Chapter 4 - THE RED CARPET OF TERROR
Mara’s heart slammed against her ribs like a trapped bird.
No.
The single word echoed through her mind as the massive, terrifying figure of Dante Vance altered his trajectory. He wasn't walking toward the center platform. He wasn't walking toward the dignitaries.
He was walking straight toward her.
Around him, the elite of New York held their collective breath. Necks craned. Whispers broke out like static electricity.
“Is that Dante Vance?” “Who is he looking at?” “Is there a hit list? Did someone cross him?” “Look, he’s heading toward the Ashford table—wait, no, past them—”
Delia Ashford’s smile froze on her face. Her head snapped back and forth between Dante’s advancing figure and the empty space beside her. Her chest heaved. She raised a trembling hand, preparing to step forward, to intercept him, to offer her name and her most dazzling introduction.
"Mr. Vance," Delia purred, her voice dripping with honeyed desperation as he drew within six feet of her. She fluttered her eyelashes, stepping directly into his path. "I'm Delia Ashford, it's such an absolute honor—"
Dante Vance did not break his stride. He did not slow down. He did not even blink.
With a single, effortless motion of his shoulder, he brushed past Delia as if she were nothing more than a stray gust of wind. The impact of his coat sent a shockwave of cold air past Delia’s cheek, staggering her backward into the ice sculpture table with a sharp, undignified gasp.
Water splashed across her emerald silk gown.
The room gasped. Several people dropped their champagne flutes.
Dante stopped inches from Mara.
Up close, he smelled of expensive cedar, rain, and the faint, metallic tang of gunmetal. His shadow completely swallowed her small, trembling frame. The bruised plum taffeta dress felt suddenly microscopic, a pathetic joke under the scrutiny of the most feared man on the Eastern Seaboard.
Mara looked up, her chin trembling despite her best efforts to keep her face a mask of stone.
Dante’s cold eyes swept down—not at her face, but at her feet. At the borrowed, size-too-small shoes, and the thin stream of red blood soaking through the heel of her stocking, pooling against the marble floor.
A muscle twitched in Dante’s jaw.
"You're bleeding," Dante said. His voice was a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated straight through the floorboards and settled deep in Mara's chest.
"It's just a blister," Mara whispered, her throat dry as ash.
May you like
Dante didn't smile. Instead, he raised his voice just enough to carry across the dead silence of the entire, paralyzed ballroom.
"Get your coat."
