The Mafia Boss Abandoned a Million-Dollar War When His Secretary Whispered, “Come Get Me” — But the Real Betrayal Was Waiting Beside Him.
PART 3
Rain struck Dante the moment he pushed through the steel exit.
It fell in hard diagonal sheets, transforming the streets into black mirrors streaked with red and blue light.
Silas ran toward the black SUV. Dante reached it first and opened the driver’s door.
“I’m driving.”
Silas saw his face and handed over the keys.
The SUV surged away from the packing facility before Silas had fastened his seat belt.
“Fourth and Pike is Marchetti ground,” Silas said. “The club will be full of their people.”
Dante cut through an intersection as the light turned red.
“Call Marcus.”
“We need more than Marcus. If you walk into that club with a crew, every Marchetti soldier in Ironport will treat it as a declaration.”
“Then don’t call a crew.”
Silas braced one hand against the dashboard as Dante swerved around a delivery truck.
“What’s the plan?”
“Get her out.”
“And after that?”
Dante glanced at him. “There may not be an after that for anyone who gets in my way.”
The call remained open on the dashboard. Through the speaker came the muffled pounding of music and Priya’s unsteady breathing.
Dante gripped the steering wheel until the leather creaked beneath his fingers.
He remembered the first time she had entered his office.
She had been twenty-four, wearing an inexpensive navy suit and carrying a binder thick enough to stop a small bullet.
Her résumé listed internships at two insurance companies and an accounting firm. She had applied for the executive assistant position because the salary was nearly double what other companies offered.
Dante had planned to frighten her away. Civilians complicated things.
During the interview, Marcus had burst into the office with blood running down his arm after a deal had gone wrong.
Priya had looked at the wound, opened her tote bag, and removed a travel-sized first aid kit.
“Apply pressure,” she had instructed Marcus.
Then she had adjusted her glasses, turned back to Dante, and asked, “Regarding the retirement plan, is there a vesting period?”
Dante had hired her before she left the room.
During the years that followed, Priya became the architecture around his chaos.
She managed his meetings so efficiently that city council members and criminals never crossed paths in the lobby. She remembered which employees had children, who was allergic to shellfish, and which judges preferred donations to arrive through charities rather than political committees.
She knew when Dante had not slept. She placed food on his desk without commenting. She rescheduled meetings when the headaches behind his eyes became unbearable.
She never asked about the weight of sealed duffel bags, but she demanded receipts for every legitimate dinner.
She was the only person in his life who spoke to him without fear, greed, or performance.
She called him impossible.
Once, after he ignored six emails concerning a property inspection, she had walked into a meeting with his senior lieutenants, placed a pen in front of him, and said, “You can sign this now, or I can explain to everyone why the city is about to condemn your most profitable warehouse.”
No one had breathed until he signed.
Dante had spent three years refusing to name what she had become to him.
Now the consequences of that cowardice were trapped inside a bathroom.
A cracking sound came through the phone.
Priya whispered, “The door is breaking.”
Dante pushed the accelerator down. “I’m three minutes away.”
“You said that two minutes ago.”
“I lied.”
A desperate sound escaped her. It might have been a laugh or a sob.
“Listen to me,” he said. “If he reaches the stall, do not try to overpower him. Go limp. Make yourself heavy. Protect your head and buy time.”
“I’m scared.”
Dante’s throat tightened. “I know.”
There were many things he could have said. He could have told her not to be afraid. He could have promised that everything would be fine. Both would have been lies.
Instead, he said, “I know, Priya. Keep listening to my voice.”