Chapter 7 - ASHES OF THE EMPIREBy dawn, the NYPD and federal agents—most of whom were on my payroll or too terrified to cross my name—had cordoned off Dock 4 and carted away Vance’s surviving men in chains. Victor Vance himself was currently being held in a dark, soundproof basement three stories beneath my Manhattan penthouse, waiting for me to decide how slow his execution would be.
Back in my penthouse, the atmosphere was thick with exhaustion and unspoken words.
Leo was resting in the guest suite under a doctor's care, leaving Clara and me alone in the sprawling, glass-walled living room overlooking the misty Hudson River.
Clara stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, wearing an oversized silk bathrobe, holding a cup of black coffee. The emerald dress was ruined, stained with grease, rain, and the dirt of a war zone.
"You didn't have to follow me down that elevator shaft," I said, walking up behind her, stopping just inches away without touching her.
"Yes, I did," she replied softly, her reflection staring back at me in the glass. "You kept your word. You saved my brother. That makes us partners."
"Partners," I tested the word on my tongue. It felt foreign. In my world, I didn't have partners; I had subordinates, enemies, and dead men. But Clara Higgins was none of those things. She was something infinitely more dangerous: an equal.
"So," Clara turned around, leaning back against the glass, her dark eyes locking onto mine with an intense, unreadable challenge. "The fake wedding is over. The bad guy is locked in your basement. What happens to us now, Dante? Do I pack my bags and go back to managing screaming Italian conductors?"
I stepped closer, closing the remaining distance between us until I could smell the faint scent of rain and coffee on her skin. I reached out, my calloused fingers gently brushing a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear.
"The wedding was fake," I murmured, my voice dropping into a low, rumbling register. "The marriage license Mateo filed yesterday morning at City Hall before we left for the gala? That was very, very real."
Clara’s breath hitched. Her dark eyes widened in genuine shock—the first time I had ever managed to catch her off guard.
"You... you filed a real marriage license?" she whispered.
"I don't invest two million dollars in a woman, let her hold a loaded Uzi in front of my enemies, and then let her walk out of my life," I said, my hand sliding down to cup her cheek, feeling the soft warmth of her skin. "You wanted hazard compensation, Clara? Welcome to the most dangerous syndicate in New York. You’re stuck with me."
For a long moment, she didn't move. Then, a slow, breathtaking smile broke across her face—not the fake, dazzling smile she wore for high society, but a real, fierce, wicked grin that stole the breath right out of my lungs.
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"Good," she whispered, pulling me down by the lapels of my shirt. "Because I happen to love a man with a terrible attitude and an overpriced suit."
Our lips met in a fierce, demanding kiss that tasted like victory, danger, and a future neither of us had ever expected to survive.
