Chapter 6 - THE LOCKED DRAWER
The interior of the Moretti estate felt entirely different at two in the morning when you weren't carrying a feather duster.
Leah walked beside Dante through the grand foyer, the marble floors silent beneath her heels. The house was a fortress, crawling with quiet, heavily armed men in dark suits. They nodded respectfully as Dante passed, their eyes carefully avoiding Leah.
Dante led her past the guest wing, past the grand staircase, and toward the east corridor—a section of the house Leah was strictly forbidden from cleaning.
He stopped in front of heavy, double oak doors. His private study.
Dante unlocked the door and pushed it open. The room was massive, lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, smelling of leather, old paper, and a faint hint of expensive scotch.
“Sit,” Dante instructed, pointing to a plush leather armchair near the fireplace.
Leah sat, smoothing the plum dress over her knees. The adrenaline of the evening was finally crashing, leaving her exhausted and incredibly cold.
Dante walked to a small mahogany cabinet, poured two fingers of amber liquid into a crystal glass, and handed it to her.
“Drink. It will help with the shock.”
Leah took a sip. It burned like fire going down, but a welcome warmth spread through her chest.
Dante didn't pour one for himself. He walked behind his massive desk and pulled out a sleek, black laptop. He opened it, typing rapidly.
“What are you doing?” Leah asked, watching his intense focus.
“I am pulling the security feeds for your mother’s studio,” Dante said without looking up. “And I am tracking the license plates of the vehicles the Rinaldis used tonight.”
Leah tightened her grip on the glass. “You said they wouldn't hurt her. You said you sent men.”
“I did,” Dante said, finally looking up. “But Silvio is unpredictable. He knows he can't beat me in a direct war, which means he’ll look for leverage. You are safe here. Which makes your mother his next logical target.”
Panic flared in Leah’s chest again. “Dante, we have to get her out of there. We have to warn her.”
“If we warn her, she goes to the police,” Dante said flatly. “And the police cannot protect her from the Rinaldis. I can.”
He turned the laptop screen toward her.
On the screen was a live, high-definition video feed of Bennett Dance Studio. The party was over. The lights were off. Two nondescript black sedans were parked strategically across the street, Dante’s men keeping watch.
“She is safe, Leah. I swear it on my life.”
Leah looked at the screen, then at Dante. She believed him. Despite everything, despite the danger, she trusted the man sitting across from her implicitly.
“What happens now?” Leah asked quietly.
Dante closed the laptop. “Now, we wait. Silvio made a public threat. By the rules of the Commission, I am entitled to retaliate. But I need to know where he is keeping his weapons cache before I strike, or the collateral damage will be catastrophic.”
He walked around the desk, leaning against the edge, looking down at her.
“You should sleep, Leah. It’s been a long night.”
“I can't sleep,” she admitted, looking up at him. “Every time I close my eyes, I see that man looking at me in the studio. I see Owen’s face when we walked out.”
At the mention of Owen, Dante’s jaw tightened.
“Your ex-fiancé is a coward,” Dante said softly. “He didn't step in when Silvio threatened you. He hid behind his champagne glass.”
“Owen doesn't do conflict,” Leah said with a bitter laugh. “He prefers things to be easy. Perfect. Like Jessica.”
Dante took a step closer, stopping just inches from her chair.
“Jessica is a porcelain doll, Leah. She’s fragile. Empty.” He reached out, his knuckles lightly grazing the bare skin of her shoulder, sending a jolt of electricity straight to her core. “You are a woman who works fourteen-hour shifts to support her family, and then stands up to a mafia boss in a ballroom. There is nothing empty about you.”
Leah’s breath hitched. She looked up into Dante’s dark, smoldering eyes. The professional boundaries, the fake boyfriend ruse, the danger of the Rinaldis—all of it melted away under the intensity of his gaze.
He wasn't playing a part anymore.
Dante leaned down slowly. He didn't rush. He gave her every opportunity to pull away.
She didn't.
When his lips finally met hers, it wasn't tentative. It was a searing, desperate kiss, fueled by the adrenaline of the night and months of quiet observation. Dante’s hands slid to her waist, pulling her up from the chair, pressing her body flush against his chest.
Leah gasped softly against his mouth, her hands tangling in his dark hair. She had never been kissed like this. Not by Owen. Not by anyone. It was consuming. It was entirely real.
Suddenly, a loud, heavy knock shattered the silence of the study.
Dante pulled away instantly, his instincts taking over. He placed himself between Leah and the door, his hand instinctively reaching for the gun holstered at his hip beneath the tuxedo jacket.
“Yes,” Dante barked.
The door opened. It was Marcus.
The massive bodyguard looked grim, his suit jacket wet from the rain.
“Sorry to interrupt, boss,” Marcus rumbled, his eyes briefly flicking to Leah before returning to Dante. “But we have a problem.”
“What is it?” Dante demanded.
“The Rinaldis,” Marcus said, pulling a crushed, bloodstained envelope from his pocket. “They didn't go back to their territory. They hit one of our safe houses on the South Side. Three of our men are dead.”
Dante’s face turned to stone. The tenderness of the previous moment vanished entirely, replaced by the terrifying wrath of the Don.
“Did they leave a message?” Dante asked, his voice deadly quiet.
Marcus nodded, handing the envelope to Dante. “Nailed to the front door.”
Dante opened the envelope. He pulled out a single piece of paper, read it, and crumpled it in his fist.
“What does it say?” Leah asked, her voice trembling.
Dante looked at her, his eyes dark and haunted.
“It says Silvio knows where my mother is buried. And if I don't surrender the South Side territory by noon tomorrow, he’s going to dig her up and dump her in the river.”
Leah gasped, covering her mouth with her hands. The sheer cruelty of the threat was beyond comprehension.
Dante turned to his desk, grabbing a ring of keys. He unlocked the bottom drawer—a drawer Leah was strictly forbidden from cleaning.
He didn't pull out a file, or money.
May you like
He pulled out a heavy, tactical assault rifle.
“Marcus,” Dante ordered, racking the bolt of the rifle with a deafening, metallic crack. “Call the capos. Assemble every man we have. The truce is over. We go to war tonight.”
