The metal stairs groan beneath Dante’s weight as he leads me up from the dark cellar and back into the blinding gray light of the bakery. I look at the ovens, the cooling racks, the bags of flour—everything my grandfather built, everything I am leaving behind to go into the dark.
Dante doesn't give me time to mourn. He catches the nape of my neck in his large, warm hand, his thumb pressing firmly into my skin as he guides me straight toward the front door.
"Leo," Dante barks as we step into the main shop.
My cousin materializes from the back room, his eyes instantly tracking the black leather ledger clutched tightly against my ribs. He looks at me, his chest heaving with a mixture of terror and profound relief. He knows my surrender just bought his life.
"Take the back van," Dante commands Leo, his deep baritone dropping into that low, flat register of pure logistics. "Clear the perimeter of 4th Street before the Commission realizes the bird has flown. You report directly to the North Avenue gates by dusk. If anyone follows you, you don't lead them to my house. You lead them to the river."
"Understood, Don Marchetti," Leo says, nodding sharply. He gives me one last, lingering look of apology before slipping out the rear exit, the door clicking shut behind him.
Dante shoves the front door open, the little brass bell letting out one final, frantic chime. The wind off the lake hits us instantly, a biting, freezing gale that cuts right through my thin sweater. Before the chill can settle into my bones, Dante shifts his weight, his massive frame blocking the wind as he sweeps his heavy charcoal overcoat around my shoulders, enveloping me in his scent of expensive tobacco and cedarwood.
The door to the armored black SUV is already open, held by a silent, stone-faced guard.
"Get in, Gianna," Dante murmurs, his hot breath brushing my ear, sending a violent, familiar shiver straight down my spine.
I step into the plush, pressurized warmth of the vehicle’s interior, the heavy door slamming shut behind me with a solid, echoing thud that sounds exactly like a prison cell locking into place. A second later, the chassis sinks as Dante climbs in beside me, his massive bulk instantly crowding the leather bench seat.
The SUV tears away from the curb, its tires throwing up slush against the frosted glass windows of the bakery. I look back once, watching the only home I’ve ever known shrink into the Chicago smog, before Dante’s large hand settles heavily over my thigh.
His fingers sink into my skin, a firm, possessive weight that anchors me to the seat. I look up, meeting the fierce, untamed fire of his amber gaze. The tiny pale scar through his left eyebrow twitches as his jaw hardens into a rigid sheet of pure satisfaction.
"Don't look back, little baker," Dante whispers, his voice a dark, razor-sharp purr that completely commands the silence inside the caravan. "There’s nothing left for you on 4th Street. Your ledger belongs to me now. And by midnight, the whole city will know you belong in my bed.”