Chapter One

Adele

TWO YEARS AGO

"So, Addy, what do you think of Chicago?" My boyfriend's deep, almost musical baritone washes over me.

Dante gestures at the city skyline visible through the restaurant's floor-to-ceiling windows, then rakes his fingers through his jaw-length hair—a simple yet distractingly sexy move.

A knot tightens in my belly as I follow Dante's gaze to the bustling city beyond the plate glass. Something about Chicago calls to me like a siren song, as if offering secrets I was born to uncover.

Which makes absolutely no sense because I've never been here before. Before today, I'd never left Boston.

Chalking the strange feeling up to my persistent tendency to wax poetic, I say instead, "It's a little . . . overwhelming."

The glint in his steel-gray eyes sharpens as if he knows exactly what I mean. I'm not just talking about the city. Dante overwhelms me sometimes. Most of the time, if I'm being completely honest.

We've been dating for three months, mostly over the phone, because I wasn't prepared to leave my comfort zone, and Dante doesn't like to come to Boston. Except for the few times he'd suddenly appear outside my dorm, waiting for me in his tinted black Escalade.

And then last week, he suggested I spend the weekend with him.

I've always sensed there's more to Dante than meets the eye. More than just being a hot, twenty-nine-year-old billionaire. It's in the shadows shifting in his gray eyes, a familiar darkness under his polished exterior—a void that echoes my own hidden depths.

And something else. Restraint.

Dante speaks to me and touches me with exaggerated gentleness—as if afraid I might run if he unleashed the full force of his passion on me. So, when he practically ordered me to come to Chicago, I thought I glimpsed the real Dante Vitelli. Like a moth to flame, I was hooked. It didn't matter that I'd never been on a plane or left Boston. I had to come.

And so, without telling my dad or my best friend and roommate Kira, I packed a bag and hopped on Dante's jet.

"But just remember that you're always in charge." Dante's voice brings me back to the present.

I release a nervous chuckle. "Somehow, that makes me feel even less in charge, Dante."

His grin reveals a flash of white teeth and deep grooves in his cheeks. "Do you trust me though?" He reaches for my hand, turns my palm up, and starts to trace along the outer edge with his index finger. Instantly, my nerves settle, replaced by a more primal feeling.

I may not know Dante as much as I would like, but I trust him to keep me safe and look out for me, so I nod. "I trust you."

Heat flares in his eyes. Something about those three words pleases him immensely. His gaze slowly dips to my cleavage, and I suppress a smile of feminine triumph. But I know what is driving him crazy is not so much the creamy orbs swelling over the neckline of my dress.

It's the thin red scar running between my breasts, the top just visible in my dress.

"How's your work going? You haven't posted much recently," Dante deliberately changes the subject.

By "work," he's not asking about my upcoming Forensics finals or dissertation. He's referring to my weekly blog. A passion project where I dig into unsolved murders from the 1900s and brainstorm on how today's detectives would solve them. Most people find my hobby weird or even slightly disturbing, but not Dante. He gets it.

Then again, Dante isn't like most people.

I pick up my glass of red wine, savoring the burst of flavor on my tongue. "It's going slow. I have more material than I know what to do with, but it's been so hard with college deadlines. Hopefully, I'll post something in the coming week." I pause, feeling a little self-conscious. "I still can't believe you read my blog, Dante."

"Oh, we're avid followers," comes his cryptic reply.

"Who's we?"

"My friends. You'll get to meet them tomorrow. My brother too."

"I will?" A thrill of excitement shoots through me at the thought of meeting his friends and getting to unravel more of the enigma that he is.

Dante's smile turns almost predatory. He traces his index finger around the hair tie on my wrist—his hair tie. The arousal that had been simmering under my skin since we arrived blooms again, leaving a rosy flush on my skin, and I feel my nipples grow tight.

Has it only been an hour since he had me screaming in pleasure in his lap? He'd sent a jet to get me and was waiting for me on the tarmac when I arrived. I felt his eyes on me the moment I appeared at the top of the aircraft steps and all the way to the black SUV idling on the tarmac.

As soon as my butt hit the cool leather of the passenger seat, Dante dragged me across the console.

I bite my lip, feeling myself growing slick again. It must be the long-distance thing. Although Dante makes me come every single night we speak on the phone, it's still nothing compared to seeing him in the flesh.

My reaction to Dante isn't something I fully understand. I wasn't even interested in dating until I met him. Now I can't seem to think straight when he speaks to me, much less touches me. And I can't get over his looks.

The restaurant's dim lighting bathes Dante in a warm, amber glow, accentuating the chiseled lines of his jaw. His light gray eyes smolder with an intensity that makes my breath catch every time. A thick five o'clock shadow adds a rugged edge to his features, contrasting with his enticing, full lips.

Earlier, his hair was neatly tied back, but now—thanks to my eager fingers—the inky locks fall freely, brushing against the crisp collar of his shirt.

Dante leans in, his voice a low, hypnotic rumble. "You're in for quite a weekend, Addy. You'll see and do things you've never done before." His lips curl into a provocative smile. "Starting now. Come here."

Before I can process his words, he tugs at my hand, and I'm once again on his lap.

"Wait," I whisper, my eyes widening as my heart starts to race. "What are you doing?"

In response, Dante pulls me flush against him, his large hands splaying possessively across my lower belly. I can't help but squirm as I feel the thick outline of his arousal pressing against my backside.

I steal a glance around the empty restaurant, a blush creeping up my neck. It's oddly quiet for a five-star Italian place in such a busy part of town.

Dante notices my nervousness and chuckles softly, his breath warm against my ear. "Don't worry, bella . It's just us tonight."

"But what about the staff?" I whisper, scanning the room. The ma?tre d' who welcomed us and the waiters who served our main course have since vanished. I manage to suppress a moan as Dante suckles on the sensitive skin below my ear, but it escapes when his large palm strokes upward and cups my breast.

"I'm sure they're around somewhere," he murmurs against my skin. His thumb and index finger find my nipple, rolling it, then pinching it hard. I jerk and moan louder, helplessly grinding against him.

"Dante," I gasp, the sound both a plea and warning.

His hand leaves my breast, trailing higher until his fingers spear into my curly red hair—a nod to my Irish roots. He gathers the mass over one shoulder, fully baring my neck and jaw to his wicked mouth. Keeping his hand tangled in my hair, he takes complete control, dropping kisses from my exposed shoulder to the corner of my lips and back.

I'm panting, straining to meet his mouth, desperate to feel his breath, his lips, and the smooth glide of his tongue against mine. But his firm grip holds me steady as he continues his teasing.

He rasps against my skin. "I hope you're not too attached to this dress, because I plan to tear it off you."

A shiver of excitement runs down my spine, yet I can't help my smug smile. It's a simple white curve-hugging dress with a ruched bodice, off-the-shoulder sleeves, and a plunging neckline. I almost feel bad for the man. Almost.

I get why Dante reacted so strongly when he first saw me at the airstrip today, and his struggle since then to keep his eyes above my neckline; before now, he has never seen me in a dress. Even I don't remember the last time I wore a dress.

"I take it you hate it then?" I tease, my voice husky with desire.

"It's obscene. Downright revolting," Dante growls, his eyes darkening. His hand glides up my thigh, fingers teasing the hem of my dress before tracing tantalizing circles on the sensitive skin inside.

I giggle nervously. "I agree it's bad. You have my permission to rip it to shreds. When can we leave?" My breath hitches as his fingers inch dangerously close to my core.

"Leave?" Dante's lips curve into a wicked smile. "We're not leaving yet, bella . We're staying for dessert."

A gasp escapes me as he hooks his finger into the crotch of my panties, dragging the fabric away from my slick folds. "Dante," I whisper, "we'll get kicked out."

He chuckles darkly. "No, we won't. But I'll stop if you want me to."

Stop? Hell no. I shake my head, too aroused and intrigued to even consider it.

"In that case . . ." He adjusts the tablecloth, ensuring we're completely covered. "Be quiet. Keep a straight face." He disentangles his other hand from my hair and links it with mine. "Squeeze my hand if you need to, but don't make a sound, capisci?"

Before I can respond, he slides a long, thick finger inside me. I bite back a groan, my head falling back against his shoulder. Staying quiet is going to be a monumental challenge.

"Shh, Addy," he whispers, his breath fanning against my neck. "Look, the waiter is heading our way to see if we want dessert." He adds a second finger, pumping faster, the heel of his hand sliding against my clit. "Be a good girl and tell him what we want."

My eyes fly open as a rush of my arousal coats Dante's hand. Rather than feeling horrified, the thought of doing something as decadent as ordering dessert while he touches me beneath the table sends a thrill through me.

I brace myself as the waiter approaches us, squeezing Dante's hand hard. My eyes threaten to roll back as Dante simultaneously hits sensitive spots, but I force my lids to remain open and my eyes focused, sinking my teeth into my bottom lip even as my thighs shake with an impending release.

Suddenly, the restaurant doors burst open with a resounding thud. Both Dante and the waiter freeze, and I want to scream in frustration at how close I was before realizing that we have company.

I whip my head toward the entrance to see two burly men stride in, their guttural conversation in Gaelic filling the previously quiet space.

They're dressed similarly to Dante—expensive suits sans ties, revealing tattooed chests adorned with gleaming silver necklaces. They move with an air of entitled ownership, one sporting a shock of blond hair, the other bald with a star tattoo etched on the side of his face.

Dante tenses around me, and a chill of foreboding slithers down my back as he slowly withdraws his fingers from me. I watch, still dazed with arousal, as he meticulously wipes his hand on a napkin. His lips brush my temple in a soft kiss, but his whisper carries an unfamiliar edge. "I'm truly sorry, baby." His voice is tight, laced with an emotion I can't quite decipher.

"Um. It's okay," I mumble, mildly confused.

Just moments ago, Dante was ready to bring me to climax in front of a waiter, and now two strangers who haven't even glanced our way have completely transformed him. I steal a puzzled glance at Dante, watching his playful demeanor evaporate like mist and replaced by a cold, calculating look I've never witnessed before.

Dante's eyes lock onto the waiter, giving him an imperceptible nod. The waiter instantly changes course and approaches the newcomers with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

The two Irishmen boldly saunter deeper into the room. I have a feeling they would have made a beeline for us if not for the waiter's interception.

Dante suddenly pulls a nearby chair close, and the legs scrape harshly against the marble floor. I jump at the sound, my nerves already on edge. With smooth, controlled movements, he transfers me onto the seat, then drops another quick kiss on my temple.

"You'll be fine, Addy, I promise," he murmurs absently, then leans back in his chair, picks up his wine glass, and takes a casual sip, as if he's settling in to watch some anticipated drama unfold. He does all this without sparing me a glance; if he had, he would have seen my eyes wide with confusion and growing alarm.

What is happening right now?

"Good evening, gentlemen," the waiter greets, his tone carefully neutral. "I'm afraid the restaurant is closed to the public tonight."

The blond man smirks, his gaze sweeping the near-empty restaurant. "Really? Ah, that's a bloody shame right there. We was also thinking of bringin' our sluts here tonight, y'see. But we'll have to come back another time, eh?"

Dante's hand tightens around his wine glass, his knuckles turning white with the force of his grip. I can almost hear the crystal straining under the pressure.

"Of course, sir," the waiter replies, though his voice wavers slightly. "If you'll follow me, I can arrange a reservation for you." He gestures toward the entrance, attempting to guide them, but the men continue to look around, blatantly ignoring us.

"It's an old-time classic isn't it? Thirsty Irish bitch panting after some Italian dog," the tattooed one spits in Gaelic, his voice a low, guttural rumble while his companion barks out a derisive laugh.

I flinch at the crude words, but what shocks me more is Dante's reaction. His eyes flash with unmistakable recognition, and a cold, predatory snarl curls his lips, transforming his handsome features into something dangerous and alien.

The men turn to follow the waiter, oblivious to the storm brewing in Dante.

My stomach churns with unease. How does Dante understand Gaelic? Before I can voice my question, Dante suddenly rises from his seat with a fluid grace that belies the tension simmering beneath the surface.

"You know, my woman and I were just leaving," he says icily in English, but he deliberately thickens his Italian accent. "Perhaps you'd like to take our place?"

The men's gazes dart between Dante and each other, their expressions hardening. They take a few steps closer, still conversing in guttural Gaelic. The atmosphere crackles with palpable animosity.

Without warning, Dante yanks my chair backward. He positions himself between me and the table, and a sinking feeling settles in my gut as I realize Dante fully intends to fight these burly men.

"Dante, please, don't!" I hiss, but he ignores me. His hand grips my shoulder, firm but not painful.

"Just stay behind me, Addy," he says curtly, his voice low and tight.

In a blur of motion, Dante overturns our table. The crash of shattering plates and glasses is deafening. My eyes widen in horror as a gun materializes in his hand. The other two men draw their weapons, and suddenly the air explodes with gunshots.

I scream as my body moves on autopilot, scrambling away, darting from under one table to the next. Finally, far enough from the chaos, I grab onto the polished wood of the table leg, eyes screwed shut as the acrid smell of gunpowder mingles with the rich aroma of Italian cuisine, creating a nauseating contrast that makes my stomach roil.

And then it's over. Blessed silence descends on the restaurant once more. I hazard a peek from my hiding place, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. I see Dante standing in the middle of the chaos, his stance wide. He cracks his neck from side to side as if releasing pent-up tension.

The two Irish men lie sprawled on the floor, their bodies eerily still, dark blood pooling around their heads. Their eyes vacant, while neat holes decorate their foreheads and their chests.

My gaze flicks between the bodies and Dante. His expression is bland, almost bored—disappointment etched in the slight downturn of his mouth, as if the confrontation ended too soon for his liking.

I close my eyes and pinch myself hard, telling myself it can't be real. It's a grotesque replay of my childhood nightmare.

The ringing in my ears,

The acrid smell of gunpowder and blood—too much blood,

The musty scent of old books mingling with the stench of violence,

The dark figure looming behind the smoking gun,

My mother's screams . . .

When I open my eyes, nothing has changed. It's not a dream. This is reality. And the tall, broad-shouldered figure standing over the bodies, his dark hair falling around his hauntingly beautiful face is Dante.

My playful, intensely passionate boyfriend—is gone, replaced by this barely controlled, graceful predator.

The man I thought I knew for the past three months was an illusion. This is the real Dante Vitelli, the one I've caught glimpses of. A man capable of taking a life without batting an eye. He's a cold-blooded killer, and from the looks of it, he's very good at it.

I shove a fist in my mouth to stifle the sob threatening to escape, wishing desperately that I'd never agreed to come to Chicago.

Is this what he wanted to show me? Who he really is?

It must be my karma. When I'd promised my Dad I'd never leave Boston without telling him, I fully intended to keep the promise at the time.

But then Dante happened to me, and I found myself weaving an intricate web of lies: telling my Dad about a non-existent birthday party at school, and spinning Kira, my best friend, a tale about a special father-daughter getaway.

Guilt gnaws at me as I recall how I gleefully left my two favorite people in the world, cocooned in deception, while I boarded Dante's jet for what I thought would be a weekend of passion.

Wish they could see me now.

Outside, the muffled sounds of traffic and rhythmic flashes of headlights through the windows mock the mayhem within. The world beyond these walls remains oblivious to the fact that a significant part of my life is screeching to a halt.

This is so far from how I envisioned my twenty-first birthday dinner going.

"Baby?" Dante's unnervingly calm voice cuts through my panicked thoughts, freezing me in place. I shrink back into my hiding place, terrified of him.

"Addy," he calls, softer now. The moment he spots me under the table, he squats down to his haunches. A smile spreads across his face, those once-beloved grooves deepening in his cheeks. "There you are!"

I gape in disbelief. The man is smiling! After everything he just did!

"It's over, Addy," he says, as if soothing a frightened child.

Oh, he's right about one thing—it damn well is over. I just need to get the hell out of Chicago and never lay eyes on him again.

His gaze locks on something far away and suddenly he tenses up again. It's the same unnatural stillness that came over him just before he shot those men.

What now?

I follow his line of vision to a movement in the corner. It's one of the waiters, holding a wall phone to his ear. If I thought I was in a nightmare before, what happens next shatters any remaining illusion.

Dante tut-tuts, the sound incongruously casual. He straightens to his full height then raises his arm, and another shot cracks through the air.

The waiter's head snaps back comically as a flash of red blossoms from his ear. The phone receiver flies from his hand, shattering into pieces, its coiled wire swinging uselessly from the wall.

The man crumples to the ground, his agonized screams filling the room. He clutches his ear, blood seeping between his fingers. My disbelieving gaze swings back to Dante. Not only did he shoot a phone out of someone's hand from clear across the room, but his response is a nonchalant shrug.

My stomach lurches, bile rising in my throat. This can't be happening. But the metallic scent of blood tells me it's all too real.

"That was stupid, Rocco. And by the way, you're fired." Dante says flatly, as if dismissing an incompetent employee rather than a man he just shot.

A new chill settles in my spine. Dear Lord, does he own this place? Was that why he could rent it out at short notice? Boldly touch me in front of the staff? My cheeks burn with embarrassment at the memory of what we were doing before the Irishmen arrived. It almost feels like a lifetime ago.

Dante's eyes scan the room, finally settling on a thin man cowering a few tables away. "You over there, Johnny, is it?" he calls out.

The man raises his head, his face as pale as the tablecloths. "S-sì, signore," he stammers.

"Go and help Rocco," Dante orders, balling up a napkin and tossing it across the room. "Pressure and ice."

Johnny scrambles to comply, fear etched into his features. Dante crouches down again, his demeanor shifting once more, becoming almost gentle.

"Baby, come on," he coaxes, extending a large palm toward me.

Oh, hell no.

I recoil in horror, staring at his hand as if it might transform into a venomous snake. "You—you just killed those men," I croak.

Dante's smile is almost indulgent. "Addy, you heard them yourself. They were clearly suicidal. I was merely a means to help them along the path they desperately needed to take."

I nod mechanically, as if he's making perfect sense. "Of course. I heard them." My mind latches onto a detail, eager for anything to make sense of this madness. "So . . . you speak Gaelic?"

He shrugs. "A little. In this line of work, I have to."

"The line of work being . . .?" The words barely escape my dry throat.

He says nothing, but I hear him loud and clear. I'm not sure if it's the muscle ticking in his jaw or the way his eyes quickly flicker to the dead men on the floor, but suddenly, I get it.

It's official. I'm in hell. And Dante is the devil.