The interior of the armored SUV is a bubble of absolute silence as we tear through the industrial grid of the city, heading north toward the lake. The heavy leather seats smell of new luxury and old violence, a combination that makes my stomach twist into tight, anxious knots.
Dante doesn't lift his hand from my thigh. The heat of his palm prints straight through the fabric of my trousers, a constant, heavy reminder of the perimeter I am now locked inside. His amber eyes are fixed on the tinted window, watching the gray blur of Chicago pass by, his jaw set into that rigid, handsome sheet of marble that tells me his mind is already calculating the next move.
"Where are we going?" I ask, my voice sounding entirely too small against the low, heavy hum of the engine.
Dante doesn't look at me immediately. He waits a beat, letting the silence stretch until my nerves feel like frayed wires, before his amber gaze snaps down to meet mine.
"To the Commission's neutral territory," he rumbles, his deep baritone dropping into a dark, razor-sharp purr that vibrates right through the leather seat. "The Congress Hotel. Don Lucchesi has called an emergency session. They think they’re meeting to vote on your execution, little baker."
My breath hitches, my fingers tightening instinctively around the leather edges of my father's ledger, still clutched tightly against my ribs. "And you're walking me right into the firing squad?"
A low, predatory chuckle rattles deep in Dante's massive chest. The tiny pale scar through his left eyebrow shifts as his features harden into a look of absolute, unchecked dominance. He reaches over, his long, calloused fingers wrapping around my chin, forcing me to look into the fierce, untamed fire of his gaze.
"I don't hand over what belongs to me, Gianna," he growls softly, his thumb pressing firmly into my skin, claiming my territory with every syllable. "By the time we walk out of that ballroom, the Commission won't be looking for a target. They’ll be looking at a wall. My wall."
He releases my chin, his hand sliding down to cover mine where it rests on the book, his ring clicking sharply against the leather.
"They think the Romano name dies today," Dante whispers, his hot breath brushing my cheek, sending a violent, familiar shiver straight down my spine. "But you're going to show them how a Marchetti claims his prize. Hold onto that ledger, little baker. It’s the last time anyone is going to ask you to give it up.”