Chapter 2 - The Fortress
Sophia fought him for an hour, but it was a losing battle. She had no car, her ribs were fractured, and the NYPD had conveniently “lost” the paperwork regarding her crash—a clear sign of Dante’s influence.
By midnight, Dante’s private security detail had escorted her through the private underground garage of his Tribeca skyscraper. The elevator doors opened directly into the penthouse.
It was exactly as she had left it eighteen months ago.
The sweeping floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Hudson River. The dark leather furniture. The absurdly large marble island in the kitchen. It smelled of cedarwood, rain, and him. It smelled like the ghost of their marriage.
“I’ll take the guest room,” Sophia said immediately, clutching her side as she limped out of the elevator.
“You’ll take the master,” Dante corrected, stripping off his wet overcoat and throwing it over a chair. He wore a black suit, his tie already undone, the holster of his firearm clearly visible against his white shirt. He didn't even try to hide it from her anymore. “The guest room bed is too low. You won't be able to stand up with those ribs.”
He was right, and she hated it.
Dante walked over to her, his movements slow, telegraphing his intent so he wouldn't startle her. “Let me help you.”
“I can do it—”
“Sophia. Please.”
The raw vulnerability in his eyes stopped her protests. She nodded once.
He wrapped a strong, warm arm around her waist, supporting her weight as they walked down the long hallway. In the master bathroom, he sat her down on the edge of the massive soaking tub.
“Your clothes are ruined,” he murmured, looking at her blood-stained blouse and torn slacks. He opened a drawer and pulled out one of his black, button-down dress shirts. “Raise your arms. Slowly.”
For the next ten minutes, the ruthless head of the Moretti syndicate became a caretaker. He unbuttoned her ruined blouse with agonizing care, his knuckles brushing her bruised skin, making her shiver. He didn't look at her body with lust; he looked at her injuries with a dark, simmering rage.
When he slipped his oversized shirt over her shoulders, his hands lingered on her collarbone.
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“Why did you come to the hospital?” she whispered, looking up into his dark eyes. “We’re divorced, Dante. You let me walk away.”
“I let you walk away because you asked me to,” Dante replied, his voice rough. “Because my world was suffocating you. But the second I got that call… the second I thought you were gone…” He closed his eyes, his jaw clenching. “The papers we signed mean nothing to me, Sophia. You are still mine to protect. You always will be.”
