kind of body that exists undeniably, that cannot be ignored without effort. Her breasts pull slightly at the front of her shirt, the fabric stretched not obscenely, just honestly, as if it refuses to lie about her shape.

Her stomach curves softly when she sits. Not hidden. Not tucked away. Real.

What strikes me most is not her size.

It’s the way she holds herself like it’s something she has to manage.

Her shoulders are tense, drawn in just a fraction too much. Like she’s learned that stillness is safer than comfort. Like she expects her body to betray her at any moment—make noise, make someone angry, make itself a problem.

Her hands are rougher than I expected. Not unkempt. Worked. The bandage around her palm is clean but tight, wrapped by someone who knows how to stop bleeding quickly. Someone who’s done it before. More than once.

There’s a bruise on her upper arm. Old. Yellowed at the edges. Healing—but not forgotten by the body yet. She keeps that arm closer to her side, protective without realizing it.

Her face…

Her face is what ruins men like him.

Not because it’s perfect. Because it isn’t trying to be.

Her features are soft—rounded cheeks, full lips that look like they’ve learned to stay closed. Her nose is slightly wide at the bridge, giving her a solidity that photographs would flatten but reality deepens. Her eyes are large, dark, expressive even when she’s holding them still.

Those eyes have been dimmed.

Not broken. Not defeated.

Dimmed.

Like someone reached inside and slowly turned the light down over time, telling her it was normal. Telling her she was imagining how bright she used to be.

I’ve seen that look before.

Not often. And never without consequences.

She glances at the gun once more, then back to me. Her gaze is steady now. Not challenging. Measuring.

I don’t look away.

I don’t smile.

I don’t soften.

I let her see exactly what she’s dealing with.

She shifts slightly when the car turns, leather creaking under her weight, and flinches—waiting for reprimand that doesn’t come. That reaction alone tells me how long she’s been living inside someone else’s rules.

She doesn’t know me.

But something in her eyes says she knows this feeling.

The sense that the air has changed. That the outcome is already decided, even if the details aren’t.

I feel it too.

Not recognition. Not memory.

Something quieter. Like a thread pulled tight between two moments that haven’t met yet.

“You’re not in danger,” I say.

My voice is even. Controlled. I don’t rush the words.

She doesn’t answer.

She studies my face like she’s searching for the lie. For the angle. For the price.

“Not from me,” I add.

That’s when she exhales.

Not relief. Understanding.

Her shoulders lower a fraction. Not trust—never that—but recalibration. Like she’s adjusting her internal map to new terrain.

Good.

The gun stays where it is.

Not as a threat to her.

As a reminder—to anyone else who might ever mistake her silence for permission.

The car continues forward, city lights sliding over her skin, illuminating her in fragments: the curve of her cheek, the slope of her shoulder, the quiet strength in her neck.

She is beautiful.

Not in spite of what she’s been taught to hate.

But in the way she has survived it.

And as I watch her sit there, contained and coiled and alive beneath all that damage, one thought settles into me with absolute certainty:

Whatever they did to her—

They didn’t finish the job.

I shift first.

Not the gun—my leg.

The movement is small, deliberate. Enough to let her see that I’m choosing what happens next. The car slows at a light. Red bleeds across the window, washes briefly over her face, then slides away.

I angle the gun down and slip it back beneath my jacket. The leather creases softly. The sound is controlled. Final.

Her shoulders tense anyway.

I reach forward and tap the divider once. The driver nods without looking back. The car turns, smooth, efficient. We’re heading away from the club now, away from the noise and the eyes.

I don’t rush the silence. Silence is a tool. It lets people show you who they are.

She keeps her hands folded in her lap. Her fingers have stopped trembling. That didn’t take long. She adapts quickly—another thing I’ve noticed before.

I glance at the bandage again. Then at the faint discoloration along her arm. Old bruises, layered. Not tonight’s work. Not last night’s either. A map of time written on skin.

I’ve seen them before.

Different colors. Different places. Same pattern.

Every time she came in with him, she wore something that tried to hide it. Sleeves too long for the season. Fabric chosen for coverage, not comfort. She learned quickly which tables to avoid, where the light was kinder, where men like him felt bolder.

She never complained.

She never asked for help.

She just endured.

I watched from a distance and waited for the moment when endurance would run out.

The car rolls through another intersection. I turn to her.

“You can sit back,” I say. “You don’t need to brace.”

She doesn’t argue. She doesn’t comply right away either. Then, carefully, she eases back against the seat. Tests it. Her spine relaxes a fraction.

I take that as a win.

“My name is Dante Morelli,” I say.

I watch it land.

Recognition isn’t instant. It moves through her in stages—confusion first, then a flicker of understanding that tightens her mouth and sharpens her eyes. The city has stories. Names travel.

She knows what my name costs.

“I figured,” she says after a moment.

Her voice is steady. A little rough around the edges. Not broken.

“Say it,” I tell her.

She looks at me directly now. No flinching.

“You’re the owner,” she says. “Or you run it. The club.”

“A club,” I correct mildly. “Among other things.”

Her gaze dips for a split second. Then she nods, accepting the correction. I see the calculation behind her eyes. The way she’s stacking information, discarding what doesn’t matter.

She inhales. Straightens.

“I am Nina.”

I don’t react.

“I know,” I say.

The word lands heavier than I intend.

She stiffens. Her head tilts slightly, like she’s listening for something dangerous beneath the surface.

“You—” She stops herself. Tries again. “You know my name.”

“I do.”

“How?”

I don’t answer immediately.

Instead, I reach into the inside pocket of my jacket and pull out a folded envelope. I don’t hand it to her yet. I let her see it.

“Because you came to my place of business with a man who owed me money,” I say. “More than once.”

Her jaw tightens.

“And because,” I add, “I pay attention.”

That’s true enough to be useful.

I slide the envelope across the seat between us. Not close enough to touch her leg. Close enough that she has to acknowledge it.

“Your things,” I say. “What you had on you.”

She doesn’t open it yet. She looks at me instead, eyes narrowing.

“You planned this,” she says.

Not an accusation.

An observation.

I meet her gaze. “I planned an outcome.”

She exhales slowly through her nose. Anger flickers there—controlled, compressed.

“You watched,” she says. “Every time.”

I don’t deny it.

The car slows again. We turn onto a quieter street. Trees blur past the windows. The city thins out.

I lean back slightly, giving her space without retreating.

“I watched him,” I say. “And I watched you survive him.”

Her fingers curl tighter together.

“I didn’t intervene before,” I continue. “Because you weren’t ready to be taken away.”

Her eyes snap to mine. Sharp.

“Taken,” she repeats.

“Yes.”

She considers that. The word doesn’t scare her the way it should. That tells me something else about her.

“And now?” she asks.

“Now,” I say, “you are no longer collateral.”

Her brows draw together. “Then what am I?”

I hold her gaze.

“A responsibility,” I say. “Mine.”

The word settles between us.

The car turns through iron gates that open without pause. Gravel crunches beneath the tires. A house emerges ahead—dark stone, low lights, solid and patient.

Her breathing changes again. Slower. Deeper.

I gesture toward the window. “You’ll stay here. You’ll be safe. You’ll have a room. A lock. Food. Space.”

She watches the house approach, eyes taking in every line, every shadow.

“And him?” she asks.

“Ricky,” I say, using his name like it’s already past tense. “Is no longer a factor.”

She swallows.

The car comes to a stop.

I open my door first and step out, circling to her side. I don’t offer my hand. I don’t crowd her. I open the door and step back.

She hesitates only a moment before getting out on her own.

Standing there, under the muted lights, she looks taller. More real.

I meet her eyes one last time before we go inside.

“You don’t owe me anything,” I say. “And I won’t touch you unless you ask.”

Her gaze searches my face, looking for the catch.

“And if I want to leave?” she asks.

I answer without hesitation.

“Then you will,” I say. “Not tonight. But you will.”

She nods once.

That’s when I see it—just for a second.

A spark.

Not hope.

Possibility.

I turn toward the house and lead the way, aware of the weight of what I’ve taken—and what I’ve promised to protect.

And somewhere beneath the present, something old stirs.

A memory not yet ready to be named.

But soon.