Elena Vitiello POV:
The Gulfstream G650 rolled to a smooth halt on the private tarmac at JFK Airport.
The heavy cabin door unsealed with a hiss. I stepped out onto the top of the stairs. The biting wind of a New York autumn hit me instantly, carrying the sharp, salty scent of the Atlantic Ocean.
I wore black stiletto heels and a heavy wool coat over my shoulders. I walked down the metal stairs, keeping my spine perfectly straight.
Spread across the gray concrete was a defensive formation of ten black Cadillac Escalades.
Thirty men stood around the vehicles. They wore tailored black suits and earpieces. They did not slouch. They did not chat. They stood like statues, radiating the cold, organized violence of the New York Outfit.
Standing at the very front of the convoy was a man who commanded the entire space just by breathing.
He was well over six foot three. He wore a dark, custom-tailored trench coat that flared slightly in the wind. He held an unlit cigar between his teeth.
Dante Moretti. The uncrowned king of New York.
His face looked like it had been carved from marble by a violent sculptor. His jaw was sharp, his cheekbones high, and his ash-green eyes tracked my every movement with the predatory focus of a starving wolf.
I stopped exactly three steps away from him. I did not look down. I was raised to be the perfect mafia daughter. I knew that showing fear to a predator was a death sentence. I met his stare head-on.
The air between us felt thick, heavy with an electric tension. The thirty guards around us seemed to stop breathing.
Dante reached up. He pulled the cigar from his mouth and tossed it carelessly to the lieutenant standing beside him.
He took a step forward. His massive frame blocked out the sun, casting a long, dark shadow entirely over my body.
I tilted my chin up slightly, holding my ground.
A microscopic smirk tugged at the corner of Dante's mouth. He seemed satisfied that I hadn't flinched.
He didn't say a word. He turned on his heel, walked to the center armored Maybach, and grabbed the door handle. He pulled the heavy, bulletproof door open himself.
A ripple of shock went through the guards. Shoulders stiffened. Eyes widened. The Reaper of New York did not open doors for anyone.
I didn't hesitate. I lowered my head and slid into the back seat. The interior of the car smelled strongly of cedar wood, expensive leather, and the faint, metallic tang of gun oil.
Dante climbed in right behind me. The heavy door slammed shut, cutting off the wind and plunging the cabin into absolute silence.
The Maybach was massive, but with Dante sitting next to me, the space felt suffocatingly small. His body heat radiated across the leather seat.
The convoy lurched into motion.
The heater in the car was blasting. Within five minutes, sweat prickled at the back of my neck. My burns throbbed under the heavy fabric. Without thinking, I reached up and unbuttoned the top two buttons of my wool coat to let the heat out.
The heavy lapels parted. The edge of my black silk camisole shifted.
Thick, white medical bandages peeked out from under the silk, covering my collarbone and disappearing down toward my chest.
Dante had been looking out the window. His head snapped around. His ash-green eyes locked onto the white gauze.
The temperature in the car plummeted. The air grew so thick with killing intent I could practically taste the blood in my mouth.
Dante leaned in. His massive body crowded mine. He raised his right hand.
I stopped breathing. My muscles locked tight.
He extended his index finger. He traced the exact outline of the bandage, his rough fingertip hovering less than a millimeter above the white gauze. He never actually touched me, but I felt the heat of his skin searing into my flesh.
He lifted his gaze. His eyes were no longer green. They were black with pure, unadulterated rage.
"Whoever did this to you, I will skin them and lay their hides at your feet."
