Chapter 4 - Crimson Stitches and Cold Truths
The master suite was a vast expanse of dark mahogany, slate gray silks, and floor-to-ceiling glass looking out over the crashing Atlantic waves. A fire crackled in the massive stone fireplace, casting dancing shadows over the room.
I sat on the edge of the emperor-sized bed, stripped down to my slip, gripping the edge of the mattress as Dr. Evans, an elderly man with steady hands, carefully cleaned the two brutal lacerations across my shoulder blades. Dante stood by the mantelpiece, watching every move the doctor made like a panther ready to strike if the needle dug too deep.
"You were fortunate, young lady," Dr. Evans murmured, applying a pungent herbal salve that immediately numbed the throbbing fire in my flesh. "The whip broke the skin, but there is no muscle damage. However, another quarter-inch to the left and it would have struck the spine."
Every time I winced, Dante’s fingers tightened around his whiskey glass until the crystal creaked under the pressure.
"Leave the ointment and the dressings," Dante ordered abruptly. "I will handle the rest."
Dr. Evans bowed respectfully, gathered his instruments, and vanished through the heavy double doors, leaving me alone with the man whose very name struck terror into the hearts of the eastern seaboard.
The silence between us was heavy, charged with unspoken questions and the crackle of burning birch logs. Dante walked over, took a fresh roll of sterile gauze, and sat down on the edge of the mattress beside me. His proximity was overwhelming; he radiated heat, power, and an intense, focused intent that made my pulse race.
"Turn around," he commanded gently.
I swallowed hard and turned my back to him, pulling my hair over one shoulder. The cool air hit my bare skin, followed instantly by the warmth of his large, calloused palms.
His fingers were surprisingly delicate as he smoothed the sterile dressing over the wound. But when his thumb accidentally brushed against the soft, untouched curve of my waist, a shiver shot straight down my spine.
"You're shaking," Dante noted, his voice low and raspy.
"I’m sitting half-naked in the bedroom of a mob boss who just threatened to murder half the state legislature," I countered, trying to sound braver than I felt. "Forgive me if my nervous system is slightly elevated."
Dante let out a low chuckle, a rich, dark sound that vibrated against my skin. "The girl who boldly knocked over an eighty-thousand-dollar bottle of wine in front of two hundred armed men is suddenly frightened of a bedroom?"
"I knew what the wine would do," I said quietly, looking down at my hands. "I don't know what you will do."
Dante finished taping the bandage, then rested his palms flat on the mattress on either side of my hips, effectively trapping me within his space without touching me. When he spoke, his lips were inches from the nape of my neck.
"What I will do, Cora, is tear down the Sterling empire brick by brick until Julian is begging for scraps in the gutter. And then I will hand you the match to burn the remains."
I turned my head slightly, catching his dark gaze. "And what do you want in return, Dante? Mafia dons do not offer vengeance out of charity."
"I want your mind," he said without hesitation. "Julian has been smuggling synthetic compounds into our ports—chemical weapons disguised as pharmaceuticals. My men don't understand the formulas. I need Alexander Vance’s daughter to decipher his ledgers. Work with me, and your family's name will be cleared, your inheritance restored."
"And if I refuse?"
Dante leaned in, his breath brushing against my cheek, carrying the dark scent of peat whiskey. "You won't refuse. Because the woman who took two lashes rather than let an innocent man die has too much fire in her blood to ever scrub floors again."
Before I could answer, the door burst open. Marco stood in the doorway, breathing hard, a bloody folder clutched in his leather-gloved hand.
"Boss. We pulled the driver from Sterling's carriage. You need to see this. It wasn't just Genevieve trying to kill you to inherit the syndicate."
Dante straightened up instantly, the softness vanishing as his face hardened into cold steel. "Speak."
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"The Sterlings didn't act alone," Marco said, his eyes flicking nervously toward me. "They sold the port access to the Russian cartel. And the cargo is arriving tonight at Pier 44."
***
