The heavy oak doors of the ballroom slam shut behind us, cutting off the suffocating tension of the Commission chamber. The long, gilded hallway of the Congress Hotel feels endless, our boots clicking sharply against the polished marble floor as Dante marches us toward the south exit.
Leo appears from a side corridor, his hand resting inside his dark overcoat, his eyes scanning the architectural shadows with practiced efficiency. "Caravan is idling at the curb, boss. Silvio’s shooters are lingering near the perimeter, but they aren't making a move."
"They won't move until Silvio tells them how much a war will cost," Dante rumbles, his grip on my waist never loosening for a fraction of a second. He guides me through the glass vestibule, his massive frame shielding me entirely as the freezing Chicago wind hits us once again.
The armored SUV is waiting, its door held open by a silent guard. Dante hands me inside, the pressurized warmth of the interior instantly melting the frost on my cheeks. Before I can even slide across the leather seat, his massive bulk follows, crowding the space and sealing the door shut behind him.
The SUV tears away from the hotel, the tires throwing up wet slush against the glass as we merge onto the dark, icy expanse of Lake Shore Drive.
The adrenaline that held me steady in the ballroom evaporates, leaving me trembling in the center of the plush seat. I look down at my hands, still gripping my father’s leather ledger against my chest. "You told them I was your wife. You told them we were already married."
Dante turns his head, his amber eyes catching the passing flash of the city streetlights. The tiny pale scar through his left eyebrow shifts as his jaw sets into a rigid, handsome line of pure possession.
"By the law of the streets, you became mine the moment you stepped into my caravan, Gianna," he growls softly, his deep baritone dropping into that dark, razor-sharp purr that completely dictates my pulse. He reaches across the seat, his large, calloused hand settling firmly over my thigh, the heat of his palm cutting right through my clothes. "But tomorrow, we make it official in a church. Lucchesi will have eyes on the parish. He needs to see the contract signed in ink."
"And after that?" I ask, my voice breathy as I look into the fierce, untamed fire of his gaze. "After the city accepts that I'm behind your wall?"
Dante leans across the console, his massive chest crowding me against the door panel until I am trapped entirely beneath his shadow. He reaches up, his long, scarred fingers cupping the nape of my neck, his thumb pressing into my jawline to tilt my face up.
"After that, you learn how to live inside my perimeter, little baker," he whispers, his hot breath brushing my lips, sending a violent, familiar shiver straight down my spine. "You give me the ledger, you take my name, and you never look back at 4th Street again.”