Chapter 8 - THE PRICE OF ESCAPE
“I am fine!” Sophia cried out, trying to push his hand away from her body with both of her small hands.
Her fingers gripped his thick wrist, trying to pry his palm off her stomach, but Dante’s hand remained anchored like iron. He didn't budge an inch. His thumb gently stroked the stretched cotton, feeling the firm shape of her abdomen beneath.
“You’re not fine,” Dante stated flatly. “You’re coming home.”
“No,” Sophia shook her head violently, stray strands of brown hair falling out of her updo and sticking to her damp neck. “No! I am never going back to Chicago, Dante! I’d rather sleep on the street! I’d rather work three shifts here!”
“You think you have a choice?” Dante asked, stepping even closer until his body was nearly pressing against hers, trapping her completely between his broad frame and the counter ledge.
He leaned down until his lips were inches from her ear, his warm breath fanning across her damp skin.
“Look around you, Sophia,” Dante murmured, his voice smooth as silk and heavy as lead. “Who is going to stop me? The old man hiding in the kitchen? The trucker in the corner? You think anyone in this room, in this town, in this state, can stand between me and my blood?”
Sophia turned her head, her brown eyes swimming in unshed tears as she looked into his dark, ruthless face. She knew he was telling the absolute truth. There were no cops coming. There were no rescuers. The two broad-shouldered men at the doors carried enough firepower and systemic influence to erase this entire diner from the block if Dante gave the order.
“Please, Dante,” she begged, her voice dropping into a desperate, hollow whisper. Her pride was gone, replaced by the sheer, terrifying reality of her position. “Please... just leave us alone. I won't ask you for money. I won't ever use your name. Just let me have my baby in peace.”
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Dante looked at her for a long, silent moment. He reached up with his left hand, his thumb gently catching a single tear as it spilled over her eyelash, wiping it away with possessive gentleness.
“You still don't understand, do you?” Dante whispered softly. “You are mine, Sophia. And everything inside you belongs to me.”
