The gates of the Marchetti estate loom out of the dissipating storm, standing tall and unbroken in the headlights of the SUV. The iron bars swing open with a smooth, silent precision that betrays nothing of the violence that shattered the driveway just twelve hours ago.
As the vehicle rolls to a stop under the grand stone portico, the reality of the mansion sinks back into my bones. The shattered glass from the foyer windows has already been swept away, replaced by thick, temporary wooden panels painted to match the frame. Squads of heavily armed guards walk the perimeter in pairs, their flashlights cutting through the misting rain.
Dante doesn't wait for the driver to open his door. He steps out into the damp night air, his large hand instantly reaching back into the cabin to wrap around my wrist.
He pulls me out into the cold, but before my bare feet can touch the wet stone of the driveway, he scoops me into his arms once again. The massive tactical jacket bunches around us, a heavy, dark shield against the elements. I instinctively wrap my arms around his neck, my fingers burying into the damp wool of his suit jacket as he carries me up the marble steps.
The grand foyer is silent, smelling faintly of industrial wood cleaner and fresh paint. Dante crosses the threshold, his boots clicking sharply on the polished marble floor. He doesn't stop to look at the damage. He doesn't look back at the guards closing the heavy front doors behind us. He walks straight toward the grand staircase, his breathing deep and steady against my chest.
He carries me up the stairs, through the long, shadowed corridors of the east wing, until we reach the double doors of the master suite.
He shoves one door open with his shoulder, stepping into the massive room. The air inside is warm, smelling of cedarwood and the faint, sweet scent of burning wax. A fire is crackling low in the stone hearth, casting long, dancing amber shadows across the dark velvet drapes and the expansive king-sized bed. The broken glass of the balcony doors has been completely replaced with heavy, reinforced panes that mute the sound of the wind outside.
Dante carries me past the sitting area and sets me down on my feet right at the edge of the bed. The dark gray silk sheets are perfectly smooth, reflecting the warm glow of the fire.
I step out of the heavy tactical jacket, letting it drop to the floor in a dark heap. Standing in the cream sweater and tailored trousers, I feel small beneath his intense, unyielding gaze. Dante stands just inches away, his black suit jacket already unbuttoned, his tie long gone. His amber eyes are dark, tracking the erratic rise and fall of my chest.
"The house is secure, Gianna," he says, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that seems to hum in the quiet of the room. "The guards are at the perimeter. No one enters this wing without my permission."
"And what about you?" I ask, my voice a quiet whisper against the crackle of the hearth. "Do you need permission?"
Dante steps into my space, his massive frame blocking out the warmth of the fire, casting his long shadow over me. He raises his right hand, his long, calloused fingers catching a damp curl of my dark hair and gently pressing it behind my shoulder. His skin is scalding hot against my neck.
"You wore my ring," he murmurs, his jaw tightening as his thumb slides down to cup my jawline, tilting my face up until our eyes lock. The amber flecks in his gaze burn with a fierce, possessive intensity that leaves me breathless. "You stitched my brother. You sat at my table in front of the wolves. You didn't run when the lights went out."
He leans down, his breath hot against my parted lips, his thumb pressing firmly against my chin.
"You chose to be a Marchetti tonight, Gianna," he whispers, his voice dropping into that dark, razor-sharp purr that sends a violent shiver straight down my spine. "And a Marchetti keeps what belongs to him.”