Chapter 4: THE NIGHT DANTE FOUND THE TRUTH

I packed my bag before midnight.

Six hundred dollars in cash.

Two changes of clothes.

Michael’s tool roll.

And the photograph that had shattered my seven months of peace.

I had no plan.

Only one certainty.

I couldn’t stay.

I left my apartment through the back stairwell, keeping my head down.

Outside, cold rain swept across the Chicago streets.

A black sedan waited at the curb.

Its headlights switched on.

I stopped.

The driver’s door opened.

A large man stepped out.

“Elena Russo.”

I ran.

My boots slapped against wet pavement.

Behind me, footsteps thundered.

“Stop!”

I turned into an alley.

A hand grabbed my shoulder.

I twisted, swinging Michael’s heavy tool roll.

The man stumbled.

I broke free.

But another figure blocked the alley exit.

“Your father’s been worried about you,” he said.

I backed away.

“Tell my father I’m not coming home.”

The man smiled.

“That’s not your decision.”

Then headlights flooded the alley.

A black SUV rolled to a stop.

Its door opened.

Dante Moretti stepped out.

“Take your hands off him.”

The two men froze.

“Mr. Moretti,” one said nervously. “This is private business.”

Dante walked forward.

“Then conduct it somewhere else.”

“Mr. Bellamy sent us.”

“I don’t care who sent you.”

His voice never rose.

It didn’t need to.

“Get in your car.”

The men exchanged glances.

Then they retreated.

Within seconds, their sedan disappeared.

I stood shaking beneath the rain.

Dante turned toward me.

“Eli.”

I couldn’t answer.

He looked at the duffel bag in my hand.

“Running again?”

Tears burned my eyes.

“Please don’t ask.”

“Get in the car.”

“I can’t.”

“You’re freezing.”

“I said I can’t!”

The words came out in my natural voice.

Higher.

Softer.

Female.

Dante went completely still.

Rain dripped from my cap.

Then a gust of wind lifted it from my head.

My short black hair fell across my forehead.

I saw the exact moment he understood.

His eyes moved from my face to the bracelet on my wrist.

Then to the photograph protruding from my bag.

“Elena?”

My knees nearly gave way.

He caught my elbow.

I flinched.

Immediately, he released me.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

I looked up at him.

“You don’t understand.”

“Then explain.”

“If Marcus finds me, he’ll take me back.”

Dante’s jaw tightened.

“Against your will?”

I nodded.

“Yes.”

For several seconds, neither of us spoke.

Then Dante removed his coat and held it out.

I hesitated before accepting it.

“Elena,” he said quietly, “you don’t have to tell me anything tonight.”

My voice broke.

“Are you going to tell Marcus?”

Dante looked toward the empty street.

Then back at me.

“No.”

“Why?”

His expression darkened.

“Because a man who sends strangers to drag a woman out of an alley doesn’t deserve to know where she is.”

I began to cry.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

Just seven months of terror finally escaping.

Dante waited until I could breathe again.

Then he opened the passenger door.

“Come somewhere safe.”

I stared at him.

“How do I know I can trust you?”

He paused.

“You don’t.”

It was the first completely honest answer I had heard from a powerful man in years.

And somehow, that made me climb into the car.

But as we drove away, Dante’s phone rang.

The name on the dashboard screen made my stomach turn.

MARCUS BELLAMY.

Dante answered.

“Marcus.”

A familiar voice filled the car.

“I hear you’ve found something that belongs to me.”

Dante glanced at me.

Then said five words that changed everything.

“People aren’t property, Marcus.”