Chapter 9 - The Glass Cage
Elena did not scream. She did not beg.
The fear that had made her pulse hammer against Dante’s fingers suddenly froze, recrystallizing into the ancient, unyielding pride of the Russo bloodline. She stopped pulling against his grip. She stood upright, pulling her spine straight, discarding the boyish slouch that had disguised her for three weeks.
She reached up with her free right hand, seized the brim of the black baseball cap, and pulled it from her head.
Her dark, wavy brown hair tumbled down in messy, glossy curls, spilling over the wide collar of her coveralls, framing a face that was stunningly, unmistakably feminine. Her chin lifted, her slate-gray eyes meeting his dark gaze with a defiant, burning intensity that stopped the breath in Dante’s chest.
“Then call him, Moretti,” Elena said, her true voice emerging—clear, melodic, and carrying a razor-sharp aristocratic coldness that belonged in a high-rise penthouse, not a repair pit. “Collect your bounty. Trade me to Salvatore so he can dress me in white silk and hand me over to Vincent Falcone. But don't you dare touch my tools.”
Dante stared down at her.
Up close, without the cap, with the curls framing her flushed, dirty cheeks and her gray eyes blazing with raw fury, she was breathtaking. She was covered in grease, wearing clothes meant for a ditch digger, yet she held herself like an empress facing an executioner.
A slow, terrifying smile spread across Dante’s handsome, stubbled face. It was not a smile of cruelty; it was the smile of a king who had just found an equal in the dust.
He did not let go of her wrist. Instead, his fingers slid down into her palm, his calloused thumb lightly stroking her scarred knuckles.
“You think I would give you back to Salvatore?” Dante whispered, his voice low, gravelly, and rich with dark amusement. “So he can merge his docks with Falcone and put three hundred men on my northern border?”
He leaned down until his lips were inches from her ear, the heat of his breath sending an electric shiver through her skin.
“You’re the best mechanic in this city, Elena,” Dante murmured. “And you’re the sharpest knife your uncle ever forged. I don't sell weapons to my enemies. I keep them.”
He pulled her forward, his arm guiding her away from Bay Seven, leading her through the silent, watching garage toward the metal stairs.
Tony Mercer stood at the base of the landing, his jaw hanging open as he saw the boy Eli Ross transformed into the runaway Russo heiress, her long hair blowing in the exhaust draft.
“Tony,” Dante commanded without breaking stride.
“B-Boss?” Tony stammered, his eyes bulging.
“Lock the gates,” Dante ordered, each word falling like a stone onto the concrete. “Put four armed men on the roof with rifles. If anyone from the South Side comes within two blocks of this facility… put them in the river.”
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“Understood, Mr. Moretti,” Tony swallowed hard, reaching for his radio.
Dante walked Elena up the stairs, pushing open the heavy door to his private office, pulling her inside before the latch engaged with a heavy, final thud that sealed them away from the world.
