Chapter 4 - The Unspoken Vow
By 3:00 a.m., the blood-stained carpets of the forty-second floor had been replaced, the shattered glass cleared, and a dozen heavily armed loyalists sat stationed at every entrance of the building.
Dante had relocated Elena to his private safehouse—a sprawling, fortified estate nestled deep within the forested hills of Lake Forest, Illinois.
The master bedroom of the safehouse was warm, lit only by the crackling amber flames of a stone fireplace. Outside, the storm had tapered off into a quiet, cold mist.
Elena sat on the edge of the large king-sized bed, wearing an oversized black sweater belonging to Dante. Her dark hair was damp from a warm shower, falling in soft waves over her shoulders.
The door opened, and Dante stepped inside. He had washed the gunpowder and grime from his skin, wearing loose black trousers and a soft grey shirt. He carried two silver mugs of hot tea.
He walked over, setting the mugs on the nightstand, but remained standing a few feet away, his hands resting in his pockets.
For the first time in three years, the wall between them was completely gone—and the sudden, profound intimacy felt almost overwhelming.
“Drink your tea,” Dante said softly. “It will help you sleep.”
Elena looked up at him, her dark eyes tracking his broad silhouette against the firelight. “Are you going to sleep?”
“I have calls to make,” Dante replied, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Arthur and Raymond Cole are attempting to flee the state. My men are tracking their vehicles near the Indiana border.”
“Dante,” Elena called out gently.
He paused.
“Stop running from me,” she said softly.
Dante went still. He slowly looked up, his grey eyes filled with a mixture of raw longing and lingering regret.
“I’m not running, Elena,” he murmured, taking a step closer to the bed. “I’m trying to give you space. For three years, I thought I was terrifying you. I don't want to force myself onto you now just because I know the truth.”
Elena stood up. She walked straight toward him until her chest bumped lightly against his. She reached out, her fingers slowly unbuttoning the first two buttons of his shirt, her warm hands resting flat against his muscular chest, feeling the heavy, rapid thud of his heart.
“You never forced yourself on me, Dante,” she whispered, tears glistening in her eyes once more. “Every night I spent behind that locked door, I wished you would break it down.”
Dante’s breath hitched in his throat. His hands flew out, gripping her waist, pulling her flush against him so fast she gasped.
“Do you have any idea what you did to me?” Dante rasped, his voice rough with emotion as he leaned down, his forehead resting against hers. “Every morning I saw you sitting across that breakfast table looking at me with those cold, silent eyes... it ripped my heart out of my chest. I thought you hated the very sound of my voice.”
“I was protecting you,” she sobbed, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck. “I thought if I let you love me, my father would find a way to use me to poison your drink, or sell your routes, or shoot you in your sleep! I couldn't let him hurt you, Dante. I couldn't.”
“Fuck your father,” Dante growled softly, his lips brushing against her jawline, sending a electric shiver straight down her spine. “And fuck Raymond Cole. No one is ever coming between us again, Elena. Do you hear me? Never.”
He lifted his head, locking his eyes onto hers, giving her one final, silent moment to turn away.
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Elena didn't turn away. She stood on her tiptoes and pressed her lips firmly against his.
The kiss was explosive—a dam breaking after three long years of drought. Dante let out a low, primal groan, wrapping his massive arms around her, lifting her body effortlessly into his arms as he carried her toward the bed, leaving the shadows of their past far behind.
