Part 2: The Girl Chicago’s Mafia Boss Couldn’t Let Go

PART 2

Emma tried to swallow, but her throat felt tight.

“My boss said if the invoice didn’t get delivered tonight, she was docking my pay.”
“Your boss sent you here at midnight?”
“She didn’t send me. She yelled. There’s a difference.”
For half a second, Dante looked almost amused.
“What’s your boss’s name?”
Emma’s stomach dropped. “No. Please don’t.”
“No?”
“Don’t do whatever you’re thinking.”
“And what am I thinking?”
“That someone should be punished because I was scared.”
His expression changed.
There it was again, that stillness, that awful controlled quiet that made powerful men dangerous. He studied her like she had done something strange.
“You defend people who fail you?” he asked.
Emma laughed once, bitter and small. “I wouldn’t have anybody left if I didn’t.”
The room went quiet.
Dante’s gaze moved over her face, taking in the tired eyes, the cheap black coat, the catering uniform beneath it, the shoes she had glued twice because buying

new ones meant skipping groceries.
“What’s your name?”
“Emma.”
“Emma what?”
“Reynolds.”
He said it once, under his breath, as though placing it somewhere private. “Emma Reynolds.”
She hated the way her name sounded in his mouth.
She loved it more.
He finally stepped back, and cold air rushed between them. Emma remembered the envelope and held it out.
“This is the invoice from Bell & Bloom Catering. For the St. Jude fundraiser last week. I made the cannoli, if that helps.”
“I know.”
Her hand trembled. “You know?”
“You were in the kitchen arguing with the pastry chef about orange zest.”
Emma blinked. “You saw that?”
“I notice things.”
Of course he did. Men like Dante Moretti survived by noticing everything.
He took the envelope but did not open it. Instead, he moved behind his desk, pulled out a checkbook, and wrote with quick, decisive strokes.
When he slid

the check toward her, Emma looked down and almost stopped breathing.
“This is too much.”
“It includes your tip.”
“This is insane.”
“The cannoli were worth it.”
“No cannoli are worth this.”
“Mine are.”
She looked up.
He was watching her with the faintest hint of a smile. Not kind exactly, not safe, but warmer than before.
Emma knew, in that moment, that she needed to leave immediately.
Instead, she stood there holding a check that could pay her rent, her mother’s bill, and the mechanic who kept leaving messages about her dying Honda.
Dante leaned back in his chair. “Have dinner with me tomorrow.”
The words hit harder than a threat.
“What?”
“Have dinner with me tomorrow.”
The words landed harder than they should have.
Emma stared at Dante across the massive desk, the check still trembling in her hand. Outside the penthouse windows, Chicago glittered beneath the rain,

but inside the room everything felt dangerously still.
Men like Dante Moretti did not ask women like her to dinner.
Men like Dante Moretti bought judges, buried enemies, and owned entire blocks of the city without their names appearing on paperwork.
And yet he was looking at her now with unnerving patience, as if her answer mattered.
Emma cleared her throat. “I think you’re confusing gratitude with interest.”
One dark eyebrow lifted.
“You made dessert memorable,” he said. “That earns interest.”
“That line probably works on most women.”
“I don’t use lines.”
“That’s somehow worse.”
For the first time since she’d entered the office, Dante laughed softly.
The sound shocked her.
It changed his entire face—not enough to make him safe, but enough to remind her he was human beneath all the rumors and sharp edges.
Emma hated how much she wanted to hear it again.
“I should leave,” she said.
“Yes.”
Neither moved.
Dante’s gaze drifted toward the blood on his shirt like he’d only just remembered it existed. He unbuttoned his cuff slowly, rolling the sleeve once.
Emma noticed bruises across his knuckles.
Not fresh.
Repeated.
“You’re staring,” he said calmly.
“You’re bleeding.”
“It isn’t mine.”
That should have terrified her.
Instead, she found herself asking, “Does that happen often?”
His eyes returned to hers. “Often enough.”
Something cold moved through her stomach.
This was the moment sensible women walked away. The moment they remembered every terrible story whispered across restaurant kitchens and alleyway smoke breaks.
Dante Moretti was dangerous.
Not rich-dangerous.
Not arrogant-dangerous.
Real dangerous.
Yet beneath that danger sat a strange restraint, like a wolf choosing not to bare its teeth.
Emma tightened her grip on the check. “Why me?”
Dante studied her quietly. “Why not you?”
“You could ask anyone.”
“I did ask someone.” His gaze lowered slightly. “You.”
Heat rushed unexpectedly into her face.
God, this man was impossible.
“I don’t belong in your world,” she said carefully.
“You think I belong in it?”
“You own half the city.”
“I own businesses.”
“And fear.”
Something flickered behind his eyes at that.
Not anger.
Recognition.
The silence stretched between them until Dante finally stood.
The movement alone changed the air.
He crossed the office slowly, stopping close enough for Emma to feel his warmth again. Her pulse stumbled traitorously.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Eight o’clock.”
“That wasn’t a question.”
“No.”
“You’re very confident.”
“I’m very rarely wrong.”
Emma should have said no.
Instead, she heard herself ask, “Where?”
His mouth curved slightly.
“I’ll send a car.”

Emma barely slept.
By morning, she had convinced herself the entire encounter had been stress-induced insanity.
By noon, she’d checked her bank account six times to make sure the check had really cleared.
By three in the afternoon, her boss was suddenly apologizing to her.
Actually apologizing.
Linda Harper, owner of Bell & Bloom Catering, stood stiffly near the industrial refrigerators while cooks pretended not to listen.
“I may have overreacted yesterday,” Linda said tightly.
Emma nearly dropped a tray of pastry shells.
“You yelled at me because a client changed pickup times.”
“Yes, well…” Linda adjusted her necklace nervously. “Mr. Moretti called this morning.”
Every muscle in Emma’s body froze.
“He what?”
“He said you represented the company well.”
“That’s all?”
Linda hesitated.
“He also suggested replacing you would be a catastrophic business decision.”
Emma closed her eyes.
Of course he did.
Around them, kitchen staff exchanged glances.
One of the line cooks whispered, “Holy hell.”
Emma ignored him.
“You didn’t have to tell him—”
“I didn’t tell him anything,” Linda snapped. “Frankly, I’d prefer not discussing Mr. Moretti at all.”
Fear flashed across her face before she masked it.
That terrified Emma more than shouting ever could.
By six o’clock, she was still debating whether to cancel.
Her apartment looked even smaller than usual tonight—peeling paint, weak radiator heat, and the constant dripping sound from the kitchen faucet she couldn’t afford to fix.
Her mother sat wrapped in blankets on the couch, oxygen machine humming quietly nearby.
“You’re pacing,” her mother observed.
Emma stopped. “Am I?”
“Yes. Which means either you’re hiding a body or a man is involved.”
Emma snorted despite herself.
“A dangerous man,” her mother added instantly.
Emma stared. “How did you know?”
“Because safe men don’t make women pace like that.”
Fair point.
Her mother watched her carefully. “Are you in trouble?”
“No.”
“Do you need help?”
“No.”
“Do you like him?”
Emma opened her mouth.
Closed it.
“That bad, huh?” her mother murmured.
Emma sat beside her with a groan. “He’s… intense.”
“Mm.”
“He’s probably connected to terrible things.”
“Probably?”
“He definitely is.”
“And yet.”
Emma leaned her head back against the couch.
“And yet he looked at me like I mattered.”
The room grew quiet.
Her mother squeezed her hand gently. “That can be the most dangerous thing of all.”

At exactly eight o’clock, a black car waited outside her apartment building.
Not a limo.
Worse.
A sleek matte-black sedan with two silent men in dark suits standing beside it.
One opened the door immediately.
“Miss Reynolds.”
Emma climbed inside before she could lose her nerve.
The city blurred outside the windows as they drove north along Lake Shore Drive. Chicago glowed gold against the dark water, rain streaking across the glass.
Then the car stopped in front of a building she recognized instantly.
“The Elysian?” she breathed.
The restaurant was impossible to get into unless someone rich, famous, or criminally connected wanted you there.
Inside, crystal chandeliers cast warm light across dark velvet walls. Conversations softened the second Dante entered.
Emma felt it happen.
People noticed him.
Not casually.
Instinctively.
A hostess nearly tripped rushing forward.
“Mr. Moretti.”
Dante barely nodded before his hand settled lightly against Emma’s lower back.
The touch was gentle.
Possessive enough to make half the room stare.
Emma swallowed hard.
“You enjoy terrifying people?” she whispered.
“Only difficult people.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
They were seated immediately in a private corner overlooking the skyline.
Wine appeared.
Then appetizers.
Then silence.
Not awkward silence.
Dangerous silence.
Dante watched her the way storms watched coastlines.
Finally, Emma set down her water glass. “Are you going to interrogate me?”
“I already know everything important.”
“That’s creepy.”
“You live on West Briar. Your mother likes old Frank Sinatra records. Your landlord raises rent illegally every year. You worked three jobs in college and dropped out during your final semester.”
Emma went completely still.
“How do you know that?”
“I told you,” he said calmly. “I notice things.”
“No. That’s more than noticing.”
A shadow crossed his face.
“It’s habit.”
The answer chilled her more than she expected.
Because men in Dante’s world survived by gathering information before it could be used against them.
“You investigated me.”
“Yes.”
“You’re admitting that like it’s normal.”
“For me, it is.”
Emma leaned back slowly. “Should I be scared of you?”
Dante didn’t answer immediately.
The restaurant noise faded around them.
Finally, he said quietly, “Probably.”
The honesty stole her breath.
Most dangerous men lied.
Dante didn’t.
“Then why am I still here?” she asked softly.
His eyes held hers.
“Because part of you is tired of being afraid.”
The words hit too close to home.
Emma looked away first.
Dinner arrived in courses she couldn’t pronounce. Dante spoke little, but when he did, she found herself listening too carefully.
He asked about her mother.
About baking.
About why she abandoned architecture school.
“No money,” Emma admitted. “And life got complicated.”
“You were good?”
“At architecture?”
“Yes.”
She shrugged. “Good enough.”
“I looked at your portfolio online.”
Emma nearly choked on her drink.
“You what?”
“You design spaces like you’re trying to create peace.”
Her pulse skipped.
No one had ever described her work like that before.
Dante’s gaze lowered briefly to her hands. “You hide inside practical things.”
The observation felt intimate enough to qualify as touching.
Emma forced a laugh. “Do you psychoanalyze everyone?”
“Only interesting people.”
Again with that.
Again with her pulse betraying her.
By dessert, she had almost forgotten who he was.
Almost.
Then a man approached their table.
Everything changed instantly.
Dante went still.
Not tense.
Worse.
Controlled.
The newcomer wore an expensive charcoal suit and a smile sharp enough to cut glass.
“Well,” he drawled. “This is unexpected.”
Emma felt Dante’s hand settle lightly on her knee beneath the table.
A warning.
Or reassurance.
She couldn’t tell.
“Victor,” Dante said evenly.
The man’s gaze slid to Emma. “You brought company.”
“She’s not your concern.”
Victor smiled wider. “That serious already?”
Every instinct in Emma screamed.
Something dangerous moved beneath the conversation, invisible and loaded.
Victor finally extended a hand toward her. “Victor Salazar.”
Emma shook it cautiously.
His fingers tightened slightly too long.
“You’re prettier than the usual women around Dante,” he said.
Dante’s voice dropped several degrees. “Enough.”
Victor released her instantly.
But his eyes lingered.
Calculating.
Interested.
Emma hated it.
“You know,” Victor said casually, “your timing is unfortunate.”
Dante’s expression hardened. “Leave.”
Victor ignored him.
“There’s been a development tonight,” he continued. “A warehouse on the South Side.”
For the first time, Emma saw genuine danger enter Dante’s face.
Not fear.
Readiness.
Victor’s gaze flicked toward her again. “Maybe you should head home before things become unpleasant.”
The room suddenly felt colder.
Dante stood slowly.
Every conversation nearby died.
“We’re done here,” he said.
Victor smiled faintly. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Then he walked away.
Emma realized her hands were shaking.
Dante noticed immediately.
“I’m taking you home.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing you need involved in.”
“That didn’t look like nothing.”
His jaw tightened.
“Emma.”
“No,” she said quietly. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like I’m stupid.”
Something dangerous flickered behind his eyes again.
But not directed at her.
“You shouldn’t have met him.”
“Who is he?”
Silence.
Then: “A problem.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting tonight.”
The drive home was quiet.
Not peaceful.
Heavy.
Emma watched rain blur across the windows while Dante sat beside her, one hand resting against the leather seat between them.
Thinking.
Calculating.
Preparing.
The car stopped outside her apartment building.
Before she could open the door, Dante spoke.
“You’ll stay somewhere else tonight.”
Emma blinked. “What?”
“I’ll arrange it.”
“No.”
“It isn’t optional.”
Anger flared instantly. “You don’t get to decide where I sleep.”
His eyes met hers.
“This isn’t a game anymore.”
The words landed hard.
Emma’s pulse quickened. “What does that mean?”
Dante looked toward the rain-streaked street.
Then back at her.
“It means Victor doesn’t ignore things he wants.”
Cold spread slowly through her chest.
“You think I’m in danger because I had dinner with you?”
“I know you are.”
Fear finally arrived.
Real fear.
Not because of rumors.
Because Dante himself looked worried.
And men like him did not worry easily.
“I’m not leaving my mother,” Emma said firmly.
“I’ll send guards.”
“Guards?”
“Yes.”
“This is insane.”
“This is Tuesday.”
Despite everything, a startled laugh escaped her.
Dante stared at her a second before something softer appeared in his expression.
“You laugh when you’re scared,” he murmured.
“You become bossier.”
“I’m always bossy.”
“Fair.”
For one impossible moment, the tension eased.
Then Dante’s phone rang.
He answered immediately.
Emma watched his face change.
Whatever he heard turned him cold.
“I’m on my way,” he said sharply.
He ended the call and opened the car door.
“Lock your apartment. Don’t answer for anyone except my men.”
Emma grabbed his sleeve before he could step into the rain.
The contact startled them both.
His eyes dropped to her hand.
“Dante.”
He looked back at her slowly.
“What?”
The question she wanted to ask tangled somewhere behind her ribs.
Are you leaving to kill someone?
Are you the man everyone says you are?
Will I regret meeting you?
Instead she whispered, “Be careful.”
Something raw crossed his face.
Brief.
Barely visible.
But real.
Dante touched her cheek once, thumb brushing softly across her skin exactly like the night before.
Then he leaned down.
Emma stopped breathing.
But he didn’t kiss her.
His forehead rested lightly against hers for one impossible heartbeat.
“You still haven’t been kissed properly,” he murmured.
And then he was gone.

Emma barely slept.
Again.
Rain hammered the windows past midnight while two enormous men in suits stood outside her apartment building like silent statues.
At 2:13 a.m., her phone rang.
Unknown number.
Every instinct told her not to answer.
She answered anyway.
“Hello?”
Heavy breathing.
Then a man’s voice.
Low.
Amused.
“Dante Moretti doesn’t keep things he can’t protect.”
Emma’s blood turned to ice.
“Who is this?”
A soft chuckle answered.
Then the line went dead.
Her hands shook violently.
She locked every window twice.
At 3:04 a.m., someone knocked on her apartment door.
Three slow knocks.
The guards outside shouted instantly.
Movement exploded in the hallway.
Emma’s mother woke with a frightened gasp.
Then came shouting.
A crash.
And suddenly—
Gunfire.
Emma froze.
Her mother screamed.
More gunshots echoed through the hallway as men yelled outside the apartment.
Emma grabbed the nearest kitchen knife with trembling fingers.
Another crash shook the door.
Then silence.
Terrible silence.
Emma’s pulse thundered in her ears.
Slowly, carefully, she approached the peephole.
A body lay in the hallway.
One of Dante’s guards.
Blood spread beneath him in dark streaks.
Emma stumbled backward in horror.
And then her phone buzzed.
One text message.
From Dante.
DO NOT OPEN THE DOOR.
A second message arrived immediately after.
They came for you sooner than I expected.
Before Emma could even process the words, the apartment lights suddenly went out.
Darkness swallowed everything.
And somewhere in the hallway outside—
Someone started laughing.

To be continued, Click Part 3 here: PART 3