I stood at the threshold, the weight of the ledgers pressing against my chest, but the tension in the room was heavier.
The Chicago mobsters were leaning forward, their eyes like predators cornered in a den.
Dante’s hand was resting casually on his desk, but I knew—I had learned the subtle language of his body—that his finger was hovering over the silent alarm.
“Twenty percent is a lot of space for people who don’t know the territory,” Dante said, his voice a low, dangerous growl.
“Maybe we make space, Moretti,” the taller one sneered, reaching into his jacket.
I didn’t think.
I didn’t calculate.
I simply tripped.
It was the most dramatic stumble of my life.
I lurched forward, effectively body-slamming the heavy oak table.
The ledgers flew out of my arms like panicked birds, crashing down directly onto the Chicago gangster’s hand just as he pulled his weapon.
The sudden impact of twelve pounds of historical accounting records pinning his wrist to the desk gave Dante the split-second he needed.
Dante moved with the terrifying, fluid speed of a predator.
He was on his feet and across the room before the man could finish cursing.
By the time I had scrambled to my knees, the pistol was in Dante’s hand, and the two gangsters were pinned against the wall, guns leveled at their chests by the guards who had burst in.
Dante didn’t even look at the men.
He looked at me, his gaze scanning my face for injuries, his usual stoicism replaced by a raw, frantic pulse at his throat.
“Bridget,” he snapped, his voice rough.
“Are you hurt?”
“I… I think I killed the coffee table,” I stammered, staring at the debris.
Dante let out a sharp, incredulous laugh that sounded more like a sigh of relief.
He gestured to Luca, who hauled the Chicago men out of the office.
Once we were alone, the silence returned, but it felt different.
It was heavy with the things we hadn’t said.
Dante walked over and crouched down, his expensive charcoal suit not even registering on his radar as he pulled me to my feet.
He didn’t let go of my hands.
“You knew they were armed.”
“I knew they weren’t here for the spreadsheets,” I whispered, meeting his intense, piercing gaze.
“And I knew you were the only person in this city worth fighting for.”
He pulled me into the sanctuary of his office, locking the door.
For the first time, he didn’t care about the files or the ledgers.
He pressed his forehead against mine, his breath ragged.
“I have spent years building walls of steel to keep my world at bay, Bridget.
And then you walked in, tripped over a rug, and dismantled every defense I had.”
“I’m a disaster,” I admitted, my heart racing.
“You’re a catastrophe,” he agreed, his fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me closer.
“But you’re the only thing that makes me feel like I’m actually alive.
I don’t want you to be my secretary anymore.”
“Am I fired?” I asked, my voice trembling.
“No,” he said, his lips brushing against mine in a promise that was both terrifying and inevitable.
“I want you to be my partner.
I want you to stop worrying about rent and student loans and start helping me run the city.
But you have to promise me one thing.”
“Anything.”
“Stop trying to kill yourself with office equipment,” he murmured, kissing me with a hunger that stole the breath from my lungs.
I didn’t need the job for the rent anymore.
I had found something far more valuable—a man who valued the mess I was, and a life that was finally worth the chaos.
I was the clumsy girl who had spilled coffee on a mafia boss, and now, I was the woman who had brought him to his knees.
The underworld would always be dangerous, but with Dante Moretti by my side, I wasn’t just surviving the rain; I was finally learning how to dance in the storm.
