Chapter 4 - The Inquisition by the Fender
Dante stopped two feet from the front left fender, his sheer physical mass eclipsing the glare of the overhead halon lamp.
The heat radiating from the freshly running 390 V8 washed over his tailored suit, carrying the scent of hot valve covers and unburnt high-octane fuel. He reached out with a large, scarred right hand—the knuckles bearing faint, pale lines from past street warfare—and lightly rested his palm against the polished black hood.
He felt the vibration. It was a single, unbroken frequency. No flutter, no miss, no mechanical tick.
“The manifold was leaking?” Dante asked.
His voice was a low, gravelly baritone that barely rose above the exhaust note, yet it carried an absolute, terrifying weight that seemed to reverberate in Eli’s teeth. He didn't look at Tony. He kept his eyes fixed on the engine bay.
Tony cleared his throat nervously, his fingers fidgeting with his belt. “No, Boss. We were looking in the wrong place. The kid found a hairline fracture in the secondary vacuum line behind the firewall. Swapped the hose three minutes ago. She’s running true.”
Dante slowly lifted his head.
His dark, hooded eyes drifted away from the chrome air cleaner and settled directly upon Eli.
Eli did not look away. In the streets of Chicago, looking down was a confession of guilt; looking up was a challenge. She chose the neutral, insolent middle ground: she kept her chin tilted downward, letting the bill of the black cap shadow her eyes, but kept her gaze anchored to the dark onyx buttons of Dante’s vest. Her heart was hammering a furious, frantic cadence against her ribs, but her hands—clutched tightly around the red rag at her navel—remained as still as stone.
Dante studied her.
He didn't look at her like a shop owner reviewing a new hire. His gaze was forensic, calculating, and terrifyingly thorough. His eyes tracked the grease smudged across her cheekbone, then dropped to the slender, delicate taper of her wrists where the heavy twill sleeves were rolled up. He looked at the oversized collar of her coveralls, noting how the thick cotton bunched unnaturally across her chest to disguise whatever shape lay beneath.
He took half a step closer.
The clean, masculine scent of cedarwood, bitter espresso, and cold winter air rolled over her, cutting right through the garage’s oil fumes. Up close, the lethal symmetry of his face was suffocating.
“Your name?” Dante asked.
The question was deceptively calm, conversational, stripped of all outward aggression.
Eli took a slow, measured breath, forcing her vocal cords to drop into that slightly hoarse, gravelly register she had practiced for three weeks in front of cracked motel mirrors.
“Eli Ross,” she said.
The silence that followed was heavy enough to bend an iron bar. The Mustang continued its steady, flawless rumble between them, the engine’s heat rising like a wall of glass.
Dante didn't blink. His expression remained entirely unreadable—a mask of polished northern Italian marble. He tilted his head a fraction of an inch to the side, his dark eyes boring straight through the grease on her cheek, straight through the bill of her cap, into the soul she was trying so desperately to bury.
May you like
When he spoke again, his voice dropped an octave, quiet enough that only she could hear it beneath the rumble of the eight cylinders.
“Is that your real name?”
