Chapter 3 - The King’s Declaration
For thirty-six hours, Marisol remained inside the Rossi penthouse.
She was given a luxurious guest suite with a rainfall shower, soft silk robes, and fresh clothes brought in by a silent female assistant. Yet, despite the luxury, the apartment was a gold-plated cage. Armed men in dark suits stood at every door, and the hum of security monitors echoed through the corridors.
Marisol didn't rest. She spent most of her time sitting in the armchair outside the medical room, watching through the glass.
By the afternoon of the second day, the fever finally broke.
Dante Rossi woke up.
He sat up in the hospital bed, the color slowly returning to his tan skin. The dark circles beneath his eyes remained, but his posture was once again that of a man who commanded legions. He wore a simple black linen shirt, his chest heavily bandaged beneath it, his left thigh wrapped in surgical dressings.
Viktor stood beside the bed, delivering a low, rapid briefing. Dante listened in silence, his face an unreadable mask of ice.
Suddenly, Dante looked past Viktor, his dark eyes meeting Marisol’s through the glass wall.
He motioned with two fingers. "Bring her in."
Viktor opened the glass door, stepping aside. Marisol walked into the sterile room, her sneakers squeaking softly against the polished floor.
Dante looked at her for a long, silent moment. Up close, without the fever and the shadows of the basement, his presence was overwhelming. He possessed sharp, aristocratic features, a hard jawline covered in dark stubble, and eyes so intensely black they seemed to absorb the light around them.
"Marisol Vega," he said. His voice was no longer a broken rasp; it was a rich, deep baritone that carried natural command.
"Mr. Rossi," she replied, keeping her posture straight.
"Viktor tells me you are a commercial cleaner. That you earn sixteen dollars an hour scrubbing floors for an agency in East Baltimore."
"Seventeen fifty," she corrected flatly. "I got a raise last month."
A faint, ghostly hint of a smirk touched the corner of Dante’s lips before disappearing. "You saved my life. You used a broken mirror to cut rope that three men couldn't tear. You gave me back my ring."
He reached out, grabbing the heavy silver medallion lying on his bedside table, and slipped the chain over his neck.
"Why didn't you run?" Dante asked softly. "A sensible woman would have called the police from her car and driven away."
"The police in my neighborhood don't show up for two hours," Marisol said coldly. "And when they do, people end up dead. I saw a man dying. I don't care who you are or what you do—I don't leave people to die in dark cellars."
Dante leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his dark eyes searching her face with fierce intensity. "That moral code is going to cost you, Marisol. Mateo Moretti traced your cleaning assignment. An hour ago, my scouts reported that three of Mateo’s enforcers visited your apartment building in East Baltimore. They kicked in your door. They burned your belongings."
Marisol felt the air leave her lungs. Her small apartment—her grandmother's antique mirror, her books, her savings hidden in the mattress—everything she owned, gone.
"My home..." she whispered.
"You have no home now," Dante declared, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You have no job, no past, and no public existence. Mateo knows you rescued me. He knows you are the key to my survival. If he catches you, he will torture you to find my location."
"Then send me away," Marisol demanded, tears of anger stinging her eyes. "Viktor said you could smuggle me out of the country!"
Dante stood up from the bed. Despite the pain in his leg, he walked toward her with slow, deliberate power until he stood inches away. The scent of cedar, leather, and hospital antiseptic drifted off him.
"I don't hide what is mine," Dante said softly, reaching out. His long, calloused fingers gently cupped her jaw, tilting her face up to meet his. "You bled for me in that dark room. You pulled me out of the grave. You are under my protection now, Marisol. Permanently."
"I am not your property, Mr. Rossi," she snapped, refusing to back down despite the terrifying power radiating from him.
"No," Dante agreed, his thumb brushing over her lower lip with unexpected tenderness. "You are not property. You are my debt. And in my world, a Rossi pays his debts with everything he owns."
Before Marisol could respond, the heavy steel doors of the penthouse study burst open.
A tall, heavy-set man in an expensive Italian suit strode into the hallway, flanked by four heavily armed bodyguards. His hair was slicked back, his face flushed with arrogant satisfaction.
It was Mateo Moretti.
Behind him came eight more men, their weapons drawn. He had breached the lower garage security.
"Dante!" Mateo bellowed, his voice booming through the marble hallway. "I heard a rumor from the harbor docks that the dead had risen! I had to come see the ghost for myself!"
Dante didn't flinch. He slowly removed his hand from Marisol's face, stepped in front of her, and pulled a sleek black semi-automatic pistol from the drawer of the bedside table.
"Mateo," Dante said calmly, stepping out of the medical suite into the main parlor.
Mateo stopped twenty feet away, his eyes widening in brief shock at the sight of Dante standing upright, looking healthy and dangerous. But Mateo’s shock quickly turned into a cold, cruel grin as his eyes drifted to Marisol standing behind Dante.
"Ah," Mateo sneered, gesturing toward Marisol. "The little cleaning girl from Curtis Bay. I wondered what kind of gutter trash helped you escape that post."
Mateo stepped closer, his men raising their submachine guns.
"She's cute, Dante," Mateo mocked. "Is she your new maid? Or did you hire her to clean up the mess I'm about to make of your empire?"
May you like
Dante slowly raised his weapon, pointing it directly between Mateo’s eyes. The air in the penthouse instantly cooled to absolute zero.
"Look at her carefully, Mateo," Dante said, his voice echoing through the vast room like a funeral bell. "Because she is the last thing you will ever see."
