Part 2 — Protection With A Locked Door

The inside of Dante Moretti’s car smelled of leather, sandalwood, and rain.

Ella pressed herself against the door, one hand gripping her bag so tightly her fingers hurt. The privacy screen was up. The driver was only a shadow beyond black glass. Dante sat on the opposite side with one arm resting along the back of the seat, relaxed in a way that made him more frightening, not less.

Outside, the three men stepped from the shadows just as the car pulled away.

One of them lifted his hand, too late.

Dante watched through the rear window.

“Bold,” he said quietly.

Ella turned to him.

“What do they want?”

“You.”

The word entered the car and stayed there.

Ella’s throat tightened.

“I don’t know them.”

“They know enough.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No,” Dante said. “It is the safest answer until you stop shaking.”

“I’m shaking because a stranger forced me into his car.”

A faint smile touched his mouth.

“Stranger?”

He leaned forward slightly, and the city light moved across his face.

“I know your name. I know where you work. I know you study business administration at night and read during your breaks. I know you take the Red Line home after midnight. I know you are two months behind on rent and owe six thousand dollars in student loans.”

Ella’s stomach dropped.

“That is not protection. That is surveillance.”

“It became protection when men who did not intend kindness began watching you too.”

Her fear hardened into anger.

“Do men like you ever hear yourselves?”

That surprised him.

Just a little.

Good.

She wanted him surprised.

Dante’s gaze sharpened, not offended exactly, but interested.

“Men like me?”

“Men who decide a woman is in danger, then use the danger to make themselves necessary.”