Chapter 3 - The Groom’s Phone Call to Hell
The heavy amber lights of the underground club hummed softly as Marcus tapped a few commands onto a sleek, military-grade console built into the mahogany bar.
A heavy, static-filled beep echoed through the sound system, followed immediately by the frantic, breathless voice of Preston Whitmore broadcasting directly into the room.
“Open this door right now! This is Preston Whitmore! I know you have her inside! If you don't release Miss Hayes within ten seconds, I’ll have the city police department tear this entire illegal establishment down brick by brick!”
Across the room, several of Dante’s men chuckled darkly. One of them casually tossed a heavy hunting knife into the air and caught it by the handle.
Dante walked slowly toward the central desk, his hand resting casually on the polished wood. He picked up an antique brass microphone attached to a secure communication line, pressed a toggle switch, and spoke into the receiver. His voice, deep and chillingly polite, filled the entire subterranean space.
“Mr. Whitmore,” Dante purred, the sound dripping with lethal amusement. “Such aggressive language on your wedding day. Aren’t you supposed to be standing at the altar waiting for your beautiful bride?”
On the other end of the line, there was an abrupt, stunned silence. The frantic breathing stopped.
“Who is this?” Preston’s voice crackled through the speaker, tight with sudden, rising panic. “You have no idea who you're dealing with. My father and I own half the judges and district attorneys in this state. If you touch Genevieve—if you lay a single finger on her—you won't see the sun rise tomorrow.”
“Is that a threat, Preston?” Dante asked, tilting his head with mock innocence. “Because cutting a man's brake lines on a rainy highway—now that is a threat. Don't you agree?”
The speaker hissed with dead air.
Inside the club, Genevieve stood frozen near the pillar. Hearing her fiancé’s panic over the speaker, realizing that this terrifying mafia boss knew every detail of her family’s destruction, made her realize she was standing at the absolute center of a war zone.
“I... I don't know what you're talking about,” Preston stammered, his aristocratic composure cracking completely. “Give me the girl. Name your price. A hundred thousand? A million? Whatever payoff you want to walk away from this, name it.”
Dante let out a low, dangerous laugh.
“A million dollars?” Dante’s slate-gray eyes flashed with pure contempt. “You put a price tag of forty-eight thousand dollars on Thomas Hayes’s life. And now you think you can buy back your stolen empire with pocket change?”
Dante slammed his palm down onto the toggle switch, cutting off the transmission entirely.
The club fell silent once more.
Dante turned away from the console and walked slowly back across the room toward where Genevieve stood. The raw, predatory intensity in his eyes softened just a fraction, replaced by a calculating, intense focus.
He stopped a foot away from her, looking down at her bruised, trembling hands.
“You can’t go back out there, Genevieve,” Dante said quietly, using her first name for the first time. “If you step outside those shutters, Preston’s people will snatch you before you reach the end of the block. And by tomorrow morning, the official police report will say the grieving bride suffered a tragic breakdown and vanished.”
Genevieve looked up at him, her heart aching with grief and fear. “Then what am I supposed to do? I have nowhere to go. My father is dead, my company is about to be stolen, and my entire life was built on a lie.”
Dante reached out. For a fraction of a second, Genevieve flinched, expecting violence or captivity.
Instead, Dante’s calloused, warm fingers gently wrapped around her left hand. With a slow, deliberate twist, he applied pressure to the heavy canary diamond engagement ring on her finger.
With a metallic pop, the custom platinum band slid off her skin.
Dante held the ring up in the amber light, watching the diamond sparkle mockingly before tossing it casually onto a silver tray on the nearby poker table.
“You aren't going anywhere alone,” Dante said, his voice dropping into a low, unshakable vow. “You want your father’s company back? You want to see Preston and Harrison Whitmore lose everything they built on blood and deceit?”
May you like
Genevieve swallowed hard, the last remnants of her fear hardening into a sharp, cold resolve. “Yes.”
“Then you stay right here,” Dante said, a dark, brilliant smile spreading across his face. “Because as of tonight, the Ghost of the North Side is officially joining the wedding party. And we are going to crash the reception.”
