Chapter 2 - The Command of the King
The interior of the armored SUV was blindingly warm, smelling of expensive leather, cedarwood, and a faint hint of gunpowder. I was wrapped in a thick, heated wool blanket, my head resting against the solid chest of the stranger.
“Drive! Now!” the man roared to his chauffeur. “Get Dr. Evans to the compound. If he isn’t in the medical wing by the time we arrive, I’ll bury him under the clinic.”
“Yes, Don Dante,” the driver replied, slamming his foot on the accelerator, the heavy vehicle tearing through the Manhattan snowstorm, ignoring every traffic light.
Dante. Dante Salvatici.
Even in my semi-conscious, pain-addled state, I recognized the name. He was a myth in New York. The newspapers called him a reclusive shipping tycoon. The FBI called him the untouchable czar of the East Coast underworld. The streets called him the Devil of Manhattan. He was the head of the Salvatici syndicate, a man whose power made billionaires like Nathaniel Harrington look like children playing with plastic blocks.
Another contraction hit me, so violent that my back arched off the leather seat. I let out a guttural scream, my fingers blindly clawing at whatever was near. They sank into the lapel of Dante’s expensive cashmere coat, tearing at the fabric.
He didn't flinch. Instead, he gripped my hand, his massive, scarred fingers locking around mine with an unbreakable, reassuring pressure.
“Breathe, Clara,” he murmured, his face inches from mine. His dark eyes were fixed on me, carrying a strange, fierce protectiveness that I couldn't comprehend.
“How... how do you know my name?” I gasped, gasping for air as the wave of pain subsided.
“I know everything that happens in this city, especially when it involves a coward like Nathaniel Harrington throwing his pregnant wife into a blizzard,” Dante hissed, his jaw tightening into a line of pure, lethal steel. “Focus on your baby, Clara. Leave the rest to me.”
Minutes later, the SUV slid through a massive, iron security gate in upstate New York, pulling up to a sprawling, heavily fortified estate. The doors flew open, and Dante lifted me effortlessly, carrying me through the grand foyer and down into a pristine, private medical wing that looked superior to most municipal hospitals.
A team of private doctors and nurses swarmed us immediately.
“She’s in advanced labor, Don Dante,” Dr. Evans said, checking my vitals. “Severe hypothermia, blood pressure is dropping dangerously. We need to perform an emergency C-section right now to save the child.”
Dante stepped back, allowing them to wheel me toward the operating table, but he never let go of my hand until the doors began to close.
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“Save them both, Evans,” Dante said, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying vibration. “If either of them doesn't make it out of that room, you will never see the morning light.”
As the anesthesia began to flood my veins, numbing the agonizing pain, the last thing I saw through the glass window was Dante Salvatici standing guard outside, his arms crossed over his chest, a solitary, terrifying sentinel protecting a woman he didn't even know.
