"She Whispered She’d Never Been Kissed — Then the Mafia Boss Who Owned Chicago Did the One Thing No One
"Part 2: “What?” Emma whispered.
Dante Moretti did not repeat himself, because men like him were used to the world catching up.
He only watched her from behind that enormous desk, his blood-stained collar open at the throat, his pen still resting between two long fingers.
“Dinner,” he said.
“With you?”
“With me.”
Emma stared at the check in her hand.
The number on it was impossible.
So was the man offering it.
“I don’t know anything about you,” she said.
“That’s not true.”
Her eyes lifted.
“You know I pay my bills,” Dante said.
“You know people are afraid of me.”
“You know I like orange zest in cannoli.”
Against every instinct, Emma almost smiled.
Then she remembered the blood.
“And I know someone bled on your shirt.”
The warmth vanished from his face.
For one moment, the office seemed to shrink around them.
Dante stood, slow and silent, and walked to the window.
Below him, Chicago glittered like a kingdom pretending it was not ruled.
“Some men knock before entering,” he said.
“Some don’t.”
Emma’s fingers tightened around the check.
“Is he dead?”
Dante turned his head slightly.
“No.”
She should have been relieved.
She was not sure she believed him.
The elevator behind her chimed.
Dante’s entire body changed.
Not fear.
Never fear.
Something colder.
He crossed the room in three strides, caught Emma by the wrist, and pulled her behind the wall of bookshelves just as the office doors opened.
She gasped, but his hand covered her mouth with careful pressure.
His lips brushed her ear.
“Do not make a sound.”
Two men entered.
Emma could see them through the narrow gap between the shelves, both wearing dark coats, both carrying guns like they belonged in their hands.
One tossed a folder onto Dante’s desk.
“She was here,” the man said.
“She delivered the envelope.”
Dante’s hand went still against Emma’s mouth.
The second man laughed softly.
“Little Emma Reynolds has no idea what she carried upstairs.”
Emma’s blood turned cold.
The envelope.
The invoice.
Dante’s check.
None of it had been about catering.
Dante lowered his mouth to her ear again.
This time, his voice was barely human.
May you like
“Emma,” he whispered, “when I move, run.”
Then the lights went out.
