Chapter 1 - The Blood on the Silver Medal
The silence inside Dante Vale’s master suite didn’t just fall; it crushed the air right out of Mara’s lungs. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked like a countdown timer.
Dante’s gray eyes, usually as cold and unyielding as winter frost, were wide. His chest heaved, a rare fracture in his armor of absolute control.
"Owen Quinn," Dante repeated, the name scraping against his throat like broken glass. "He was a paramedic."
"Yes," Mara said, her heart hammering against her ribs. She instinctively took a step back, her fingers clutching the tarnished silver medal tighter. "He died eight months ago. A hit-and-run while he was responding to a call. Why do you look like you’ve just seen a ghost, Mr. Vale?"
Dante didn’t answer immediately. He reached out, his powerful fingers hooking into the wheel of his chair, spinning himself closer to her. Despite the immobility of his legs, the sheer, raw aura of danger he radiated made the room feel microscopic.
"It wasn't a hit-and-run, Mara," Dante whispered, his voice dangerously low.
Mara froze. "What?"
"Eight months ago. The bomb that tore through my armored car. It happened on the lower east avenue. My security team was wiped out instantly. I was bleeding out on the asphalt, staring up at the smoke." Dante’s grip on his armrest tightened until his knuckles turned white. "A paramedic breached the perimeter before the secondary explosions could start. The cops were running away, but he ran in. He dragged me behind a concrete barrier. He applied a tourniquet to my femoral artery. If he hadn't, I would have bled out in three minutes."
Mara’s breath hitched. tears pricked the corners of her eyes. "Owen..."
"He was wearing that medal," Dante said, his gaze locked onto the silver oval. "It swung forward while he was pumping my chest. I stared at it while the world went black. When I woke up in the secure wing of the hospital three days later, my underboss told me the paramedic who saved me had died in a tragic accident on his way home from that exact shift."
A cold dread flooded Mara’s veins. She shook her head, her curls bouncing frantically. "No. The police report said a drunk driver hit his ambulance."
"In Bellador, the police write what the syndicate pays them to write," Dante snarled, a terrifying flash of fury crossing his face. "Your brother didn't die in an accident, Mara. He was murdered because he kept me alive. Someone wanted me dead, and Owen ruined their masterpiece. So they erased him."
Mara staggered backward, the room spinning. For eight months, she had grieved a random tragedy. Now, the truth was staring at her from the eyes of a paralyzed mafia don. She wasn't just caring for a patient; she was living in the house of the man whose survival had cost her brother his life.
"Who?" Mara whispered, her voice cracking. "Who put you in this chair and killed my brother?"
Dante looked out the dark window, his jaw tight. "I don’t know yet. But you’re going to help me find out."
Before Mara could reply, the heavy oak doors of the bedroom burst open. Viktor, Dante’s fiercely loyal but ruthless underboss, stepped inside, his face pale.
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"Boss," Viktor breathed, ignoring Mara entirely. "We have a problem. The perimeter sensors on the west wing just went dark. We’re compromised."
Suddenly, the lights in the mansion flickered and died, plunging them into pitch-black darkness.
