Chapter 2 - The Knock on the Door and the Truth Beneath the Surface
The silence that followed was suffocating.
I stared at him, my mouth slightly open, my brain desperately trying to connect the bleeding, shivering wreck I had dragged off the floor hours ago with the untouchable mafia kingpin whose legend hung over Southie like a perpetual storm cloud.
Dante Moretti.
If my landlord found out I was harboring the city's most wanted syndicate boss, he’d probably double my rent out of sheer terror. If the rival crew who had shot him found out he was here, they wouldn't just kill him—they’d burn my entire apartment building to the ground with us inside it.
“Dante,” I whispered, tasting the syllables like poison on my tongue. “Like… Dante Moretti?”
A dark, humorless smile touched his lips. “Glad to see my reputation precedes me. Though usually, people look a bit more terrified when they realize who I am.”
“I am terrified,” I shot back, though my voice lacked conviction. “I’m mostly just irritated that my quiet, miserable life has suddenly been invaded by an international incident. Do you have any idea what happens to an accountant—well, a dropped-out-of-nursing-school waitress—if the FBI finds out she patched up a mob boss?”
“They won’t find out,” Dante said, his voice dropping an octave, carrying an absolute, chilling certainty. “Unless you want them to.”
Before I could reply, a sharp, heavy knock hammered against my apartment door.
Bam. Bam. Bam.
My heart leaped straight into my throat. The blood drained entirely from my face, leaving me dizzy.
Dante’s reaction was instantaneous. In a flash of motion that defied his severe injury, he slid off the sofa, grabbing his heavy gun off the counter with his right hand while snatching the magazine from the table with his left. He slammed it home with a sharp click, cycling a round into the chamber before I could even blink.
He didn't make a sound. He moved with the terrifying, fluid grace of an apex predator, stepping silently beside the door and pressing his back against the peeling wallpaper, raising the barrel toward the threshold.
“Harper!” a booming voice echoed from the hallway. It was Mr. Callahan, our seventy-year-old building superintendent, smelling strongly of stale pipe tobacco and cheap whiskey. “Harper, open up! The pipes in the 2nd-floor riser are backing up, and I need to check your bathroom shut-off valve!”
I stood frozen in the middle of the kitchen, staring at Dante.
Dante held his breath, his gray eyes fixed on my face, silently measuring me. One wrong move, one panicked shout, and he would have no choice but to secure his silence—or fight his way out through a building full of innocent tenants.
I took a deep, shaky breath, forced my vocal cords to relax, and walked toward the door.
“Mr. Callahan!” I called out, raising my voice to sound naturally annoyed and sleepy. “I’m still in my pajamas! Can this wait until afternoon?”
“Can’t wait, kid!” Mr. Callahan yelled, rattling the brass door handle. “Water’s leaking into the laundry room downstairs! Open up before I get the master key!”
I glanced back at Dante. He gave me a single, sharp nod, lowering the gun by an inch but keeping his finger resting lightly on the trigger guard. He slipped sideways into the narrow, dark hallway leading to the bedroom, disappearing into the shadows like smoke.
I unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open just a few inches, keeping the security chain latched.
Mr. Callahan peered through the crack, his wrinkled face flushed red from the cold hallway. “Morning, Harper. Sorry to wake ya, but—”
“I’m right in the middle of cleaning up a massive plumbing overflow in my own bathroom, Mr. Callahan,” I lied smoothly, forcing a tight, exhausted smile. “The U-bend under my sink completely cracked an hour ago. There’s water everywhere. If you come in here right now, you’ll slip and break a hip.”
Mr. Callahan grunted, eyeing the wet towels piled neatly near the bathroom door that I had thoughtfully dragged out earlier. “Damn old buildings. Alright, keep your door shut. I’ll turn off the main riser from the basement. Just fix that pipe before you leave for your shift!”
“Will do, Mr. Callahan. Thanks!”
I closed the door, slid the deadbolt home with trembling fingers, and leaned my forehead against the cool wood, exhaling a breath I felt like I’d been holding for a lifetime.
A moment later, a pair of warm, heavy hands gripped my shoulders, turning me around gently.
Dante stood right behind me. The gun was back in its shoulder holster, which he had managed to strap across his bare chest while in the hallway. His face was inches from mine, close enough for me to feel the heat radiating off his skin and smell the sharp, metallic tang of his sweat mixed with cedar.
“You’re a terrible liar, Harper,” he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that sent a strange, unexpected shiver down my spine. “And an exceptionally good actress.”
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“You almost got us both killed,” I whispered fiercely, shoving against his chest—though my hands merely brushed against his solid muscle without moving him an inch. “If he had used the master key, you would have had to shoot an innocent old man!”
“I don’t shoot innocent people,” Dante said quietly, his gray eyes locking onto mine with an unsettling intensity. “And you are the only reason I’m breathing right now. I don’t forget debts like that.”
