Chapter 8 - The UltimatumBack at the estate, the adrenaline didn't wear off until dawn.
The boys were safely tucked into their beds, guarded by four armed men at the perimeter. Down in the study, the heavy oak door was closed tight against the world.
Dante poured two fingers of amber bourbon into a crystal glass, held it out to Claire, and watched her take it with fingers that only slightly trembled.
"You threw a crystal champagne bucket fifty feet and took down a professional hitman," Dante said, a slow, genuine smile finally breaking across his hard face—a smile that transformed him from a terrifying mafia boss into a devastatingly handsome man. "Where the hell did you learn to throw like that?"
"Three younger brothers in a south Boston tenement," Claire replied, taking a small sip of the burn. "And six years working the bar rush at DeMarco’s."
Dante stepped closer, closing the distance between them until she could feel the heat radiating off his body. The air in the study grew thick, heavy with an electric, undeniable chemistry that had been building since the moment she caught that flying pancake.
"You saved my life tonight, Claire," Dante whispered, his voice rough, stripped of all armor. "You saved my boys. No one has ever stood beside me in the fire. They always run."
"I told you," Claire looked up into his dark eyes, her heart racing for an entirely different reason now. "I don't run from a fight. And I certainly don't run from you."
Dante reached out, his warm fingers brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His touch sent a shiver straight down her spine.
"Stay," Dante whispered against her lips. "Not as a nanny. Stay as my equal. Stay and help me build a real home for my boys."
May you like
Claire’s breath hitched. Her mind flashed back to the eleven dollars and forty-three cents on her cracked phone screen, the eviction notice, the lonely nights in the Dunkin’ on Farmington Avenue.
Everything had changed.
