Elena Vitiello POV:
The heavy, soundproof door slammed shut behind us, instantly cutting off the terrified whispers of the outside world.
Dante didn't carry me to the plush leather sofa. He bypassed the desk entirely and marched straight toward the massive floor-to-ceiling windows.
He slammed my back against the bulletproof glass. We were a hundred floors up, the dizzying traffic of Manhattan crawling like ants beneath my heels.
The glass was freezing. The cold bit straight through my emerald silk shirt, making me gasp.
Dante slammed his hand against the glass right beside my ear. His towering frame caged me in completely, casting a dark, suffocating shadow over me.
He bowed his head. His chest heaved with heavy, ragged breaths. He inhaled deeply against the crook of my neck, like a feral wolf checking his prey for the scent of another predator.
I didn't cower. I didn't look away. I tilted my head up, my eyes locking onto his with blatant, burning defiance. I had learned the hard way in Chicago that shrinking only invited more pain. Here, in New York, I would never bow my head again.
The fiery rebellion in my eyes snapped his last thread of control.
Dante’s hand shot up, his fingers gripping my jaw tightly. He brought his mouth down and crushed his lips against mine.
It was a brutal, punishing kiss. There was zero tenderness. It was all teeth and tongue and furious possession, a violent attempt to scrub away the air Julian had breathed near me.
I winced at the harsh pressure, but my blood was boiling. I didn't push him away. Instead, my hands flew up and I grabbed fistfuls of his expensive silk tie.
I yanked downward with all my strength. I forced his head lower, deepening the kiss myself, turning his punishment into an aggressive, equal war for dominance.
Dante’s throat worked. A low, guttural groan vibrated in his chest. His other arm wrapped around my waist, crushing my body flush against his hard muscles.
Our rapid, heated breaths fogged the cold glass behind my head. The enclosed office felt like it was going to burst from the sheer force of our colliding adrenaline.
His large fingers slid from my waist, traveling upward. He pressed his palm flat against my ribs, feeling the frantic, chaotic hammering of my heart right through the silk.
He finally tore his mouth away. He rested his forehead against mine, both of us gasping for air.
"Don't look at another man like that," he warned, his voice a dark, jagged growl. "Ever."
I let out a breathless, mocking laugh. "Julian is a lawyer, Dante. He is helping me make money."
Dante’s thumb wiped roughly across my swollen lower lip. "I can give you all of Wall Street. You don't need him."
I slapped his hand away. I reached up and smoothed my messy hair, my eyes blazing. "I don't want what you give me. I only want what I win myself."
Dante stared at me. The feral rage in his eyes slowly melted, replaced by a dark, consuming obsession. He loved this. He loved that I was a queen willing to bleed to build my own throne.
He ducked his head again. His mouth found the sensitive skin of my collarbone. He sucked hard, his teeth grazing my flesh, deliberately leaving a dark, bruising hickey to mark his territory.
I gasped, my fingers digging into his shoulders. We were seconds away from tearing each other's clothes off.
Then, a timid, trembling knock echoed from the heavy door.
The sound was like a bucket of ice water. I snapped back to reality, placing my hands on his chest and pushing firmly.
Dante scowled. He tightened his grip on my waist, refusing to let go. He turned his head toward the door and let out a vicious, impatient snarl.
"Sir," the secretary’s voice trembled through the thick wood. "I am so sorry. But it is a Code Red diplomatic issue. I must report."
Dante closed his eyes. He took a massive, shuddering breath, forcing the violent lust down into his chest. Slowly, he released my waist.
He shrugged off his custom suit jacket. He draped the heavy, warm fabric over my shoulders, carefully covering my disheveled shirt and the fresh, dark mark on my collarbone.
He walked to his desk and slammed his finger onto the intercom button. "Get in here."
The door opened an inch. The secretary slipped inside, keeping her eyes glued firmly to her shoes. She spoke rapidly, her voice shaking.
"The Chicago Outfit delegation has just touched down at JFK, sir. They are demanding a formal meeting."
Dante’s hands rested flat on his desk. He slowly turned his head to look at me. A slow, terrifyingly cruel smile spread across his face.
"Your old friends are here. Ready to play?"
