Chapter 6 - THE BLACK LIMOUSINE ESCAPE
The cool night air of New York City hit Mara’s face like a splash of ice water as the heavy glass doors of the venue swung shut behind them.
The commotion inside was already erupting into a frenzy of gasps, frantic phone calls, and cameras flashing through the tinted glass facade, but outside, the private courtyard was an oasis of eerie calm. A massive, bulletproof matte-black Maybach limousine idled at the curb, its hazard lights blinking rhythmically.
The bodyguard opened the rear door instantly.
Dante didn't let go of her wrist until he guided her inside the plush, leather-lined interior of the vehicle. The interior smelled of dark leather, expensive bourbon, and rain. Mara collapsed against the deep cushions, her breathing ragged, her chest heaving against the tight, pinching constraints of the bruised-plum dress.
Dante slid in beside her, closing the privacy partition with a heavy, muted thud. The city lights outside smeared into ribbons of gold and crimson as the limousine glided silently away from the curb.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The hum of the engine was the only sound in the cavernous cabin.
Mara looked down at her bleeding heel. The nylon stocking was torn, and a dark crimson smear stained the side of the borrowed shoe. She bit her lower lip, fighting back the humiliating sting of tears she had successfully suppressed all night while Delia laughed.
"Take them off," Dante said.
Mara blinked, looking up. "What?"
"The shoes," Dante repeated, his voice firm. "They're two sizes too small. You've been bleeding into them for at least three hours."
"I... I can't," Mara muttered, pulling her feet back instinctively. "They belong to my cousin. If I ruin them—"
"They belong to the trash," Dante interrupted. He reached down without hesitation.
Mara gasped, pulling back, but Dante was too fast and infinitely stronger. With effortless precision, he caught her ankle, lifting her foot onto his lap. With steady, unhurried movements, he unbuckled the cheap, stiff strap of the borrowed shoe and slid it off her foot.
A sharp hiss escaped Mara's lips as the pressure released, sending a hot wave of throbbing pain through her bruised heel.
Dante reached into the center console, pulling out a pristine white linen handkerchief and a small crystal flask of amber liquid. Without a word of warning, he unscrewed the flask, poured a splash of high-grade bourbon onto the cloth, and gently—with surprising, almost reverent tenderness—began to clean the blood from her skin.
Mara stared down at the top of his dark head, her mind spinning wildly.
"Why?" she whispered, the single word slipping past her lips before she could stop it. "Why did you do that back there? You ruined my father's business. You humiliated my sister in front of the entire city. You didn't even know my name."
Dante paused. He looked up, his slate-gray eyes locking onto hers with a depth that made her breath catch.
"I know your name, Mara Ashford," Dante said quietly. "And three years ago, when your father signed over your shares of the family estate to pay off his gambling debts—debts that my firm quietly bought up—you didn't cry. You packed a single duffel bag, walked out the front door, and got a job at a diner downtown working double shifts just to buy books."
Mara’s jaw slackened. "You... you've been watching me?"
"I don't watch people by accident," Dante murmured, tossing the blood-stained handkerchief aside and pulling a soft, velvet-lined box out from under the seat. "I collect things that are undervalued, discarded, and underestimated by fools."
May you like
He opened the box. Inside, resting on black silk, was a pair of custom-made satin flats encrusted with thousands of midnight-blue crystals that caught the dim interior light like captured stars.
"Put these on," Dante said, his gaze steady and commanding. "You're never walking in second-hand shoes again."
