The stairs leading down to the bakery’s fruit cellar are dark and steep, smelling of damp earth and rotting wood. My boots click softly against the stone steps, a sharp, frantic contrast to the slow, heavy idle of the diesel engine waiting out on 4th Street.
My hands are still shaking as I reach the bottom. I pass the crates of apples and the heavy sacks of winter flour, moving toward the very back wall where a loose brick sits beneath the old copper water pipe. It takes me three tries to pry it free, my fingernails scraping against the rough mortar until my fingers finally curl around the cold, leather-bound edge of my father's ledger.
It’s smaller than I expected. Light. Yet it holds enough explosive leverage to level every high-rise from here to the loop.
"You're running out of time, Gianna."
I gasp, spinning around so fast my back hits the cold stone wall.
Dante stands at the foot of the stairs. I didn't hear him descend. He moves like a ghost for a man of his immense size, his massive frame completely filling the narrow cellar corridor, blocking out the faint light from the shop above. He has unbuttoned his charcoal overcoat, letting it hang open to reveal the tailored waistcoat beneath, stretched taut across the hard, unyielding canvas of his chest.
His amber eyes drop instantly to the black leather book clutched against my apron. The tiny pale scar through his left eyebrow shifts as his jaw hardens into a rigid sheet of absolute, predatory satisfaction.
"You found it," he murmurs, his deep baritone vibrating off the low cellar ceiling, making the enclosed space feel instantly suffocating.
"I told you I was getting my coat," I say, my voice breathy as I try to push past him.
He doesn't move an inch. Instead, he steps directly into my path, pinning me between the cold brick wall and the suffocating heat radiating from his chest. He reaches out, his large, calloused hand settling firmly against the stone right next to my ear, trapping me completely within his perimeter.
"You're a bad liar, little baker," Dante growls softly, leaning down until his lips are inches from mine. His hot breath brushes my skin, sending a violent, familiar shiver straight down my spine. "But you're a survivor. I’ll give you that."
He reaches down with his other hand, his long, scarred fingers wrapping around mine where they hold the ledger. He doesn't pull the book away. Instead, he presses his palm over my knuckles, forcing my hand—and the book—flush against his chest, right over the heavy, rhythmic thud of his heart.
"From this second, this book belongs to the Marchetti family," Dante whispers, his amber gaze burning down into mine with a fierce, unchecked intensity that makes my pulse completely scramble. "And so do you. The Commission will hunt you to the gates of hell for what's inside these pages, but they’ll have to go through me first."
He slides his hand up from my knuckles to my jaw, his thumb pressing hard into my skin, tilting my face up to accept the absolute weight of his words.
"Let’s go, Donna Marchetti," he rumbles, a dark, razor-sharp purr cutting through the damp cellar air. "The caravan is waiting, and we have an empire to secure.”